Veteran movers never wear jeans. Jeans are too heavy and the heavy sweating that comes with the job causes chafing. Also, jeans have rivets on the seams and require a belt. Either one can scratch furniture or walls as goods are muscled from a home and into or out of a moving van. Jumpsuits of light cotton are preferred because there’s nothing to tuck in, nothing to get caught on, and they are loose and comfortable. A veteran mover will also carry his own tool satchel. In it will be his humpstrap, packing tape, a Phillips screwdriver, a flat-head screwdriver, vise grips, pliers, a tube of Elmer’s glue, a crescent wrench, a set of Allen wrenches, a bottle of Old English Scratch Cover, a clamp, and a tube of Tibet Almond Stick. With these simple arrangements, a mover can knock down, put together, repair, or hide damage on practically anything to be found in an American household.
I don’t bring an attitude or any other expectation on moving day except that the day will be long. I do the best job I can with every move, and I treat everyone the same. Since most of my job satisfaction comes from the work, I don’t get too indignant whether I’m treated like a galley slave, a potential threat, an uncomfortable example of the dark side of the labor pool, or a helpmeet and partner. I try to keep things smooth and easygoing. This is partly selfish, partly pride, and partly compassion. It’s selfish because all of my workdays are hard days, usually a minimum of twelve hours doing physical work—and I don’t need mental stress on top of that. It’s pride because I know what I’m doing; managing a large move has a lot of interrelated parts, and all the components need to come together at the right time. And it’s compassion because I understand that people’s identity and security get unhinged by moving.
I’ve worked long and hard to refine my conduct in order to put shippers at their ease, and yet after three thousand or so moves, I’m resigned to the reality that movers are widely viewed as antagonists. I find this exasperating because I can’t figure out why. Our whole industry can’t figure out why. Go to any trade show or meeting of AMSA (the American Moving & Storage Association) and you’ll find seminars and navel-gazing sessions asking the perpetual question of the industry: Why does everyone dislike and distrust movers?
We’re not so bad. We like to be called by our names and be shown basic respect. Food and tips are also welcome, but not required. That’s about it. The bottom line is, the movers are in possession of all your stuff. If stuff is important to you—and it is disproportionally important to most of the people we move—then the movers are the most important people in your life for those couple of days. If we don’t get a modicum of respect, well, . . . we will preserve our dignity one way or another. Shippers don’t seem to grasp that we know more about them in thirty minutes than their best friends do after thirty years. Movers notice things. Especially the things folks want to keep hidden. We don’t carry any judgment toward mundane bourgeois hypocrisy unless we’re treated like chattel. If we are, we can and often will stir up a shitstorm. “Excuse me, sir, should I pack this nearly empty vodka bottle I found behind the laundry soap?” or “Pardon me, ma’am, would you like me to put these gay porn mags into another carton? They were under the tax returns in your husband’s office.”
Dehumanizing service workers looks to me to be mostly about insecurity. My helpers are almost all Hispanic, and I don’t see any profound cultural chasm between an immigrant from Mexico and a middle-class white American. Your standard-issue Mexican or Brazilian is a hardworking Christian who shares a Western historical experience, speaks a Romance language, uses the same alphabet and numbering system, and has similar aspirations. Just because someone doesn’t have a grasp of English doesn’t mean they don’t have a grasp on disparagement. If you think Juanita doesn’t know when she’s getting slighted, well, she most certainly does know and she most certainly doesn’t like it. Rest assured, there’s plenty of resentment down here in the service trenches. Alas, only the movers and the cooks have retaliatory measures available immediately to hand.
My default introduction to shippers when they answer the doorbell is to start with a jocular “Here come the movers!” I then smile, introduce myself, and hand over my business card. (Nobody ever gets my name right, so I give it to them in print.) Then I introduce the crew. My crews always have name tags attached to their shirts. (People with names get treated better.) After the introduction my crew will disappear to prepare the trailer and I’ll take off my shoes, enter the house, usually into the kitchen, and have a conclave with the shipper. It goes something like this:
“OK. Let’s talk a bit about how the day is going to go. When the men are finished outside, we’ll prepare the house. We’ll cover the floors, walls, carpets, and staircases. That will take about an hour. After that we’ll do a walk-through to see what’s going and what’s staying. Then we’ll start packing cartons. Let’s use the master bathroom for things you don’t want packed, like your clothes, laptops, chargers, modems, cable box, and phones. We’ll be here until about six and start again tomorrow at eight, unless that schedule doesn’t work for you. If it doesn’t, we’ll adjust. How does all that sound?”
Usually that will sound fine to the shipper. Then I’ll add in some more stuff.
“This is a VIP move being paid for by your company. We want you to be happy with your move. I’ve got my handpicked A-team here, and I work all the time with these guys. We’re not in a hurry. We want it done properly, and properly is what you think is proper.”