Moving Mayhem

by ADAM KAZ

Jesse, the homeowner, was right. Packing his little Logan Square house in two hours was totally doable. The upstairs was easy. Two bedrooms, one bed, no frame. Nothing to it. The only challenge was the living room, where Jesse kept a flat screen TV on a glass stand, a three-person couch, and glass shelves loaded with fancy things. 

 “Uncle Mike, check it out.” Around 3 p.m. I lifted a baseball from its ivory holder on a glass shelf. “It’s signed Sammy Sosa. Probably worth a few hundred bucks. And look at this cool old clock, and I think this is a diamond.”

“Wrap it and pack it, kid.” Uncle Mike was on the ground to my right disassembling the TV stand and covering each of its pieces in Styrofoam sleeves. Always I offered to do the crouching work. He was an old guy, and sort of big; I was 19, and sort of lean. But Uncle Mike was insulted by the offer. “The homeowner wants speed.”

A thumping came from the carpeted staircase. Jesse, in a tight black T-shirt that highlighted his skinny muscles, stomped down the stairs and entered the living room carrying an office box which generated a thwack sound when he dropped it on the linoleum floor.

“Looking for a vibe check down here,” he said, running his fingers through his greasy black hair. “Are we moving, moving, moving?”

Uncle Mike made a pained sigh as he stood. “Doing great, sir.”

“We love to hear it.”

“Sir,” I added. “Just wanted to say I noticed this Sammy Sosa-signed baseball. It’s lowkey so funny because I’m a baseball guy. Big fan. I actually had a pitching scholarship to DePaul, and would be doing that now if it weren’t for—”

“Yeah, yeah that’s great,” he interrupted. “Keep it, the baseball, it’s yours.”

Wow! Totally did not expect that. I turned to Uncle Mike for approval but clocked a disappointed expression, which communicated the professional response.

 “No, sir, thank you, that’s kind, but I can’t—”

“I don’t want it, you take it,” he said manically. “I actually want to pay you guys more, OK. There’s an extra thousand dollars in it for both of you if we can get everything packed and on the road in under an hour.”

Uncle Mike considered it, “Well … huh …that’s an idea.” 

And here I was thinking, No way Jose should anyone make a guy Uncle Mike’s age sprint through a job. Before I could decline the offer, though, he decided, “Deal.”

“Excellent!” Jesse punched the air twice and did a little kick. “I love the energy in this room. It’s infectious. What do you need to keep going? A pickup? Do you want some coke?”

The regret and grouchiness were obvious in Uncle Mike’s voice. “If you mean Coca-Cola, we’ll take a couple cans. If not, we’re happy with coffee.”

“Coffee it is!” he clapped. Then yelling toward the kitchen door on the wall opposite the TV stand: “Beatrice, we need coffee!”

A woman’s voice returned, “I just packed the coffee stuff!” 

Funny, I didn’t realize another person was in the house.

“Then unpack the coffee, make some coffee, and pack it again!”

“Fine, fine!”

Jesse addressed us, “I’m gonna give the upstairs one more look. We’re moving, moving.” He leapt up the stairs three steps at a time.

“I don’t know if we should rush like this,” I said and put the baseball in my back pocket. I returned to the shelves. “What about your hip?”

“It won’t be a problem,” Uncle Mike muttered and crouched, painfully, back to his Styrofoam and cardboard. “I’m a professional. Now let’s boogey.”

It’s the weird thing about working with your relatives: you see what they’ll do for money, which can be sort of revealing. I thought about this while we worked quietly for a few minutes, then a clicking sound directed us to the left, at the wall opposite the staircase, where a bald, large-headed man about Uncle Mike’s age in a black leather jacket came through the sliding glass door. He closed it behind and feigned an embarrassed smile. 

“I am so, so sorry to bother you gentlemen,” the man spoke slowly in a polite, calculating sort of way. “You look busy.”

Uncle Mike and I traded an uncertain glance and stood. This was weird.

“Do you live here?” Uncle Mike asked.

“Do I live here?” the stranger repeated. His smile, which was big and hungry, revealed yellowish-gray teeth. “No, no, no, I don’t live here. But I do know Jesse. I’m an associate of his and tend to, in the course of business, come and go as I like. It’s not strange at all what’s happening here. He’ll be expecting me. I won’t be long. You boys probably want to hit the road for … Where is Jesse moving again?”

