As much as I love this serialized approach, I’m having trouble with the “tune in next time” part. Last night, about 106 words in, I woke up in my wife’s recliner (because recliners are AWESOOOMMMMEEE!), with slobber on my cheek and a trail of gibberish on my screen. Chalk it up to a side effect of trying to straddle 4 time zones.
Antywayz, when I left off last time, my family was doing the stanky leg because we were getting the hell outta Florida. While these cats were doing the Nae Nae to the Jefferson’s theme song, I was descending into a panic-stricken bundles of nerves. In the week leading up to the move, this was me:
I’d lost the “let’s get Mikey to move us! Yeah Mikey likes it! He really likes it!” feeling and was deep in the “Damn, I gotta drive” dumps. Movers had my $1700 deposit, which meant I couldn’t drop another deposit on another moving company, which really meant me and U-Haul were about to be best buddies.
My wife, the over-enthusiastic WTF Camper comes at me like she’s Chris Hansen from To Catch A Predator. “Sit down,” she says, “sit down over here.” I sit and take a cookie (there were always cookies, right?). “I made you a reservation for the truck and the dolly so you can pull the Destructi-Car. I know you’re not happy about it but I did get you something: movers!” And she said it with jazz hands.
Movers? I thought I had movers. Wasn’t that what this whole shit was about? Isn’t that why I don’t have my deposit? Actually, she didn’t get me movers; she got me loaders. U-Haul offers Navy SEAL-caliber ex-UPS truck loaders to come to your house and pack your shit. She wasn’t confident with my pre-selected but customer service challenged moving company but we’re good with some no-names to move her Kitchen Aid mixer and Christmas tree?
So I’m crazy anxious, living in a cardboard box colony, and now a bunch of Craigslist rejects are coming to load my stuff. This is a Lifetime movie waiting to happen. I know we’re going to end up on Discovery ID behind this. But whatever, the one luxury I don’t have is time: my primary coping strategy was to act like nothing was going to happen. Yep, took a page out The Boy’s handbook and just kept taking calls and doing my job and working with clients like I wasn’t actually moving to the other side of the world. I only stopped working when they came and took my desk. But I’ll get there in a minute.
For me, the best defense is a good offense. I’ve gone through the 5 stages of grief and accepted that, yes I am going to drive the truck through the mountains, and, yes, it is an unlikely—but VERY real—possibility I might die. But it has to happen. So I put my best Wesley Snipes Blade impression on, say some dumb shit like “Some muthafuckas always trying to skate uphill”—by the way, what the hell does that mean and what does it actually have to do with the movie? Have you seen Blade? This is the shit he says before doing some crazy roundhouse kick to send syringes of blood exploder into a Blood God. Now that I type that out, the skating uphill shit is sane compared to that plot point. Anyway, I get my brave face on, go get the truck, and, the morning of the move, load approximately 24 boxes in 32 minutes while I wait on the movers.
Anyway, I’m the garage, me and the Boy have loaded our 24 boxes, a grey Ford Escape rolls up and 3 dudes jump out. Now I am hyper-vigilant because I don’t want to be the star of The First 48: Tampa on moving day and I don’t trust the whole “I hired people vetted by U-Haul to come move our stuff” idea. It’s 3 guys, young and strapping, and think “well, maybe” until the one who I thought was the most normal looking asks me what they should load. “Everything,” I say. “Everything?” I give him the blank stare because I’m trying to figure out where the struggle is with everything. That’s a pretty simple word I would think. And, as a moving professional, you should have a good handle on what the fuck I want to load. Let’s start with the shit in boxes and then maybe move on the furniture. How about that?
The second dude needs a helmet. And a good pair of glasses. His eyes are like two mad spouses in the bed, facing different directions. And one of those directions is wherever Skipper is. We actually had her leave so he could focus. Seriously. He doesn’t speak and I’m not certain he can.
Now the leader of this motley crew is drinking a Starbucks mocha Frapuccino (don’t say anything, I live in Seattle—I know what the drink looks like) with a straw. Remember, I’m hyper-vigilant, First 48. You ever see something out the corner of your eye and then start to pay attention to it because if you actually saw what you think you saw you know it’s going to be messed up but now you have to know if it was real? Like if you watched or happened to walk by while someone was watching Dancing With the Stars when Paul McCartney’s wife, Heather Mills, was on there and you didn’t know she had a prosthetic leg, so then you had to stop and watch because does that woman really have a fake leg? And she’s on a dancing competition? and now you have to know? OK so that shit happens to be ALL THE TIME! Here’s what I saw: most people, when they pull a straw out of their mouths, move their jaw—you gotta open your mouth the get the straw out, right? No jaw movement here. It just slid out. I caught him saying something to one of the guys and saw like a side-tooth. I don’t think my man has teeth! Since the first dude doesn’t understand what has to go and the second guy only understands blondes, and I have to know what’s happening on the tooth front, I decide to give my complex instructions to Frapuccino. I extend my hand and say, “Okay, so…” and then he smiles. And I can see clear to the back of his throat.
My man showed up to the party with 4 teeth. FOUR. 2 incisors on the top, a bicuspid on the bottom. Maybe a couple molars in the back. The scene was BLEAK! And there was nothing—NOTHING—in the center. He can never eat a steak or an apple. Like any food he approaches, he has to come at it from the side. Those are key teeth! Like key to everything! Girls, jobs, lunch. When he asks us to leave them a review so they can get a higher rate, I almost said, “So you can get dental?” But I kept it to myself.
I’ll say this though, teeth or no, helmet or no, they knocked it out. I’m talking about my whole house, including the shit I was sitting on, packed and on the truck in 2 ½ hours. They packed a 26-ft truck in 2 ½ hours. And when they said that load wouldn’t move, they weren’t bullshitting. 3200 miles over rivers, bridges, mountains and valleys, for 6 days, and shit didn’t budge. He might suck at flossing, but he can pack a truck.
Up Next, Why Are We Stopping Here?