[ WP ] A friendly co-worker that you do n't really know anything about ask you to help him move , when you show up to his house it 's completely empty apart from a single box and his no where to be seen .

I'm not sure what I was thinking. Stupid Tim. He's just so....*nice. * I did n't know what I had agreed to until it had already happened. So now, here I am on a Saturday morning -- my own time! -- driving around, trying to find an address I've never been to, to help a guy I barely know move his crap to somewhere else. 
 
 Never mind. I'll consider it a good deed. A friendly gesture. A favor. 
 
 He really is a nice guy, Tim. I could make an effort to get to know him. He's worked in my office for a few months already, but it's hard to be the New Guy. Everyone seems to like him just fine, but he never seems to have anything to say about himself. What he does on the weekends. Nothing about his friends or family. No real hobbies or interests that I know of. But would I know? How often have I tried to talk to him? Not often. 
 
 Now I feel bad. I should definitely help him move. Yep. 
 
 I was surprised he approached me, honestly. He's stopped by to say hi a few times, chat about work, make a couple jokes about Jeff's day-of-the-week ties that never vary ( `` You know it's Thursday if its blue stripes day.'' *Chuckle, chuckle. * ) I do n't think I've ever *not* been friendly to him, but I was n't exactly going out of my way to establish a relationship, either. No reason, really. He seems like a nice guy, but, I do n't know....do most people make new friends at my age? Like actually try to make a friend. Hang out, go for a beer after work, talk about football or movies or whatever people talk about with new friends. 
 
 I have n't had a *new* friend in years. All my buddies are the same ones I've known since college, some from high school. A few I met when I started dating Robin, but, you know, they're still kind of `` her friends,'' even after eight years and two kids. 
 
 Maybe that's it. Do I really have friends anymore? Or just a wife and kids and a job and some old habits with familiar people? Party at my house for the Super Bowl. Annual bar crawl for Dave's birthday, that used to last till sunup, and now tapers off before midnight. Dinner and drinks with Jess and Steven when Robin and I can get a sitter. Once in awhile. 
 
 This has gotten depressing. 
 
 Where the hell is Tim's house? This neighborhood is weird. The streets do n't make sense. If I ca n't find it in five minutes, I'll just call Tim to apologize and head home. I need to mow the lawn today. And Robin wants me to fix the doorknob on the closet. I've been putting that off for ages but I'll do it today, if I do n't find Tim. Maybe we will take the kids for ice cream this afternoon. We do n't do as much fun stuff for them as we should. We'll have to take the minivan, though, since my truck only has two seats. 
 
 God, I hate that minivan. I just about died when Robin said she wanted it. I remember how embarrassed she was about the scene I caused at the dealership. I was embarrassed too, afterward, but at the time I was too pissed off to care. `` Absolutely no way in *HELL* are we buying a minivan, Robin! It's a goddamn playpen on wheels! Nothing says *I have no testicles* like a man in a minivan. Are we buying a new car or starting a preschool?'' 
 
 She got her damned minivan, of course. But I got to keep my truck. That was the deal. She could tool around in her mom-mobile and I would drive my big-ass, stupid, gas-guzzling, loud, unnecessary pickup. 
 
 I hate this truck, too, if I'm honest. But I'd never tell her that. I thought it would be useful to have, you know, for hauling stuff. Manly stuff. Instead, its useful for hauling potting soil and mulch from the garden center for Robin's attempts at landscaping our haggard old yard. Or picking up that swing set we bought at a garage sale for the kids. Or helping some random coworker move his stupid bachelor-pad shit. 
 
 Wait, is Tim a bachelor? I assumed so. But once again, I do n't really know. Has he ever mentioned a wife, or girlfriend? Or hell, a boyfriend even? Nah... I'd remember that if he mentioned it. I'm trying to think. I really do n't know him at all, do I? So what am I doing here, driving around, trying to find the most un-findable address in the world? I'm going to need to find a gas station soon if I do n't find this place. Twelve miles to the gallon with this thing -- tops. But hey! It's useful to have a truck, right? Plus everyone knows how masculine I am! And I'm the first guy you call when you need to move! *So useful. * 
 
 Lincoln Avenue. Holy hell, this is the street. Finally! His house should be.... yeah, on the left. Probably the one on the corner. Nice place. Why is he moving out? Maybe he's downsizing. Maybe he ca n't afford it on his salary. I assume he makes about as much as I do, since we have basically the same job. Do n't we? What does Tim do in the office again? 
 
 It's probably okay if I pull in the driveway. I do n't see Tim's car, but.... I do n't know what he drives, I guess. Well anyway, I do n't see *any* car in the driveway. I'll pull in. It'll be easier to load stuff up. I hope this does n't take all day. But, whatever. I mean, I'm here to help. I said I would. I should be friendly. 
 
 I'm glad I thought to bring a six-pack. As an overture of friendship. Clearly, I have no idea if Tim even drinks ( how would I know that? ) but hopefully he will appreciate the gesture. I'm sure he will be thankful and polite either way. He's such a goddamn nice guy. I hope I do n't punch him in his stupid smiling face. 
 
 I walk up to the door with my six-pack of domestic beer. Maybe I should have brought a case. Or something stronger than good-ol' American lager-style piss. *What a great offering, you jackass. * This might be a long, arduous affair without refreshments. Looks like it's just the two of us, after all. No other cars. Certainly no other trucks. No other people to help. How long will it take two guys to move a house full of stuff? 
 
 I ring the doorbell forcefully. I'm getting angry and I do n't know why, but I'm sure somehow it's Tim's fault. 
 
 I wait a minute for an answer and do n't hear anything, so I knock. It's possible that the doorbell does n't work. It's a nice house and all, but every house has its quirks. Like the knob on the closet in my house that falls out in Robin's hands about every six months. I keep fixing it, but, as it turns out, I have no effing clue how to fix a doorknob, apparently. She keeps asking me to do it, though, so I do. She knows it will just break again. Is she humoring me by letting me think I'm fixing it? Or is she punishing me with some sort of malicious glee at my constant failure? I am Sisyphus and minor home repairs are my stone and hillside. 
 
 I pound on the door this time. Open up, Tim, Jesus! I'm here to help you, you asshole! 
 
 Whoa. Slow down. Take a breath. He's probably busy. He's expecting me, though, so I try the door. Yep. Unlocked. I'll let myself in and see what I can do to help. 
 
 I walk into the foyer, with a clear view of the open-plan living/dining room and into the kitchen. Dark hardwood floors. A fireplace. Huge bay windows overlooking a nice backyard. Nice place, Tim. Way above my pay grade. Then again, I've got a wife and kids, Tim, and you're just you, as far as I know. Which is n't far. 
 
 I'm a minute in realizing. 
 
 The house is completely empty. Pristinely clean, and entirely devoid of... anything. There's nothing, and no one, here. 
 
 _______________________________ 
 ( Part two below: first time I've ever gone over the character limit )
