bosblog

The “hired hands” knocked on my door two days ago, hired by the “Handle with Care” moving company whom I hired back in Florida. That’s exactly what they called themselves – “hired hands” – and they were in fact as scary as they sounded: One looked like an ex-con, possibly recently released after serving a sentence for aggravated assault with a crowbar (6’0’’, 260 pounds, crew cut, arms covered in tattoos) and the other looked like Gomer Pyle. If Gomer Pyle were a meth addict living in 1987 (around the time period this guy learned to dress). What was even scarier was that they shouldn’t have been able to knock on my door because the front door to the very expensive building in which I live, located in a very posh neighborhood, had not been locked. Or, whomever the last tenet was to leave the building was too busy brushing invisible lint off his Brooks Brothers suit and trading stocks over his Blackberry to bother to shut the door properly, therefore leaving the rest of us at the mercy of my moving company’s hired hands. If these guys would have knocked on his door, I’m pretty sure he would have screamed like a little girl and immediately handed over his Rolex, no questions asked. Thus begins my Boston adventure.