PETER PAN PACKING

I haven't slept a full night in a month. Two nights ago, I was dozing, coming in and out of a "King Kong" re-run on the muted t.v., when I suddenly noticed: the big box in the corner was just TOO BIG! My heart began to race. My face began to sweat. I hopped off the futon and stubbed my two on a chair as I moved.

I had a re-cycled, paper towel packing box already taped up. (Contents were mostly blazers and books--nothing breakable--all expendable.)Maybe I could just leave it? Did I really need this stuff? I flipped on a light and started sorting, again. My insomnia was part panic attack and part neurotic worry. I was leaving a non-traditional "California lifestyle", to head back to conservative NE, right before the cold weather. I needed the blazers...the books were another story.

I 'd already come to the decision to pack signed books, from friends-- I'd known a few poets in my time...I also kept copies of my own published work. In these times of e-book trade and Barnes and Noble bailing, who knows what may become valuable? If not for their contents, at least for their "object identities"...hmmm.

I steeled myself, assuring my Inner Neurotic, that surely, there were new books to be discovered, inside and outside. I assuaged my defeated writer by pulling three coats and tossing them into a black yard-bag. (I've been dreading bumping into myself,walking on the street, someone covered in my castaways...maybe it's too hot...) I know everything I've left beside the trash cans, in the black bags, has been thoroughly gone through and most stuff has been squirreled off. I've not seen anyone that could pass as my clone...though...so far...

Now, the problem was having to wait till BOX BROTHERS, the local store,opened. I don't know if it is the times or just the location, but my neighborhood (which currently supports four bars; two competing massage parlors; a range of fast food chains and half a dozen hair salons) also keeps a thriving packing supplies business in operation. (Meanwhile, Kinkos, UPS, Fed/Ex, three print shops, the Post Office are also on the same block.) Either there are more writers around here than I had realized, or everyone is leaving the city at this point.

I explained my dilemna,next morning, to the box guy. We both knew he had me: none of the aforementioned businesses give away boxes--let alone free boxes. (Can't even cajole a cantalope container from Trader Joe's, anymore.) We guesstimate the sizes--me by a lively pantomime using arms,legs and raised eyebrows--him by repeating the performance, to make sure we are agreed. Finally, four flat boxes emerge from the back. (I can barely wrangle them as I waddle into Wilshire.) Thank God it's still almost the break of dawn...

In the loft, I get everything taped for the End Times, and am finally ready to move out. Meanwhile, Wendy is coming, to help me cart the load, downstairs,to Fed/Ex.
I close my weary eyes and realize: it's gonna be a three digit scorcher of an afternoon. Ugh.

Two hours later, I hear my name being called from the street, below. Wendy is there, smiling, perky; in her shorts and flip-flops, clutching the new Italian leather purse she got on her trip, her Ray-Bans glistening in the sweltering light. I haul one of the black yard-bags behind me as I let her in. The emotion of her embrace is embarrassing. I didn't think it would be that big a deal for her to say good-bye. Plus, I look like Captain Hook, dragging a black plastic croc behind me... but a hug her back, hoping I'm not too sweaty...or emotional.

We go up to my place, stepping around the paper towel empty box in the hall, and Wendy smiles. She and her friend had moved me in, five years back, from OC to L.A., my lost truck hauling almost everything, their car picking up the remnants. It's a lot less stuff that's going East, this morning.

"I can't believe that's all of it!" Wendy puts her glasses back up on her bangs.

"Well, if it helps, they are really heavy..." I glance at the pile.

"Yeah, but, that's it? That's all?" Wendy bumps her flip flop against one of the boxes.

"Well...I sent some other stuff--new stuff--earlier, so, I'd have stuff waiting for me--in case this stuff is late--you know--underwear, a leather jacket...stuff..." I clear my throat.

"That's a plan..." Wendy grins.
She's known me for over two decades.
She knows: I usually have a back door plan.

