A day without a Mexican
I was 35 when I realized I should hire men to move me. I made enough money and so did my friends, so the lure of beer and pizza wasn’t enough of a motivator for them. For my four-block move in Brooklyn, I called a Man with a Van.
The Russians showed up. They rule Brooklyn with their mob and their beloved vodka. After watching them operate, I couldn’t understand why their empire fell. They were hardworking, fast, and efficient. For $150, I was in my new apartment in less than two hours.
The Russians showed up again to move me from Brooklyn to Manhattan. It was a little more expensive because of 9/11 truck restrictions on bridges and tunnels. But the Russians got me there.
Finally, when I moved from New York to Los Angeles, the Russians came over to pack my unsold items to ship. They worked at a furious pace and most of them looked like they might weigh as much as my left thigh, but strong like bull.
When I decided to finally leave my “temporary” Venice apartment and settle in Pasadena, three friends volunteered to help (without prompting). I elected to call a Man with a Van and was greeted by Angel Chavez. The morning of my move, Angel was flying solo; his crew didn’t show up. “But I’ve done this before,” he explained, weighing as much as my left thigh. Three hours, 25 miles, and $80 later, he was right. He could do it.
As a woman, I’m thankful there are strong men out there that like to be paid to do a job I’d rather not do. As an American, I’m thankful there are immigrants out there that are proud to do any job just to live here.