Last week our movers were delayed in Boston, except they forgot to call and tell me. I spent 2 hours at the Jersey City Transportation Office procuring permits to block off my street for a semi truck that was never going to show up. The driver called me and though I didn’t understand much, I quickly picked up on the fact that they were not coming, giving me the perfect opportunity to morph into the east coast version of myself. This Coloradoan turned Oregonian went all kinds of New Jersey on their asses.
I yelled and screamed as the driver said to me in his peculiar accent “man…Mrs.Kitty, I’m very sorry for what happen, but no way I will be there. I call you kitty.”
And he did call me, many, many times, to leave me updates on his whereabouts; however, I wasn’t certain it was him necessarily. I later learned it was a combination of his accent and Bluetooth device but our phone calls always started with me yelling “HELLO! I THINK YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER” and he would say ” No! Kitty! It’s your driver! Not wrong number, don’t hang up!” Who knew that this series of awkward exchanges would blossom into a beautiful friendship.
Golan, (his name), rolled up around 2:30pm on Thursday. It was pretty icey at first until Golan saw my foot tattoo. It’s in Hebrew, and says ” Boundless Grace.” Golan, from that moment on, started making strange comments like ” because your tattoo kitty, I give you huge discount” or, ” because your tattoo kitty, I’m not mad you try to hang up when I call…”
After a few hours of watching my stuff be hauled out the back of a truck and placed on various dollies, then walked down the middle of our very busy intersection, Golan came out of his truck to check on me. He started with “I have a moral issue I like to discuss with you.” Immediately, I was concerned that I had given Golan the wrong idea, until he started to tell me about an international move he had just completed for an old woman who’s grandfather was a Nazi. Apparently, Golan moved old Nazi history and felt spiritually and morally guilty about it. There were photographs of this woman’s grandfather in his Nazi uniform, books with old pictures and numbers…numbers with names. Speechless and slightly confused I asked Golan why he felt he had a moral issue if the move was over. Apparently, the woman told Golan to f*** off when he left, and since has filed a complaint stating that there is a missing box with artifacts inside. He knows that its not true and that this woman is just trying to make him suffer. Old prejudices still happening today. Golan said to me ” I think of you as a sister, how do I resolve this in my heart?”
He thought I was Jewish. Instead of correcting him, I tried to be a sister. I told him that we can not control the actions of other people, and we can not bring justice on others no matter what they have done. I told him to find resolve in knowing that he was gracious to her despite her lack of respect. He can only be responsible for himself, and as difficult as it is to understand, this world has bad people in it.
Shortly after this exchange, a desk fell on my head and knocked me out. Then in my dizzy state, Golan thanked me and called me family.
Our couch didn’t fit up our stairs so Golan called upon his Jewish brothers to help a sister out. He arranged for free pick up and transport of our couch. He said ” you know Moshies? Don’t Mess with the Zohan?! They are coming to get your couch!”
Golan was excellent and I keep trying to make myself feel better about the whole Jewish mix up by believing that Golan would have been that nice to me regardless…probably. I’m writing a letter to the moving company to rave about him, and I honestly hope that crazy man calls me again to tell me what happened with the German B that was trying to screw with him.
Oh and Golan was from Israel I think. But he was versed in like 5 languages which explains why it was so hard to tell where his accent was from. Jamaican was a horrible guess, so I formally apologize to my Twitter followers for that one.