Make a Move

                I hate crowds. There are always so many people, and none of them ever move the way you want them to. I guess it’s a side effect of living in the Big Apple, though—people gotta move and streets have to be narrow and overpopulated. That’s the way they make it happen and that’s the way it has to be. One day, someone will make hover cars or teleportation devices or something—anything—to make these streets less crowed, and I may have to kiss that person full on the mouth in gratitude.

                Today, the streets are more crowded than usual. I don’t know why, other than it’s starting to hit summer and tourist season might have already started up. Tourists are the worst kind of people. After a few years, you adapt to this madhouse way of life. There’s no time for tourists to adapt to the city. They get confused, they wander aimlessly, they ask you for directions, they stop walking in front of you… Tourists shouldn’t be allowed out on the streets, if you ask me. Either that, or at least give them some sort of orientation pamphlet for God’s sake. Don’t make the rest of us suffer for their ignorance.

                I push through the crowd of people and take the stairs two at a time to my apartment door. All I want right now is a cup of tea and a book. And maybe the internet. Okay, probably the internet. Whatever, I don’t care what I do, so long as I’m away from people. I swing open the door, and almost hit some random dude standing squarely in front of the inside staircase.

                He has those stupid hipster glasses and one of those stupid hipster haircuts, and he’s wearing a button up shirt with khaki skinny jeans. Hipsters already make my life miserable, and I’m not in the right mood to be dealing with one. My stomach tightens. I have never been more irritated in my entire life that there is no elevator in my building, even when I first moved in to my fifth floor apartment.

                I walk up behind him and just stand. Maybe he’ll notice that I’m waiting for him to move. I rock on my heels and even bounce up and down, but he doesn’t notice. I clear my throat, and he’s still staring up the staircase.

                I’d like to make you move, I think as I stare at the back of his terrible haircut.

                It’s when he jumps and turns around that I realize I spoke out loud.

                “Because… you know… You’re standing still,” I hopefully don’t stammer. Oh God. I’m sweating.

                He smiles nervously and laughs. “Sorry. Were you trying to get up here?”

                Yes, numbskull. “Um, yeah, my apartment is upstairs.”

                He grins wider and still doesn’t budge. “Yeah? Mine too. What floor are you on?”

                My parents taught me to be pleasant, but New York has taught me to be cautious. “I’m on one up the stairs. So if you could just… You know…” I wave my fingers at him.

                “Oh, right, right, sorry.” He stands aside. “See you later then, neighbor!”

                I don’t respond. I’m too busy taking the stairs two at a time.

                Today, he’s trying to pull a futon up the stairs. I haven’t seen him for three days, and now he’s stuck between the third and fourth floors by himself trying to pull a futon up the stairs. I’m starting to wonder if he has a brain rattling around in there or if it’s just dust.

                He sees me, and he smiles from ear to ear.

                Shit.

                “Hey, neighbor! You wouldn’t mind helping me get this up here, would you? ”

                I paste a stiff smile on. No, I don’t want to help him, but he’s blocking the entire staircase. “Sure,” I lie as I halfheartedly grab the bottom of the futon with my empty left hand. “I can’t help that much, though. I’ve got books.”

                He lifts it up a few steps and then looks at me in surprise. “Books? You writing something, neighbor?”

                “No, I go to school. You know. College. University. I study.”

                “English major?”

                I’m tempted to drop the futon and let him deal with it on his own. I’m a history major, damn it. Why does everyone just assume I’m an English major? “No. English majors aren’t the only ones who use books, you know.”

                “Ah, I see.”

                Fortunately, he’s stopped moving now. He pulls level onto the floor and I start sweating. This has got to be a joke, right? “Well, this is it! The fifth floor, finally,” he pants. “Thanks for the help, neighbor.”

                We both stand there, him panting, me shifting my books from one arm to the other. When he keeps standing there, I awkwardly turn to the stairs, and without saying anything I begin to climb. I can chill on the roof for a while. He doesn’t need to know that he was blocking the door to my apartment.

                I swear the man is stalking me. Today, I had to help him carry up a hanging parrot cage.

                “Well, you'll have something for your memoirs now, won't you?” he laughs. I decide not to point out that I don’t have a memoir, or that if I did, it wouldn’t be about him. Instead, I stay quiet. I don’t even give him the luxury of asking what the hell the parrot cage is for, since he clearly doesn’t have a parrot and this building doesn’t allow pets.

                I don’t know what to think about this dude. I’ve lived long enough to know that when a guy makes this much effort to be around you, he definitely likes you. And living in New York, there’s no shortage of guys that want to get in your pants. So the fact that he really isn’t making any moves is confusing. I’m not interested in him by any means, but I would’ve thought that he would have at least put some sort of plan in motion. I mean, he’s strategically forcing me to help him move, but other than that, he isn’t trying to pull anything. It’s weird how one second, it seems like he’s crushing on me, and the next, it seems like he could care less. And I don’t care if he’s leaning one way or the other—okay, that’s a lie, I actually do care—but I’d really like him to make up his mind.

                “Oh good! You’re just in time to help me with some of these boxes!” He smiles that bright smile, the one that gets me to help him carry his items of the day up the stairs to his room, the room that’s across the hall from mine. Not today.

                “Okay, man, time to cut the shit.” I throw my arm over the nearest box, like I’m holding it hostage. He gulps. “You wait for me here every day at 3 o’clock. True or false?”

                “Uh,” he stammers. “It-it’s true.”

                “Next question: you don’t actually ask anyone else for help. True or false?”

                “True.” He’s bright red.

                “You like me. True or false?”

                “I thought we had a good thing going,” he says, looking down and to the left as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

                “Bullshit. I move your things upstairs and you say ‘thanks, neighbor,’ and we part ways. If you like me, then you’re doing a really shitty job of showing it.”

                I can see something click in his brain, as if everything suddenly makes sense. “Oh my God,” he says. “Oh my God. I thought—Oh God, I thought everyone knew. I’m just so used to everyone knowing, I guess I didn’t think to—“ He stops and takes a deep breath. He’s thinking too fast to speak. “You’re very pretty and everything, but… I’m gay.”

                Oh.

That explains a lot.

                “I am so, so sorry,” he says, the words spilling out of his mouth. “I didn’t mean to lead you on. Did I lead you on? Oh God, I totally did. I promise I didn’t mean any harm, I just wanted a friend. I’m moving to New York alone and I met you and you seemed so nice. I thought we could maybe be friends, but of course you thought I was hitting on you. I was doing all that flirty boyfriend stuff and—“

                I throw up my hand. “Literally stop talking now or I will pick up this box that is clearly labeled ‘fragile’ and I will chuck it as hard as I can at your head.”

                He stops talking and stares at me. I pick up the ‘fragile’ box. “By the way, neighbor, I’m totally not interested in you. And stop calling me ‘neighbor,’ okay? My name is Belle. And if you make fun of my name, I swear to God I will push you down the stairs.”

                He grins. “Fair enough. I’ll do the same if you make fun of ‘Winston.’”

                “How about I just call you ‘Dubs’ and you can come up with some cutesy nickname for me?”

                “Deal,” he says, then picks up another box and skips up the stairs two at a time.

Song List

Belle, from Beauty and the Beast

Make a Move, from Shrek the Musical

Paralyzer, by Finger Eleven (“I want to make you move/Because you’re standing still”)

Finale, from A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder (“You'll have something for your memoirs now, won't you?”)

Good Thing Going, from the album Opposite You by Marin Mazzie and Jason Danieley (“We had a good thing going”)