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an
experience that becomes increasingly difficult with age. When I was younger,
moving wasn't a problem, because I didn't actually live anywhere, I crashed
wherever it was convenient. Friends used to keep entire pages of their address
books blank, knowing that the constant changes in my address and phone number
would require all that space and more.
    Today, the
sight of my bare walls gave me the willies. I had to force myself over the
threshold, over toward the phone and the Rolodex, which rested on the big
wardrobe box. I checked the number and dialed my aunt Karen in Building
Permits.
    I figured my
stock was high with Karen. Just a couple of months ago, I'd managed to show up
at the wedding of her youngest daughter, Mary Alice, in a suit, with a present.
What a guy.
    She answered 
the phone before it rang.  "Building Permits." "Karen, it's
Leo." "Hey, good-lookin'." ''I need a small favor."
"Of course you do."
    Before I could
tell her what I wanted, she jumped in. "You know Jean's boy Harvey is getting married again."
    I could see it
coming. "What’s with these people? They get married like other people
change their socks."
    She ignored me.
"Two weeks from next Sunday. That's the thirtieth."
    Five minutes
later, we'd exchanged my ass at the wedding for a complete rundown of Jack Del
Fuego's permit situation. I thought I had it made. No way. "By the way,
Leo. About the gift."
    "Yeah?"
    "No more
bun warmers."
    "I never
know what to buy," I protested.
    "Get
Rebecca to help you. Now that you two . . ."
    "We two
what?"
    "You
know."
    "Who told
you?" I asked.
    "Everybody
knows."
    "Everybody
who?"
    "Mallreen
told me."
    If my cousin Mallreen
knew Rebecca and I were moving in together, then it was a good bet the news had
spread as far as mainland China. I gritted my teeth, renewed my promise to show
up at the wedding and broke the connection.
    The grating of
a key in the lock pulled my head around. Hector and I stood open-mouthed,
staring at each other. "Oh ... Leo ... I taught jew was ..." he
began. "I was just ..."
    Hector
Gutierrez was both, the superintendent of my apartment building and a much
valued friend. He managed a small smile. We stood among the dust and boxes,
silenced by the mutual recognition of what would surely come next. I'm not good
with silence. It makes me nervous, like there's something going on all around
me and yet I'm not a part of it. Silence is to be filled.
    As I opened my
mouth to speak, Hector lost his grip on the great wad of keys in his hand. With
a rush, the cable snapped them up to the little spring-loaded gizmo on his
belt, taking whatever it was I thought I had to say with them. The quiet was
broken only by the muted electronic wheezing of my ancient dock-radio on the table.
    After a certain
age, the realities of lives diverging can no longer be softened by even the
best intentions. Our memories are filled with the hundreds of people who have
walked through our lives, touched us in some way and then seemingly disappeared
from the face of the earth. Time erodes our willingness to promise once again
to keep in touch, and, without willing it so, the Kleenex promises of youth
give way to the carefully chosen holiday cards of adulthood.
    Hector got his
shit together first.
    "Jew look
like somebody shot your focking dog."
    I looked around
the place. It looked like a calltionary advertisement in favor of using
professional movers.
    "I've been
here a long time," my voice said.
    Hector strode
over and stood directly in front of me. His thick mustache was begirLning to
gray. He'd missed a spot on the left side of his chin when he'd shaved this
morning. Most of the remaining bristles were white. He poked me in the chest.
    "Jew
movin' into a palacio dat you don't got to pay for, wid a beautiful woooman who
love you. What jew got to be sad about?"
    It sounded good
when he said it, but somehow it failed to warm the cold spot at my center.
    "I've been
alone a long time," I said.
    "Oh
yeah." He spread his arms