The cart by the office door

Near the office door, a loose herd of flatbed carts gathers and disperses on a schedule tied to move-in day rather than any hour of the clock: four at dawn, one by early afternoon, and none at all on the first of the month, when the entire population scatters across the property and does not regroup until evening. Each cart is a steel platform on four casters, a waist-high handle at one end, no sides, no brakes, and a load capacity nobody has posted but everyone estimates by feel, usually correctly. Steering happens by leaning, since the front casters swivel independently and a cart pushed straight will drift toward whichever wheel has picked up the most grit. Tenants moving a mattress alone learn quickly that the cart wants a second person at the far corner, and tenants moving alone anyway develop a walk, half push and half restrain, that the casters seem to have been designed around. Ownership is theoretical. A cart taken to unit 214 belongs to unit 214 for exactly as long as it sits outside unit 214's door, and to whoever notices it unattended after that. Rust starts at the caster forks, where water pools after the loading bay gets hosed down, and travels inward slowly enough that most carts are retired for a bent frame long before the rust becomes anyone's problem.

Beatrice Womack