Then, she turns to my lap-top. Her Italian Trip is already posted on Facebook!
We spend the next couple hours touring Italy. She has also brought back three rosaries: two of them blessed by the Pope, for my parents--one of them for me. "I thought you'd love this silver one--see--that's the Pope's face on the medal--"

"Wendy, it's so great you thought of me--and my parents--but, I think Dad would like the Pope's face--uhhh, if it's okay, I'll take the rosewood beads--" I carefully put the Pope back in the Roma gift bag.

"It's your call," Wendy shrugs, good naturedly. (I'm her only Catholic friend and all of this stuff mystifies her--even after her month in Italy.)
She also gives me this amazing, carved crystal and embellished with gold, cameo. Three woman's faces smile back. Three Muses,maybe. Or, Wendy and her wife, and me? It's unusually "girly" for my tastes, but, it is the perfect gift of valuable treasure--from Wendy. I give her another hug.

The temp is rising around us like a steam bath. It's time to move the boxes, before the tape starts to unstick. Wendy goes to see if she can double-park her Volvo in front. (Of course, I know she's not going find a spot out there---)Three minutes later, Wendy returns.

"I got a parking place, right out front!" she giggles.

I check the window: some act of God, or maybe a parking angel (the Pope?) has created the primo parking space in front of the building. I cannot believe the luck, but don't question it. Instead, pick up one of the seven bags. I grunt. My joints creak a warning.
Meanwhile, one hundred and ten pound Wendy, in her fit twenties, still, hoists the heaviest box and flip flops down the staircase, merrily conversing. (O how I've aged!) I follow.
In a surprisingly short time--we are in the car, circling the Fed/Ex building.

I have been scoping the Fed/Ex mega post for two months. I know the lay-out of the shipping department. I know the parking spaces outside the store. This isn't a mini-mall with lots of empty space--this is a main street, fronting an ex-department-store- from- the- '50's kinda space. If we don't get parking, out front, I don't know what we are going to do... Wendy spots an empty meter! (I had planned. I had saved my quarters AND taken my credit card. )All along Wilshire and the connecting environs, parking is so expensive and so short-lived, they allow the actual meters to take major credit cards. I hop out, pay for two hours--just in case--and leave Wendy, to guard the car.

Inside, the place is packed. Every department has a line. But, I must have looked like a crazed, middle-aged street person, sweated out, frantic, because suddenly, all the clerks were staring. I stayed in the doorway and called: shipping?

Four teen-aged Fed-Exers pointed to the back. I hobbled, knee audibly creaking, to the corner end of the store.

A kid named Caden, (his nameplate proudly pinned to his extra-long shirt) looked at me suspiciously, over his computer. "Be with ya in a minute," he mumbled, ringing another woman in front of me. I tried to smile, controlling my huffing and sweating, glad for the little break. Then,I gave Caden the facts. I needed a cart, I needed him. We had a mountain of heavy boxes to unload.

I could see he thought I was nuts and that maybe, maybe we had three boxes, max, at the curb. Crazy Lady. Probably Handicapped. (He wasn't pleased.)He had to leave the air conditioning and clean rugs of Fed Ex, for the doggie-doo and gum stained street. (I was wrecking his afternoon.) However, I was undeterred. (I had no choice.)
Caden followed me outside.

On the curb: Wendy, with the back of the Volvo upraised like a flag! With her Mighty Mouse, rock-climbing toned forearms, she has unloaded all the boxes by herself! (And, she looks adorable, still, barely a sweat trickle on her face!) Caden is immediately smitten. (Caden is challenged.) He springs forward, tripping on the cart, righting himself and pitching boxes. Then, he can't move the thing! Well, I am great on level ground...I push and Caden pulls and Wendy looks cute... behind us. We enter the store to gasps of staff and customers--the mountain of stuff is taller than even the very tall Caden. We head to the back. For a second, I expect applause. There is none.

