I woke this morning to the sound of a large truck unloading heavy machinery in my driveway. Peeking out the window I noticed that the truck was blocking access to my garage and I was slightly annoyed that I’d have to subtract a few minutes from Tuesday’s dvd reviews and add them to my commute. By the time I was ready to leave for work, the truck driver, contracted by PG&E to saw a huge chunk out of Collingwood Street, had already started work around the corner, on the hill, so I looked out the side window to find him.
My driver. A big ol’ slice of sweet potato pie in blue coveralls.
I saw him making his way up the hill, so I scrambled to get ready and rushed out the side door with the intent to calmly ask if he could move his truck, but instead blushed and giggled and pointed and ran down the hill to my garage.
When I returned home at noon after a long day at work (I have Edina Monsoon’s job, remember?), I slipped my business card under the windshield wipers, and a note, “WOOF!” I know, I know, forgive my lack of creativity but the muse was elsewhere and I opted for directness. I scurried back up my steps to watch the truck from my window and see his reaction to my declaration.
And I waited, and waited.
Finally, he loaded the machinery back onto the truck, hopped in the cab, filled out some paperwork, then noticed my note. He got out, picked it up, turned it over, looked at my stairway and got back in the truck again. He set the card aside, finished his paperwork and then picked up my card again. He turned it over again. He fidgeted with the paperwork again. He put my card down. He sat a few moments, staring straight ahead, undoubtedly imagining our home and children, me waiting for him after work with a hearty but calorie-cutting meal and some amusing anecdotes about my aesthetic dilemma of the day, with just enough energy after sawing and cutting roadbeds all day to give me a big hug and a “Coco, you’re the best–now take off that apron and let’s make love all night….” and he drove away.
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