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June 16, 2005, 15:03

Ugh, moving!

I didn't get to finish writing my entry. The doorbell rang, and it was my friend Jenna. She was worried that I wouldn't get started on my unpacking (and she was right), so came to offer moral support, and more importantly, her organizational skills.

Jenna's one of those girls who does everything right. She waited for one year after highschool, waitressing in the evenings, lifeguarding in the summers, before going to uni. She took a business degree with a focus in marketing, and has been working at a reputable (but not too flashy) advertizing firm for the past year as a junior assistant. She drives a second hand, but fairly new, black Toyota Prius (taking care of the environment), which she takes to the car wash every Saturday. She's already begun paying off her student loans, and has just taken out a mortgage on a modest one bedroom condominium in one of the more modest (but family oriented) neighbourhoods in the city.

Unlike myself. I went straight to college, paid for (at my uncle's insistence, without much objection on my part) where I took a Bachelor of Arts, with a focus in modern literature. I managed to get a job as a copy editor for City Scene, a rather lame weekly that is distributed on the streets and in restaurants. I usually see it on seats at bus stops, and littering the outside tables of coffee shops. I supplement my income with limited trust fund that my uncle set up for me when I was eighteen. I get by, but I'm still driving a 1999 Honda Civic that my Dad bought me when I graduated high school. I guess I have a bit of a silver spoon, but I don't take advantage of it very well. I've become so good at letting people take care of me, I don't tend to take care of myself. I'm pathetic, really.

Jenna came in like a whirlwind, dressed in denim capris, neatly folded just below the knee, a pink t-shirt with capped sleeves with the caption "Your Daddy's Cute" embroidered in dark pink and white across the chest. She had her shoulder length blonde hair up in a ponytail, and wore a white scarf with small pink hearts (to match the t-shirt) tied into a perfect square knot around her delicate neck. I looked down at my own baggy grey sweats - yes, matching top and bottom, and equally stained with various things I've spilt on them.

"Has Patrick called, yet?" she asked.

Jenna dropped her purse, a slouchy leather shoulder bag (yes, pink) onto the only unoccupied chair in the room. All the rest had clothes, books, and bags on them. She hauled a box off the pile in the middle of my living room. It was marked 'stuff' - as were all the rest. She wrinkled her nose in criticism of my cataloguing system.

I let breath out, making a little puffing sound, and didn't answer right away. Instead I opened the box - which was filled to the top with clothes and books, all mixed together. Jenna began sorting them into two piles, neatly folding the clothes, while looking up at me with an arched eyebrow. That eyebrow was a much louder demand than if she repeated the question.

I puffed again, and pulled out a few books.

"I haven't given him my number," I began. "Yet! I just haven't got around to it!"

"Deny! You owe him a little respect, you know!" she accused.

I felt a little surge of anger at that. Patrick had never deigned to call me, not once in all the time we lived together, in a timely fashion. Anytime I was expecting a call from him, it was hours late, if at all. Besides...

"I don't have the phone hooked up yet, and I haven't been out to a pay phone," I mumbled.

Jenna reached back to her purse on the chair, and zipped it open. Holding out the cell phone, she said, "Honestly, Den, you are the only person I know without a cell phone. Call him."

Her tone was firm.

Suddenly I felt very tired, I had help moving, but I had just got all the boxes and furniture into the run down little one bedroom apartment on the third floor of a walkup about a mile out of city center. It wasn't the worst neighbourhood - mostly students, and young people like me, just starting out. The walls were a little dingy, and the peeling wooden floors needed a good wash, and a few rugs, but the place was mine. And right now, I wanted it to myself.

I ignored the phone, and her jibe.

Sighing, I said, "You know Jenna, I'm feeling very tired. I think I need to relax, would you like some tea?"

She cocked her head, and stood up, zipping the phone back into her purse.

"Actually," she said, "why don't I come back tomorrow? We can get a fresh start on this pile."

Jenna's very sensitive that way - she knows when to bow out. One of the reasons I like her so much.

"That would be great," I said, grinning. "I'll even get some coffee in."

"Hey, okay," she smiled, "I'll see you tomorrow. You know which box your sheets are in?"

"Sure," I lied.

She shot me a knowing grin, "So don't..."

"...let the bedbugs bite! " I finished. "You nut."

She gave me a quick hug and whispered, "Call Patrick, let him know you're okay."

Like he cares, I thought. I hadn't told Jenna everything, yet. I wasn't ready.

"I will," I whispered. "G'night."