Not Quite 30-Love

#PackingUp, #PreCrisis

#PackingUp, #PreCrisis

On Monday morning, the New Haven tournament was over, the players and crowds had left, and the event façade was being unceremoniously ripped from Yale’s Cullman-Heyman Tennis Center. Always the last to leave, staff checked out of the Omni hotel. James had organised for me to move to a furnished serviced apartment a few blocks away. He had paid for a month’s rent to give me time to find something more permanent.

This generosity and the vote of confidence attached to it came as a welcome shock and a vital assist to my bank balance. Although I had not spent much money the previous week, the stint in London had eaten away most of my savings. My last account balance showed just under five hundred dollars, and my Pilot Pen payday was another week away. I had not asked my parents for money in ten years, but with only a month to find somewhere to live…pride swallowing looked inevitable.

‘You’ll need a big strong man to help you move,’ said Joe.

‘Do you have anybody’s number?’

**

Despite the awkwardness, I was grateful for Joe’s presence and accepted his offer.

**

We lugged my suitcase and some of the goodies given to me during the previous week, out of his beaten up old car. It had a faded blue paint job and was mammoth. The B52s would have said something about a whale. ‘How much does a tank of gas cost?’ I asked. Joe mumbled something about women not respecting classics.

House keys in my hand, Joe and I shared the weight of my bags as we walked up the stairs to 5F. ‘These stairs will be good exercise, Katie. You won’t have to go running.’ FitBit will love this place.

We stopped at the third-floor landing, breathing heavily. There was some paint peeling, worn carpet, and the air had a hangover from the occupants’ collective previous night’s dinners. Continuing to the top, we put down the bags and I ceremoniously opened the door and said, ‘Ta-da.’

Okay, this is okay. The furniture was second hand but functional, and the room was light enough. The musty air indicated it had been closed up for a while. I walked over to the window, which, after resisting my initial tugs, flew open. Hot air and an odd mix of the smells from the taco place, pizzeria and grocery store below rushed in.

‘Maybe the airconditioning will cool things down and freshen up the place?’ said Joe as he walked over to the dusty square box, which hung precariously out the living-room window.

Bursting into action, the airconditioner sounded like a 747 had parked in the apartment. An image of my light, airy flat in Bondi flashed into my head.

‘Let’s have a look around,’ I shouted.

We walked straight through the living room. To one side was a small but adequate galley-style kitchen. ‘I’m not much of a cook anyway.’

I walked into the light-blue tiled, plastic-tapped bathroom – no bath.

Joe called out from the bedroom, ‘There’s a TV in here. You’ll be an insomniac watching all those late-night shows.’ He was lying on my bed, his head against the backboard, remote control in one hand, grinning. Not me, I plan on going out a lot. But who with? Yale’s semester starts in a few weeks. I’ll meet some masters students or a young professor or two. They couldn’t all be like those rednecks from the airport.

‘Sorry Joe, what did you say?’

Joe patted the space next to him on my bed, indicating for me to join. I moved to the living room and called out for him to see how comfy the lounge was. After a few minutes he joined me. He sat close, very close.

I stood. ‘Time to get back to the office.’

He dragged his feet the entire walk down the stairs and to the driveway.

‘You owe me a drink when I see you in two weeks,’ he said as he leant on his car.

I smiled. He stepped forward and leant down for a kiss. My head turned at the last second ensuring his lips hit my cheek. He groaned, I shrugged; he got in his car and sped off. Joe was smart, good looking and way too nice.

**

There was no chance to absorb my new surroundings as my day continued back in the office. We packed, lifted and rearranged boxes, signage and equipment that had been relocated from the tennis site. The lifeblood of the event was sectioned away into storage. All that was left was a shell.

**

Joe: Needs to find his inner bad boy.

**