Shelpping with the gay shock troops of gentrification

Last night I helped move two people. The first person was rather unusual because I usually help women who are apparently loners. (They never have friends who can/will help move their stuff). However, this girl had tons of friends which made it the fastest move on record. All they really needed was a truck. On the downside, I had to park my truck and trailer in the alley behind her townhouse, and my boots still smell like dead rats and garbage. But every single time I hang out with libertarians that happens, so...

(Just kidding, libs--you know I love you. You're alright.)

Anyway, on the second move of the evening I had to go to an area known for its man-on-man action. I got there early and parked in (another) alley across the street from the apartment building. My customer was a girl buying a couch from one of the tenants inside, so I sat and waited for her to get there.

I wasn't 100% sure that I had the right building. I could see a number on it, but I couldn't quite make it out. I got out of my truck and went over there. Just as I could read the number I noticed a white, well-dressed guy pacing nervously outside.

"Howdy," I said.

"Hello," he said, and gave me a nervous smile.

"Awww," I thought. He must be on a first date.

I went back to my truck, and a few minutes later a dude came from inside the building and let the guy in. Then, the wierdest thing happened. They shook hands, then awkwardly hugged. It was obvious they were just meeting and...

"Ewww," I thought. "I guess I'm not the only one on a Craigslist-inspired adventure."

Eventually my customer showed up. (She looked just like one of my favorite singers, Kris Delmhorst). She brought a "Safety Friend," which actually happens quite a bit. I can always tell when the SF is an SF because they're especially nervous. I imagine that a previous conversation went something like this:

***
Customer calls up Safety Friend.

Customer: Hey, I need your help. I bought this great couch on Craigslist, and I found a guy on there who can help me move it. But you know how Craigslist is. I need some backup.

SF: What do you want me to do? I'm 5'9" and 120lbs.

Customer. Statistics show that rapists won't try anything if there's a friend.

SF: Did these statistics come from the Department of My Ass?

Customer. What-EVERRR. Just come with me, okay? You won't have to do anything. Just look tough.

SF: Alright, but no guarantees. I haven't taken a self-defense class in years.

Customer: Just remember: grab, pull and twist.

SF: Gross. I'll bring my pepper spray.

Customer: Excellent. See you at 9:00.

***

So, sure enough "Annabelle" comes along with the SF, and SF's left hand is grasping something cylindrical in the pocket of her hoodie sweater. Annabelle introduces me to her, and SF narrows her eyes just so so that I know she means business. And I'm sure she does--I'm always on my absolute best behavior when I help these girls/women because 90% of my customers tend to be liberal, and as we all know, all liberal women think all men are potentially rapists. (Sean Hannity said so, so it must be true.) All I'd have to do is say "George Bush" and I'd wind up on the ground, my eyeballs on fire, getting kicked repeatedly in the groin while hearing the mantra "In the name of Xena, you will NOT rape me, pig!"

But a few minutes later we were all chatty and best friends because I'm so freaking charming.

At the apartment.

"Greg" lets us in, and immediately I wonder if I've walked into a photo shoot for The Washington Blade. The apartment itself isn't anything special. It's a one-bedroom place on the 5th floor of an art deco-inspired building. The floor is parquet, and you can almost reach the kitchen from the living room couch. But what got me is how immaculate the place was. If Pottery Barn had a threesome with Bombay Company and Pier 1, this apartment would have been the resultant bastard child of questionable paternity. It didn't take me too long to figure out the sleeping arrangements for the two guys living there.

Now, I don't know much about gay culture outside of a few stereotypes, but with few exceptions, all the gay guys I've known or come across have been hilarious and fun. But once I lived with a friend in a neighborhood that had been occupied by "the gay shock troops of gentrification," as my previous customer had hilariously put it. My friend's next-door neighbors were two guys, boyfriends, clearly, that couldn't have been more different. The big gay guy looked like Mr. All-America--tall, wide shoulders, short-cropped hair, and as friendly as could be. His boyfriend, however, looked like an emaciated vegan Fallout Boy drop-out. He wore dark eyeliner and looked as though he was perpetually reliving the moment when he found out his beloved Spot had lost a race with an SUV. It was clear who the Alpha Male was, and it wasn't Fallout Boy.

