HELP WANTED: Moving day assistant. Saturday, 8 a.m. sharp, which means 10:40. Third floor walk up, no elevator, one couch of mysterious origin that fit through the door four years ago and will now refuse on principle. Compensation: two slices of pizza, a warm soda and lifelong emotional debt. Must own sneakers. Must not ask why there are eleven boxes labeled MISC.
Everyone has answered this ad at least once, usually after a group text that started with "hey so random question." And everyone shows up as a very specific kind of helper. Some people stack boxes in the truck like it's a competitive sport with judges. Some arrive at the exact moment the pizza does. Some open a box of old yearbooks and are lost to the world for forty minutes. And some grab the heavy end of the sofa and start yelling the same word over and over until the neighbors know it too.
Answer fifteen questions about tape guns, stairwells and suspicious lamps, and find out which helper you are. Your friends already know. They've been quietly deciding who to text first.
