Chapter Two
Posted by greypilgrim on June 21st, 20062.
“He’s upstairs right now,” Carolyn said to Thomas, when he got home. He had not even had time to set his satchel on its usual chair by the kitchen door.
“What? Right now?” He said, astonished.
“Yes, the new Poet Laureate of the United States is renting a room from us, and he’s upstairs in our spare room right now.”
“Geez, that seems so sudden,” Thomas said, rather wide-eyed.
“He’s waiting for you to help him carry his things in.”
“What car is his?” Thomas asked, turning to look behind him, out the door. “I didn’t notice any unusual cars in front of the house.”
“I don’t know,” Carolyn said. “Why don’t you introduce yourself to him and offer to help him unload while I finish dinner.”
“O.K.,” Thomas said. “First, where are the kids?”
“Timmy and Sarah are keeping Liza occupied in the living room.”
Thomas put his satchel down and went into the living room. After kissing his children, Thomas skipped upstairs and knocked on Mr. Crabbe’s door. When Mr. Crabbe answered, Thomas was rather surprised to have to look up to him slightly. He almost said, “Gee, you’re tall for a poet,” but instead said, “Oh, hello there. I’m Thomas Poole.”
“Not John Thomas, I suppose?” Mr. Crabbe asked.
Thomas’s smile faltered a little. “No, John Thomas was my father; I was given his middle name.”
Crabbe burst out with an unpleasant laugh unaccompanied by a smile.
“I promise I’ll use that in a poem one day!” Crabbe said.
Thomas’s smile returned to its full brightness, though he had no clue what he was smiling for.
“Some people call me Tom. Carolyn always calls me Thomas. You’re free to choose whichever feels right to you.”
“What about Tommy?”
“No, no one calls me that. Not since I was a kid.”
“Ah, well, I’ll call you Thomas then, I think.”
“Carolyn said you wanted some help unloading your car.”
“Yes, please. Let’s go down now.”
The two men descended the stairs and as they passed through the kitchen, Thomas said, “We’re going to unload his car now.”
“Fine. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
Thomas was rather anxious to see Crabbe’s car. Though he was not all that knowledgeable about vehicles, like most men he did believe you could tell a lot about the man by the kind of car he drives. For example, he already had Crabbe sized up as a compact kind of guy. He could just imagine this tall, meaty man crammed into a little Honda Civic. Maybe he even drove a hybrid of some kind. Crabbe was a poet, after all, and Thomas assumed he was a liberal. It was hardly likely Crabbe drove an SUV.
In fact, Crabbe drove an enormous, gray Chrysler 300 that looked so new Thomas thought he must have bought it on the heals of being appointed Poet Laureate. The vehicle took up nearly two car spaces along the curb, mostly due to Crabbe’s dreadful parking. He had parked near the end of the street because it was the only place where he had found enough space for him to maneuver his vehicle close enough and horizontal enough to the curb.
“Couple things you should know,” Thomas said. “You need to go down to the DMV immediately tomorrow and get your car registered in the District and buy a Residential Parking Permit, and make sure you specify the ward number. You’re in Ward 5. I have a guest parking pass I’ll give you, but it’s good for only a week, and when it expires you’ll start getting tickets. You can pay to extend it, but that’s your business if you want to do that.”
“Why would the police ticket me?”
“Because the city needs the money. And because the law is such that vehicles not registered in the District and without a residential parking permit are only allowed to park in the District for two hours a day.”
“That’s robbery!” Crabbe said, “What did we elect Republicans for in 2004, if not to keep us from getting our pockets picked?”
Thomas was surprised, “Well, the District did not elect Republicans.”
He added quickly, as if this were his main concern, “You voted Republican in the last national election?”
“Oh yes,” Crabbe said. “I’ve been a Conservative all my life.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that,” Thomas said. “We’re Republicans, too.”
“I thought as much,” Crabbe said. “I noticed a letter from the RNC soliciting donations on your dining room table.”
“We don’t donate,” Thomas said. “We figure they don’t need our money, and living here in Washington takes every penny we can save. Now, what do you need carried inside?”
Using his clicker, Crabbe popped open the trunk and unlocked the rear doors.
“In the trunk are boxes of books. My clothes and other personal possessions are in the rear seats.”
Crabbe ducked into the rear passenger side of the car and came out with three suits on hangers and a small, blue Apple laptop computer, which he carried lightly by its handle.
Thomas was behind the car wrestling a box of books from the trunk.
“Heavy…,” he breathed, staggering out from behind the car and up onto the curb. “Better…close your trunk and…lock the car between trips…”
“Right,” Crabbe said, slamming the trunk and locking the car, which whirped cheerfully at him in response.
Thomas trudged slowly up the sidewalk and Crabbe followed along slowly behind him.
“Maybe…just until we get the car unloaded…you can double park nearer the house,” Thomas said.
“I don’t know,” Crabbe said, looking about. “I fear someone would take my parking place.”
“You can…have mine,” Thomas said.
“But I don’t think I could maneuver it into another parking space.”
“I’ll…park it for you.”
“Oh no. I don’t have insurance on my car to cover another driver. Here, let me get the door for you,” Crabbe said. “Just sit the boxes of books inside on the floor. You can take them up to my room a little later.”
