Potsy doesn’t know what to do with the roll of tape. He tangles strip after strip. “I always just throw s**t in Hefty bags!”
Not even. The last time Andy and I helped Potsy move, we carried staggeringly heavy bureau drawers as we stared down at his underwear.
I hold up a flapped box reading THIS SIDE UP. “This is how people who vote and pay taxes do it.”
“I don’t understand why I can’t go. I can put in for a corporate transfer.”
“You’re a concierge. You don’t know Manhattan,” I remind him.
“I can learn.”
“Why should you have to?”
“You won’t know a soul.”
“Why does everyone think I can’t make friends? They’re not unicorns.”
“You wouldn’t go to Benihana’s if our group wasn’t big enough because they might sit you with strangers.”
“I sublet from a manufacturer’s rep. He comes into th
