NOVEMBER, 1994, SEATTLE, WA
SHE WAS NEVER going to move again. Or at least, that's what Lindy told herself as she shoved another heavy brown box through the doorway of her and Kurt's new house. She had stupidly expected the feat to be easy, but it had proved to actually be exhausting, especially when she was only able to push rather than lift boxes due to her previous month's childbirth.
Krist and Dave had been enlisted to help her and Kurt move that day. They had of course shown up, happy to help, but it was only Krist who would be doing the actual moving part.
"We've got another job for you," Kurt had told a confused Dave.
"Another job?" he replied skeptically.
And then Kurt had passed over a one month old sleeping Charlie into Dave's surprised hands.
"Babysitting duty," Kurt said.
Technically, it should have been Lindy monitoring over Charlie while the three men did the main work of transporting boxes. But she'd been hell bent on helping, convinced that she needed to know where all of her possessions were going. This was to be her house, a place that she could make her own home.
Dave was sitting on the empty dining room floor in front of Charlie's swinging bassinet, shaking rattle toys and otherwise keeping Charlie from crying. When Lindy or Kurt weren't holding him, he usually tended to wail at top volume.
"Look at that. He really likes you," Lindy said, coming up behind Dave and watching their playful interaction.
"You think so?"
"Well, obviously. He's not being held and he's not screaming, so that's a sure sign right there."
"I'll hold him. He deserves it. He's been a champ today," Dave grinned, picking up Charlie from his nestled seat and cradling him against his chest.
"Kurt, you have so much fucking junk!"
Lindy spun around to see Krist plopping another brown box tiredly by the open front door. He was sweating and he looked incredulous, unable to actually process just how much of a pack rat his best friend truly was.
Kurt followed behind, holding the neck of a black and white Fender Stratocaster that had clearly taken a beating at the hands of its owner. Lindy noted that at the base of the guitar, Kurt had scratched a new set of initials into the fading paint — C.T.C.
"Yep," Kurt said soundly, surveying the items spilling over the side of one box.
Krist picked up a vandalized baby doll by the hand, shaking his head at the piece of Kurt's eclectic artwork.
"Dude, get rid of this stuff. You don't need it anymore."
Kurt opened his mouth to protest, but it was Lindy who stepped forward protectively and hovered over the box. She spoke before he even got the chance.
"No. We can't. This stuff makes him . . . me . . . who we are."
"This is who you are Lindy? A Hasbro baby doll bleeding from the eyes?" Krist remarked sarcastically, still holding the doll up.
"Oh come on, you know what I mean," Lindy defended, using her leg to slide the box to the side and out of Krist's reach. Kurt swiped his hand inside of it and pulled out a ragged and rather fearsome looking monkey, that with one twist of a metal dial would wind up and clap it's cymbal-holding hands together.
"The dancing chimp!" he exclaimed with amusement.
"For the love of God," Krist muttered, pushing back his thick black hair off of his forehead and wandering into the kitchen.