Now, on the outside, their relationship seemed normal (and in that neighborhood, it WAS normal.) But I once heard an argument of theirs through the six-inch-thick brick wall separating our houses. It started off with simple screaming. I couldn't make out words, but clearly Fallout Boy wasn't pleased with something Mr. All-American had done. He shrieked and screamed. Then things started flying. And then I heard thumping, as though someone was being thrown around.

My friend and the tenants in the basement all came up to the third floor to listen in. We were about to call the cops when the tone of the fight changed markedly. The shrieks and thumps, which were undeniably violent, soon morphed into...ah...friendlier shrieks and thumps. It's amazing how one single octave can change the whole context of a situation.

So what's the point of this? Well, last night I think I saw the same situation. There was no fighting, but Big Gay Greg was clearly the Alpha Male in this household. I guess the heterosexual equivalent would be a big fat guy in a wifebeater smacking "his woman" around and telling her to get him another cold one. Greg didn't have "Jeff" get him a cold one, but he ordered him around the apartment like he was Gayderella. Jeff complied in every case.

Anyway, Greg gave Annabelle endless meticulous instructions about how to clean and care for the Pottery Barn couch. I busied myself with looking for the best path out of the place, clearing a path, etc.

When we finally got around to moving it, that's when it got just a tad uncomfortable. Now, let me be clear here--on a philosophical, theological and even evolutionary level, I think homosexual acts are gravely wrong. But I'm no more "afraid" of homosexuals than I'm "afraid" of evading taxes--I just think its wrong. In fact, I probably think of people's status as homosexuals far less than the homosexuals themselves do.

But last night I think I was basically sexually assaulted with a couch, and I didn't appreciate it.

What happened was this: Big Gay Greg was the only one really capable of helping me get the couch out of the apartment, down the freight elevator, and into my truck. I took the lead (*sigh*). I tried to give instructions, seeing how I'd done this so many times before, but Big Gay Greg was an A-type queen. Apparently he didn't like taking instructions, and it didn't take too long for me to suspect that he probably didn't like quite obviously straight guys from Montana telling him what to do. So, our conversation went something like this as we worked the couch out the door:

Me: Okay, turn your end toward the kitchen.

BGG (ignoring my advice): Put your end down.

Me: No, it has to go up. Up!

BGG: Turn it. That's it. Yes! Okay, twist it.

Me: My legs are caught. [By this I meant "The legs of the couch on MY end of the couch were caught in the door jamb, but by now the dialogue was beginning to get out of control.]

BGG: Twist your legs. That's right. Okay, I'm going to push.

Me (sigh): Alright. Let me have it.

[By now I'm so wildly uncomfortable that the annoying smart-ass inside of me is breaking free from his chains. But I'm mortified because I can't seem to stop saying these snarky things. I've got a couch in my hands which are being smashed in a doorway, I'm sweating through my back brace and just generally all-around uncomfortable.]

BGG: Good, we're through. Now let's get it in to the 'chute.

[At this point I figure he must be playing along with me (or my smart-ass alter ego which I usually reserve for blog-writing). Because, I mean--]

Me: The chute?

BGG: The freight elevator.

Me: Oh, right.

So, we wheel the couch over to the freight elevator which is woefully small.

Me: Alright. Same drill. I'll lift my end up and you push. (*Damn*) But go slow so you don't pack my guts into the wall.

[Yes, I actually said this. I can't explain or excuse my behavior].

BGG: I'm going to twist it again.

Me: No! It's almost in. Just slide that sheet under your end and slide it.

BGG: Okay, it's working! It's working!

***

And it did. We somehow got the eight-foot couch into the six-foot high elevator, but not without a lot of pain. But there was only room for the two of us and the couch, not Annabelle, Fallout Boy and Safety Friend. We stood there, me pinned between the elevator wall and the couch, the side of his hip against mine, and I knew we had to reverse and repeat this process two more times.

Since I was the only one who could reach the elevator panel, I looked at him with a question in my face.

"Hit 'B,', he said. We're going down."

Sigh.