At a Public Storage facility on Devon near Pulaski, two sweaty movers are staring at a full storage locker. A household of belongings is stacked in here like layers of sedimentary rock or 1-2-3 Jell-O. On the bottom layer are furniture and heavy items; book-filled cardboard boxes are stacked atop each other like building blocks. Above them are items of medium weight–the base of a futon, a fortress of empty file cabinets. On the top layer, assorted lighter objects: a bicycle, a globe, posters, rolled-up rugs. Two couches stand vertically, like pillars marking the entrance to the locker.

“Best packer in the business,” he says.

James sprints from the truck and jogs over to the minimart to get an egg-and-cheese sandwich and a chocolate milk. The man, simply put, is ripped. He could be a swimmer or a gymnast, a boxer or a bodybuilder. His biceps suggest late-era Rocky Balboa. His head is shaved to a fierce shine. His pale gray-green eyes betray a brutal, don’t-fuck-with-me intensity. His face looks as though it has seen a bar fight or two, but he says his rough days are behind him.

There is a clipped, dogged quality to James’s speech. His sentences are short, unadorned. Nothing fancy. To the point. The guys at Cunningham Movers call him the Roadrunner because of his ability to do long-distance moves, driving up to 35 hours straight, only stopping here and there for a brief nap.

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James says he was recruited by a number of colleges but that his poor grades quashed any chance he had for a scholarship. “I was just a teenager,” he says. “I was just walking through life not knowing what it was about. I didn’t realize I was blowing my opportunities. I thought everything just comes to you. I couldn’t fill out a questionnaire form senior year in school. They graduated me and I didn’t know how fill out a damn questionnaire.”

He tried attending Wright College but left after three days. He spent his teens and early 20s working various odd jobs: packing magazines at a printing house, building countertops for fast-food restaurants. He had few dreams then, few ambitions.

“I just jumped in the water,” James says. “Billy threw me in the water.”