There are two periods when the great movement of students sweeps across the country, like a migration in stop-motion pictures: once in the fall, as students swarm to their schools, inflating the local population and infuriating the locals, who somehow manage to act surprised every year; and again in the spring, when they disperse, and for a few months begin impersonating adults, with various levels of success. It was as part of this second migration that Dan Driver loaded up a decade-old station wagon with as much of his earthly possessions as he couldn’t bear to part with for the summer.
The station wagon was a gift from Dan’s parents. The boxes were mostly bought in bulk from U-Haul, although an occasional box from a small appliance peeked out from the rubble, its nine-month storage collapsed under Dan’s bed finally justified somehow. The lifting had, in great part, been done by Dan’s roommate Sal, who now wiped the sweat from a brow that, at age twenty-seven, already showed signs of a receding hairline.
“Dan, I can’t fit this box in the car.”
Dan emerged from the doorway, a messenger bag filled with his critical personal effects (a checkbook, his passport, last February’s Playboy) over his shoulder, and stared into the back of the station wagon purposefully. “Sure, it’ll fit. Just put it over there.” “Over there” was a toaster-sized gap between the wagon’s tailgate and the back window of the car.
Sal inspected the gap, then he looked at the box, which was marked “FRAGILE.” He shook the box slightly, trying to figure out what Dan owned that might fit the description – for the two years he and Dan had lived together, Dan hadn’t owned any dishes more fragile than the thick plastic tumblers he brought out “for when company came.” Dan saw Sal shaking the box, and in three short hops was looking over Sal’s shoulder into the wagon. “Stop messing around, I’ll do it.”
Sal rolled his eyes as Dan pushed the box into the car with his full strength. First he planted his feet and tried to wedge it in with just his arms. Having failed at this, he leaned on it with his shoulder. The box still stubbornly refused to change its shape and size as needed. Finally, Dan put his full weight on the box, taking a short running start at it before connecting. Meanwhile, Sal surveyed the car.
“Um, dude, how many more boxes are you planning on putting into this thing?”
“Just the one. It’s cool if I leave the rest of my stuff here for the summer, right?”
“….Sure. But anyway, just put it in your front seat.” Dan hesitated. “What, you’re going to pick up a hitchhiker or something?”
Dan finally shrugged, picked up the box, and unceremoniously dropped it into the floor of the car in front of the passenger seat. Sal and Dan looked at each other – Sal standing a full six inches above Dan’s five foot ten and waiting for a cue from the younger roommate. Dan ended the stalemate by extending a hand instead of both arms. “Well, I guess it’s about time for me to get on the road. I’ll see you in September?”
“Counting on it, unless you want to start writing rent checks again for an empty room.” Sal took Dan’s hand and shook it; the two were somewhere between friends and acquaintances. Both had finished their second year of law school, but Sal was staying behind for the summer to take in internship at the public defender’s office. No piles of free food paid for by the law firm and drinks with the partners for him. The two had met at an event held by the law school for incoming students two years ago, and had been brought together by their mutual interests: neither wanted to spend the money on an apartment of his own. After two years of assiduously avoiding learning about each other, they had built the routine of a married couple, but without the intimacy. Sal realized that he would, in fact, miss Dan a little bit over the summer; on the other hand, the subletter taking Dan’s room was a cute brunette, and Sal was pretty sure she was single. He’d take the trade.