Almost an hour later, Caden, having to re-pack three back-packs into one HUGE industrial sized mega-box, and to insert two more, recycled boxes, into official Fed-Ex parcels, we are through. But Caden, still blushing each time Wendy makes a comment, has trouble ringing us up, and has to run the entire order, (re-weighed and calibrated each time, a total of three attempts) before he gets it finalyzed. (I don't care.) There is air conditioning. It is finished. This massive exodus that couldn't have been accomplished alone--even though I'd tried--now almost complete--thanks to this army of helpers sent to me from Somewhere Good.

It's a lot of money but it's a lot of Life I have crammed into those boxes. (Less than what I thought it might be, but worth every penny.) As we begin to leave, Caden assures me: "They'll arrive, probably by Monday."

Same day I arrive. (Amazing.) I get his Supervisor's number. I am thrilled. He blushes, one last time.

Now, Wendy and I head for Hollywood, for another end- of -days luncheon. We go someplace with cooled air and cooler drinks. We hash the years together--all that we've done and seen and learned and shared. We started out with me as her Teacher, but, as she approached adulthood, we grew into Friends. From the first: Family.We revisit wild back-packing trips in the Wild Places; her own run-away-to-hide-out forays; lovers and lost friends. We revisit our shared and solo adventures. Even if sometimes hard, it's all been very good.

After lunch, I ask if we can take a last trip to Whole Foods--less for nostalgia-- than for supplies for the next five days. (Wendy saw the frig with a pitcher of water left inside.) If I don't want to exist on take-out, this is my last trip for fresh fruit and veggies. She loves Whole Foods and, of course, there is air conditioning! So, through the Fairfax District and to the store we fly.

It is a wonderful environment, full of soft music, sweet smells, lovely air. I pick up cheese; sun-dried tomato tortas; green salad and rice wrapped veggie rolls; hummus; garlic-stuffed olives; pico de gallo; nectarines, blueberries, and enough iced-tea to float a pirate ship. I buy Wendy her first Goji Berries and some Blood Orange Spritzer, to remind her of Italy. Even with the bad jokes, too soon, it's time to head back.

Wendy asks if she can come back upstairs. I am surprised since it is so hot, and since there is never really a lull in traffic in Southern California freeways...but, of course. So, we enter the now ninety- degree- loft and collapse. She helps unload the treasure from Whole Foods. I tell her I have to take a quick shower... as cold as I can make it. She laughs, knowing me all too well, and proceeds to make some calls, while I excuse myself.
It strikes me, again, how it is so easy with our close friends--the simple acts of Life--a kind of grace.

When I get back, she's loaded up the printer, the reams of remaining paper, the ink cartridges--all gifts to her. The printers like new. (It hated me, though, and there's no love lost in passing it on.) Also the drums and guitar that will go home with her; the mermaid painting that was her wedding gift, from me. (It, alone, is four feet by four feet and will fill the back of the Volvo.)
But, before we start loading, we just sit on the loft floor, in front of the roaring fans. Sip iced-tea and Hawaiian Koffee Flower Soda; watch the sun-light distill across the walls.
I've had too few of these kinds of moments over the last five years; this is the quality I want back in my life.

"You know, Minns, if anybody else talked about you the way you talk about yourself, I'd slug them! You aren't old!" Wendy punches me playfully in the arm as I stand up, groaning, the knee still emitting protests.

"Talk to me when you hit fifty, girlfriend!" I hobble to the frig for more tea. (I have to remember where I packed the aspirin...)

By nine-thirty, it's time. Dark is around us, everywhere. She has parked at the end of the block and I'm sweating her un-permited status on the street. But, when I walk her to the car, there's no ticket--again!

"Must be the Pope-beads!" she shrugs.

We load the last chatchkes into the vehicle and slam the back. All packed. Looks like she's the one running. She gives me several tight hugs and a few more tears. She's all grown up.

It sinks in: this time, I'm flying away for reals.