A man waits for us in
front of his apartment building fifty yards distant from the nearest parking
space. I called ahead so we wouldn’t
have to search for the unit in this confusing warren of identical buildings. He needs ten cases, apologizes. His place is on the top floor. I load six cases
vertically on the hand truck, my partner and the man carry two cases apiece and
we set off across a parched expanse of weedy grass. We stack the water on the stoop, use one case
to prop open the door. I ask my partner
to stay with the truck and the man and I lug two cases each up six flights to
the third floor. We swelter in the
stairwell, airless as a tomb. The man
pauses on the second floor landing on his way back down. His breathing is shallow, color bad. I ask if he is all right. He nods but says nothing. I ask him to wait by his door while I bring up
the remaining six cases. That done, the
man thanks me. Both of us are winded, find
it hard to talk. I take care to remove
my work glove before shaking his hand.
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