Some assembly required

For a week I lived in bare rooms. When I moved into my place last year, I intentionally waited days and days, getting to know each corner and kitchen cabinet before—I knew this from long experience— the mover would stand in the living room amid all my STUFF, asking the age-old question, already exasperated before I had a second to speak, “Where do you want this?” Might as well put a Brooklynese “lady” at the end of that question. Knowing full well a mover’s capacity for patience, yet knowing I had paid for his service that included the arrangement of furnishings, with some assembly required, I would glance at something indefinable within a large rolled rug and—since I’d given myself time to plan in a bare space—tell the mover *exactly* where I wanted it, which somehow brought more exasperation from the guy. (I kept wondering what he’d rather have me say—“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, have a seat; I’ll just go get the furniture from the van and bring it into the right rooms and pull it all together and it’ll just pop! ...”) He probably wanted to be something different than a carrier of burdens—an architect, perhaps, not a mule—now taking out his frustrations by stamping away to the van at each cycle, like Sisyphus. So far I haven’t experienced any mover who hasn’t fit this description; the mover is one Mover. Still, I hope to work in tandem one day with a mover who delights in the details with me, arranging two porch chairs slightly offset from the lay of the land to face both company and scenery, a kitchen table positioned to take full advantage of the window view over the sink, and a bed assembled as lovingly as this mover once put together Legos and Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs and Erector Sets, planning to design quintessentially beautiful construction all his life.
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