The television mocked my age

My dad, before he passed away, taught me three important things. Never mix tequila and red wine. Never argue with a man with a "Harley-Davidson" tattoo. And never volunteer to help a friend move.

Being a teenage boy, I didn't listen to my dad when I should have. So over the years, I've done a lot of moving. The last time was shortly after my wife and I bought our new house.

It's been a while, though, just long enough to forget the sore muscles and lost hours that go with moving. So when a friend mentioned that he and his wife were moving, I asked if they needed help.

"You mean that?" he said incredulously. "That would be great! We've got a truck rented, and all we need is a little help with one or two pieces of furniture."

No problem, I thought. Many hands make light work, and all that. The day of the move, I casually announced to my wife that I'd be home shortly. I was going to help some folks move.

To begin with, everything was dandy. My daughter (who volunteered to go, sensing that there would be an opportunity to mock me) and I found ourselves tying appliances to a dolly, arranging boxes, and packing bookcases into the truck so adroitly that an anorexic cockroach would have been hard-pressed to inhale deeply. My friend and his wife, both of whom are rather younger than I am, were in excellent shape. Nevertheless, I mostly held my own, and kept up with a minimum of wheezing, until we reached the last piece of furniture.

As I moved a bookcase out of the storage locker, I saw the TV. Not a nice, friendly set-on-an-entertainment-center TV, but a television that looked like it had been constructed along with the pyramids, by toiling slaves dragging huge stones in the baking sun. Fashioned in Satan's own furniture storeroom, it stood there, leering at me, defying me to move it. When I picked up the cord to get it out of the way, I'm sure I heard a faint diabolical chuckle come from inside.

"That's kind of heavy," my friend said. "You'll probably want help."

No fear, I told myself. It can sense fear.

The three of us (I had banished my daughter to a safe distance with a warning to call 9-1-1 on a moment's notice) bent our knees in the approved fashion, and started to lift. Or rather, they lifted, while I stood there wondering who had turned up the gravity. With all my strength I inched it up, until it was level.

"Are you all right?" my friend's wife asked, casually toting her corner as though it were a basket of feathers.

"Sure," I squeaked. "Never better. Why do you … ugh … ask?"

"No reason. I've just never seen a human face turn that shade before."

"Nothing … urk … to worry about," I assured her. "It runs in my family. My grandmother was a smurf."

One toe-length at a time we forced the monstrous thing into the truck. My friends looked down at me with bright, unwearied eyes, and asked, "Everything okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," I managed to say.

"Good. It's just that your wife told us not to push you too hard. She says you're not as young as you used to be."

That was too much.

"Nonsense! I'm as fit as I ever was. Now lift me into the truck so we can deliver the goods. You young whippersnappers."

We winded our way to the new apartment and I slowly began to regain my strength. This wasn't so bad, I thought. I'm not getting old. Then we pulled into the parking lot and I caught sight of the new place.

It was on the second floor. Instantly I aged.

I opened the truck and looked at the beast. It stood there defiantly. Summoning all my courage, I again picked up my end of the "Television from Hell," and we inched toward the stairs. I tried to ignore the sound of vultures circling overhead and concentrated on the steps behind me.

Up the first step. Oh. My. Word. Pain in muscles I didn't know I had.

The second step. Roll call for fingers! Right pinky, are you there? Anyone seen it?

Third step. I'm not sure, but I think I'm bleeding from the ears.

Fourth step. Tell my family I love them.

The fifth and sixth steps melted into a fog of pain and despair. I was sure I had always been holding up this TV, and would continue to for eternity. Hernia without end, amen.

Finally I groped my near-lifeless foot behind me. Last step! Like a balloon deflating, I let my end of the burden down, and stood, triumphantly, pulsing like a fish on the bank, trying to remember the feeling of air in my lungs. As my friends bundled my remains into their car and hauled me back home, my daughter put a hand on my arm, and with a sympathetic look asked, "If you die before we get back, can we have the funeral on Saturday? I have a slumber party on Friday."

Bah. These young people have no respect. Maybe I'm not as young as I used to be. But then, I'm not as old as they're someday going to be, either. I just hope that when they get there, I'm around to gloat.

Joel Martin is the Columbia Basin Herald Special Sections manager. The picture was taken back when he was as young as he used to be.