I am officially not moving for the next 30+ years, because ho-ly cow, I have too much stuff. (oh, and the tiny caveat of now being in a long-term relationship with a mortgage.)
So yeah, I need to whittle down. In the interest of getting rid of stuff (as opposed to moving it), I am most definitely trying to unload a few things that I will no longer need.
Exhibit A: one washing machine and one rusty dryer.
When he finally arrived in a noisy Dodge, I opened the door to greet a grimy young man covered with tattoos and sporting one pirate-esque silver hoop in his left ear that glinted in the late afternoon sun and seemed to be the only shiny thing about him. Tagging along behind him was a sweet little blonde boy dressed in flannel Elmo PJ's and firetruck slippers, gnawing on a mammoth hunk of greasy fried chicken.
I am never one to judge a book by his or her cover, so I smiled as I shook Jack's hand, and I crouched down with Sol to say hello to the little carnivore on my doorstep. They stepped inside, and just before I closed the door I caught a glimpse of a bold green "S" adorning his license plate. Oh. State fan. Neat.
Fear not, friends: I was not alone. I had enlisted the help of a friend (let's call him Curtiss) to a) be present for the transaction, and b) help tote the washing machine up the rickety basement steps and out the door.
As Curtiss and Jack were hauling the appliance up the stairs, I waited in the kitchen with Sol and the little blonde boy, who was chattering away about something, but I was unable to make out anything but his age (3 yrs), and his name (Whiskey). Wait, what? I couldn't possibly have heard him correctly...
I fought the urge to gag as I watched him tear the greasy skin off his fried chicken (probably the only time there's ever been fried chicken in my kitchen). I asked him if he liked chicken.
"Yeah-sure," he said in between gnaws. He then proceeded to tell me the story of that chicken breast, and how it made its way to his little hand.
Per Whiskey: It comes from a farm, and the farmer finds the very best chicken and that farmer says to the chicken, "You're next," and he chops the chicken's head off and then the chicken goes to the store and then the chicken goes from the store to the house and that's how our 3-yr-old friend wound up with that piece of chicken. (Imagine, if you will, the look of horror upon my face, and Sol's tiny hands fighting to pull my hands off her ears, trying to protect her vegetarian ears from hearing the atrocities of the poultry industry.)
I asked him if there was possibly any other food that he liked... apples... or... carrots, perhaps? He said no, and at that moment we saw a Maytag washer cresting the top of the stairs, followed by a grimy pirate with a shiny earring and poor Curtiss, who had volunteered to help but apparently did not realize what he had gotten himself into.
They carried the washer outside and loaded it atop the tailgate of an otherwise-packed truck. From inside the house, Curtiss and I watched as Jack tied the Maytag down with some straps.
"Nice guy," I muttered.
"Did you see his license plate?" Curtiss asked.
"Yeah, he's a State fan," I replied.
"Look again," Curtiss instructed.
I looked out the window and gasped as I saw the license plate. It was still sporting the green "S" in support of his favorite team (I guess), but as I looked closer, I noticed the letters that followed: A-T-A-N.
There he was. The devil was out there, loading my washing machine into his truck.
"He wants a receipt," Curtiss said.
I grabbed some paper and a pen to write the receipt, and paused. "...What do I put for his name?" I asked. (Lucifer?)
"Jack, I guess," Curtiss replied. "Don't write your last name on that receipt. Just... don't." Curtiss volunteered to run the receipt out to the devil-truck (hallelujah -- no pun intended), and I watched as Mr. Satan strapped his son into the carseat and drove off.
"Did that really say Satan?" I asked.
"Yep," Curtiss replied.
"Did you happen to hear what his son's name was?" I asked.
"Did you hear 'Whiskey'?" I asked.
"Did I just sell my washing machine to Satan and his son Whiskey?"
"That's... creepy," I said as I looked up at the copper cross hanging in my kitchen.
Apparently the devil has dirty laundry too.