Dick and Joy
The shoe absolutely fits.
He was a dick to work with, this client of mine. And coming from me, an incorrigible lover of people, that is really saying something. So, as I give my clients pseudonyms when writing about them, I will henceforth refer to this client as Dick.
As things in the universe tend to even themselves out, Dick was married to, of course, the most cheerful and unflappable woman I have ever met. We’ll call her Joy. She was sunshine on a stick, a little hummingbird sipping on sugar water.
Dick and Joy hired my downsizing company to sort out and pack up their home of 30 years. They were moving from Indiana to Texas to live near their daughter. In their early 60’s, Dick and Joy were both mentally sharp and physically capable: They didn’t need me, they said. Yikes. Not a good fit for what I do. Still, I (foolishly) persisted.
The first day on their project should have been my sign to leave tire tracks in their driveway and never look back.
“Dick will be busy with a banking problem. He wants me to make the decisions on what to move and what to get rid of,” Joy said as she made a fresh pot of coffee for Dick, my four-woman crew and me.
“No problem,” I said. One decision maker is always quicker than two.
I explained our Day One process to both of them: Non-essential items slated for moving are packed right then and donations are put outside. At day’s end we’d load up our cars and head to the thrift store. We’d also make a pile for the trash haulers.
“Perfect!” was Joy’s response.
“I don’t have time for this,” was Dick’s response as he grabbed his coffee and bolted for his office down the hall.
Lugging a stinky beanbag chair up from the basement and out to the front yard is not as glamourous as you might think. It got the best of me. A crusty layer of cat fur had my eyes and nose running at full throttle when I heard the banging on the window.
“Hey! Hey!” Dick shouted at me through the glass.
No Yelling In The Front Yard is a life rule I try to live by, so I dropped the corduroy blob onto the grass and made my way to Dick’s office to see what was up. I hated to disturb him. With an out-of-state move coming up, I was sure the banking issue was Job One for him.
Dick’s back was to to the office door and his desktop monitor faced me. Solitaire splayed across the screen. I wiped my runny nose on my grubby sleeve (don’t judge me) and knocked on the open door. No words. I was speechless at the shittiness of him playing solitaire while his wife sweated out decision after decision with us.
He swiveled to face me. “Why are you donating a perfectly good bean bag chair?” he said in the same tone you would ask someone “Why did you track dog poop into my house?”
“Dick, I’m executing on Joy’s decisions… since you’re busy with, um, a banking problem,” I said, finally realizing I was in big trouble on this job.
“I’m up to my ass in banking issues and you’re getting rid of perfectly good things!” Dick said, turning back to his very important game of solitaire. “I don’t have time to micromanage you. If I don’t get this bank problem solved, we can’t close on our new condo!”
Does he not realize I can see he’s playing solitaire? Do I say something? Do I run away screaming?
My conflict avoidance tendencies and my teeny tiny prefrontal cortex sunk me again. “Should I keep working with Joy then?” I asked.
“Yes. Joy’s the decision maker. I’m too busy,” Dick said as he uncovered the Ace of Spades and moved it to the top row.
Soon the pile of donations on the front lawn looked like a multi-family tag sale. (A neighbor did stroll over to snag herself a sweet crochet plant hanger.) The team and I plopped down in the shade to cool off before loading up the dusty knick-knacks, dinged cookware and discarded craft supplies. We’d made great progress. Boxes were packed and stacked. Items not moving would soon disappear to the local thrift store. All was on track.
“What the fu-” my teammate Rhonda said. We all turned to see Dick out on the lawn, wrinkling his nose as he picked up the beanbag chair. He was lugging donations- and trash- back inside.
Break’s over. I got up. My knees creaked from the work of the day and I gingerly walked into the house. “Joy? What’s going on?”
“Dick is checking to make sure I’m not giving away anything we might want in Texas,” she said. “He feels so badly he couldn’t help today!” All sweetness, no frustration. God bless her. Lord, please give me just a teaspoon, but not one drop more, of what this lady has running through her veins.
My own people pleasing ways kicked in. Ugh. The team and I carried everything slated for donation and trash hauling back into the house. (Okay, my team was decidedly NOT pleased but Dick and Joy were tickled.)
The next morning we returned to Dick and Joy’s house. Dick pointed at everything we lugged back inside the afternoon before. “Pack it all for Texas,” he barked at me. Joy just smiled.
“I’ll execute on whatever you like, Dick. But can we please take a step back? Your condo in Texas is one-third the size of this house. Surely you don’t want to spend money shipping items that won’t fit-” I said, attempting to appeal to Dick’s oft-touted business sense. He cut me off.
“I do not need to explain myself to you,” he snarled at me before turning toward his office. “I’m busy with banking issues and cannot be disturbed!”
Joy piped up. “Would you like a cinnamon muffin? I just baked a batch!”
And so it went. Under the constant crappiness of Dick’s direction, we packed all sorts of useless things. The worst offenders in this Useless Things Olympics were the dozen dried up old paint brushes and the three bent garden rakes… they were headed to a freshly painted condo with no yard.
As someone who prided herself on helping seniors make well thought out moves, this one hurt. I knew what chaos lay in wait: Three thousand square feet of mostly useless stuff would soon be jammed into one thousand square feet of space. Did I want to be a fly on their wall when the moving truck was being unloaded? No, I did not.
I wish I had some meaningful takeaway from this client. Most of my clients gave me such perspective that I know they’ll always be with me.
From this one I can only say, don’t be a Dick. Be more of a Joy. But not too much Joy, lest you get run over by a Dick.
A great read, Anne Marie. Reality is so hard for the Dicks of the world. I'm guessing this one also haggled on the bill.
When it was an interstate move, what happened at the other end? Did you ever have to do the unpacking?
I have empathy for the children that were raised in that home