1: Bed

Everything would fit, but it would first require some cunning, brave contorting. My friend Dan and I slid the old white queen size mattress through the entryway onto brown wood floors. On through the kitchen toward the back of the townhouse, we angled it awkwardly in reverse, jutting into the stairway to the basement. Geometrically this appeared foolish, but so does giving oneself a haircut with no mirror or flipping four eggs at once (especially without a Swiffer mop at hand). A certain tenacity was called for, that’s all.

But, these stairs were feisty. Constructed in 1900, these were the kind of rickety wooden plateaus that would never forgive your friend for being a hair over six-foot-one, or your other friend who is not quite four-foot-two. These were steep and perilous and ceilinged by white shelves so you were in effect stumbling through a perilous tunnel. This being the only route to my room, we mightily squeezed the cushiony beast.

The first several goes were sad, just sad. My friend tugged at the bottom, as I stood near the top, pushing and scraping bits of white paint from the shelves. We heaved it diagonally, and diagonally the opposite direction, and it nudged a foot or so. After a few minutes of head scratching and hopeless sniggering, I grabbed a screwdriver and removed a shelf or two. The floppy blob slunk to the basement concrete.

Before we lugged down my bookshelves, lamp, and wiry head massager (the most important doodad I own) to my new abode, we ripped apart the second bed component: the box spring mattress. Because it was rigid, the only way to use it was to tear off the cloth, undo the embedded nails, and carry splintery planks through the (now-quite-spacious) tunnel. Neither my friend nor I were particularly exacting, This-Old-House kind of guys, so when I saw the pile of sand-colored two-by-fours on the floor, I figured that once the bed was fully, and no doubt poorly assembled, even if the box spring broke and I busted my ass, at least it would be on a valiant, seen-some-shit mattress top.

*

When August arrives in two months, it will have been two years since the bed has not crumbled. Every time I peek through underneath the bed sheet and chuckle at the collage of nails and criss-crossed beams messily intertwined, I am sure to also praise the universe and knock on wood and do a little prayer shimmy.

There is no chance the bed will leave the room in one piece, so when autumn does arrive, I will bestow the bed to my replacement housemate. (I will take this moment to quietly bless the sleep setup so that it might not immediately sag into decrepitude!) All my other belongings, save a brown luggage bag brimming fully with clothes, books, and a camera (and my wiry head massager) will be sold or given away.

Moving to Korea--which is precisely what I shall be doing--was a faint dream I had upon graduating from college. Now, two years later, I’ve been given an opportunity to go, and I figure if not now, probably never. My high school Korean friends, a pleasantly upbeat-sounding Asian language, the financial opportunity, and the culture have led me to this decision. What's more, if you were to ask your own friends who have taught in Korea (it seems like everyone knows someone who has), an invitation for adventure is a strong pull. (Let's be clear: I will undoubtedly feel very very confused and frustrated along my travels!)

As I prepare to peace out, I'm thankful for being able to say goodbye to Denver over an entire summer. The bittersweetness would otherwise lean far more bitter (like raw purple cabbage, rather than a tolerable eighty-five percent cacao chocolate bar). Growing up here, and going to college here, and living in a rarely-dull, ten-minute-walk-from-downtown spot the past couple of years here means that Denver is a vital part of me. It's with a deep joy, and a conjoined serving of sadness, that I say goodbye for now.

*

My one request: Korea, please provide curry. (I will explain soon.)

June 10, 2016