Uncle Mike said nothing. The silence was sort of awkward, so I filled it, “Going to Kenosha.” And Uncle Mike squeaked like an error button, which communicated my mistake.

“Kenosha,” he repeated and I felt ashamed. “You boys have a long road ahead.”

The thumping returned. “Second floor is good. We are looking golden!” Jesse announced coming down the stairs. About midway he saw the stranger and stopped. “Don?”

“Hello, friend. It’s good to see you,” he said and motioned for Jesse to come nearer. “Why don’t you step into the light?”

Jesse, walking like each step might be on a sharp thing, met Don by the glass door. Maybe Uncle Mike knew things were sensitive because, although he stayed by the stand and shelves, he stopped working, which I interpreted as a command to do the same.

“The Boss and everyone were going gaga all afternoon trying to reach you,” Don said. “But now I understand exactly what was going on.”

“Yeah?” Cold sweat made Jesse’s forehead shiny.

Silence, a moment, then, “Of course! You were packing. Duh.” Don smacked Jesse’s forehead with the back of his hand. It sounded squishy. “Moving is a full-day thing. You were busy. It all makes sense.”

“That’s right,” Jesse exhaled. He looked so much shorter next to Don.

“Where are you moving, by the way?”

“The Gold Coast.”

“Is that so?” Don pitched a glare in my direction, as if we shared a secret, and I felt much shorter as well. Looking back at Jesse: “Congratulations, big guy. Did the Boss give you a little extra scratch? I told you he likes you.”

Jesse laughed nervously. “Yeah, that’s what happened.”

“Great, that’s great,” Don assured him. “It’s hardly worth mentioning now, but the reason why we were calling, why it’s all hands-on deck over at the club, is because—brace yourself—Beatrice is missing. Isn’t that something?”

“What? No.”

Mike and I looked at the kitchen door, then we looked at our feet. 

“Yup.” He nodded sympathetically. “The Boss woke up this morning, turned over in bed, and Beatrice was gone.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It is, it is. We’ve called and called but can’t get ahold of her. Sort of like you, actually.”

Jesse was mumbling anxiously, short circuiting, and maybe would have surrendered if not for the attack. A few yards behind Jesse and Don, the kitchen door swung open, and out popped a woman in a black cocktail dress holding a full pot of coffee. Clopping on high heels, sprinting awkwardly, she shoved Jesse out of the way, he fell to the floor, and emptied the pot’s contents onto Don’s face and eyes.

“Ah! I’m blind! I’m blind!” he cried in a harsh, demonic voice totally unlike before.

The woman, squealing, left through the sliding door and, without closing it, fled into the street. Mike and I started toward the door but ducked between the couch and wall when Don, stumbling blindly, face red like a kickball, pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket and swung it in all directions. On my knees I peeped over the couch and watched the action unfold.

“Where are you?” Don yelled and cursed. 

He fired one bullet at a glass shelf, which shattered, spewing shards everywhere. Jesse, grounded, scrambling with his back against a box a couple feet from Don’s left, made a desperate squeaky sound that gave away his position. Don turned and fired two bullets into Jesse’s chest. 

“You’re dead!” he screamed and stomped his feet. “I killed you, you twerp!”

Frightened, I abandoned the view and sat beside Uncle Mike, his face pink and wet, when I noticed a pain, a thump, on my right butt cheek. With the sounds of Don cursing and stomping in the background, I pulled from my back pocket the Sammy Sosa ball Eureka! and showed it to Uncle Mike. Funny how it is with family: we had the same idea at the same time. 

Uncle Mike was shaking, No, no. But then Don fired another shot, which my body, moving instinctively, interpreted as a starting pistol.

I stood and lifted the ball. For a moment I was totally exposed. Don fired once in my direction. It missed. By a lot or a little I’m not sure. I’d rather not think about it. I released the baseball straight into Don’s forehead, only launching it a couple feet, meaning it may have been traveling at ninety miles an hour, maybe ninety-five, when it made contact. The ball bounced upward and smacked the ceiling. The thug stumbled back, “What? What?” and fell unconscious into one of the glass shelves, erupting it entirely and coating himself in a blanket of shards.

“Did you see that, Uncle Mike?” I said excitedly. “Best in the state, I’m telling you.”

“Yeah, yeah, kid, you’re a real hero.” Uncle Mike stood and wiped his tears. “Now let’s boogey.”

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