That summer I relocated lawyers from Mount Vernon to Fells Point; hippies from pretty Charles Village to boring Towson; a professor’s desk from the graduate poli sci department to the undergraduate poli sci department across the street. I abetted gentrification, such as it was; the invisible hand of the market, redistributing the choicest properties as they became more choice and pushing those who couldn’t hack it to the peripheries, was actually my hand, my two strong hands, carrying the antique armchairs of the upwardly mobile and the heavy fold-out couches of those who were falling behind. I moved a doctor couple to their new house in burgeoning—Clarksville! I moved a group of beautiful undergraduates, with long soft sleek hair, from an off-campus apartment on Calvert Street to one on St. Paul. We had some friends in common but somehow the conversation stalled; it was a hot day and I was sweating through my baseball hat and even through my weight belt, which I wore to protect my back while carrying people’s stuff. At the end of such days I’d sneak into the Hopkins gym to work out and shower. Afterward I’d sit in the lobby and try to read the unread books that had piled up during the semester, as well as, more often, copies of the New American and Debate. It was a nice time, though the work was hard and the money was bad, and I had no idea, really no idea, what would become of me in the years ahead. My college career had been, so far, disappointing; I was still drinking too much and giving up on people too quickly; I kept waiting for someone to tell me what they thought I should do, should be, what particular fate I, in particular, was fated for. It was the last summer that I hung out with my high school friends, and it was the last time I’d ever feel that strange, expectant, hopeful, pleading way.