Fool, With Salad

So as I was saying, I'm a man who has over the years shown a fondness for exacerbating any instance of 'eking out' my existence. For instance, over the course of two weeks I once moved from Palo Alto to San Francisco without a car, just a heavily-laden bike which I rolled onto the Caltrain each evening, then pedaled from the SF depot, teetering, up the steady slope from SOMA to Sanchez Street, careful to avoid the trolley tracks crisscrossing my path like so many miniature moats. The night I brought up the dishes was particularly fraught with drama, but that's another tale.

More recently I faced an ostensibly much easier move, from my not-quite-squalid studio at 120th & 1st ave, into my girlfriend Z's 1-bedroom at 107th and Lex. So easy, in fact, that I recognized the opportunity to avoid hiring a truck and a team. For a few weeks I made sure that if I was making the jaunt down to her digs, I'd at least bring a full backpack or two with each trip. Not extreme, just efficient, right?

One Friday evening in the midst of this low-key transition, I offered to cook Z dinner in her (soon to be our) abode. I loaded my backpack with kitchenware necessary to create a dazzling entree, and felt I'd really maximized my space when, with no more room in the bag, I slid a bottle of herbally-infused olive oil and one of balsamic vinegar snug into the webbed pockets on either side of the pack.

Brilliant, as if the makers of this sports sack had envisioned my very needs. Bundled in layers of clothes (not cold out, just me being efficient with the move) I headed down my four flights of stairs, the vision of perfection in packing. As I turned the knob to the front door to the building, the small crowd of neighbors and lookouts who regularly nested on the stoop stood to part for my resourceful self. I swiveled in turn, to allow them to reposition, and in doing so allowed my oily bottle of herbal-infusion to swing to the left, tumbling out of its pocket and splattering on the tiled floor so that glass and oil not only covered the interior vestibule, but seeped out towards the steps as well.

Guess it didn't really fit all that snugly.

Playing it off with more self-deferential cheer than embarrassment, I scrambled to use a newspaper to mop up the surface a bit. An older neighbor with a cane leaned over and offered me a piece of cardboard, so that I could sweep away the dangerous glass. With a full New York Post and ten minutes of diligence, the spill was mopped up sufficiently (the floor had indeed, never shined so) and newsprint laid out to soak any remaining slipperiness. Sighing gratefully, I thanked by neighbors for their help and slung my bag back upon my shoulder...

...casting the bottle of balsamic, as if on cue, out of the webbed pocket and crashing down upon the tiles.

"Oh, no!" seemed to say everyone at once, now aghast at my clear idiocy. A 5 year old watched, mouth utterly agape. I thought I had uttered the perfect line for the situation: "Anyone got any lettuce?" But that seemed to fall upon deaf ears--these folks were too stunned by the lack of common sense exhibited by the young man who was simply carrying too much shit for his own damn good.

I discarded the backpack the next morning. The remainder of my move I completed in a single day, with a borrowed truck, so as to minimize any encounters with the good folks who while away their evenings out on the stoop at 120th & 1st.