It's been a while since I updated the website, so this will be a long one. I landed a job at a call center doing cable internet tech support. Not exciting by any means, and the paycheck is an insult given my background, but for now it'll do and I can live off of it. I landed the job in early March and our training began on the 12th, so on very short notice I whipped up my move.
I don't like moving. I live in organized chaos. To others it looks like a mess, but to me it bears meaning. When my mother told me to clean my room, I always knew I wouldn't be able to find anything for six weeks. Moving is like cleaning your room, except you don't know if your stuff will even be intact on the other end. And whether or not the room will be painted when you get there. Moving just sucks.
My first apartment charged me part of the security deposit for not cleaning under the oven. Nobody told me that all I had to do was pull the damn drawer out and mop - I figured they meant move the whole stove, in which case i knew I'd ruin the linoleum, so I went into the inspection knowing they could charge me $15 for not cleaning under the stove, but also knowing the front desk lady couldn't lift the stove. Then she pulled out the drawer and started scribbling on her clipboard.
I've shown up on moving day to an apartment that hadn't been cleaned and had the opportunity to study the previous occupant's furniture layout to better understand the space before I carried heavy stuff. Then after they cleaned the carpets and they let me move in, the maintenance guys decided patch holes in my ceiling and repaint. It seemed like a nice gesture, but they didn't understand the concept of drop cloths and gave my grandfather's leather chair a white speckling, and left my toothbrush all chunky and asbestos flavored.
I've moved cross country in a crappy car with a cat that hates cars, timing the A/C to balance overheating the engine or the feline...when one whined louder, I'd turn it on or off accordingly. I've driven moving vans with cars swinging on trailers from behind - a tip for the general public... If you rent a trailer, be sure you understand how the brakes work. One time I misjudged the size moving van I really needed and ran a bit short. I had a mini van on the trailer behind me, so I loaded it too. Uhaul trailers have a tongue compression brake that mechanically slows the trailer if it starts to outrun the truck for any reason. When the tongue shortens, the brakes engage...simple. Simple enough to strand morons like me who overload the trailers and attempt to back up a hill. Trust me, you'll smoke the tires on the truck before the trailer budges...
I've hired movers who didn't understand the meaning of "this side up" and "fragile" and instead chose to lift entire stacks of boxes with a seatbelt slung over their shoulders, dropping the load in a pile-driver motion that puts everything upside down, and the fragile, light weight stuff on the bottom...completely powdered. And their policies are loose enough to encourage nothing but efficiency. Basically, they were not responsible for any damage TO A SINGLE ITEM under $500. How many of us own a significant number of items over $500? Basically, you can assume that all your dishes will be broken... Dropped your computer? Sorry, that was 2 years old and it's only worth $300 - not our problem. Dropped your TV? Not a plasma? Not even a flat screen? Well, sorry...you signed right here, you see? ...by the X??
One time I drove a rental truck with a car swinging on a trailer through a construction zone that made me want to cry. The traffic melted down to 1 lane and the "jersey wall" was above my eyeline (probably about 9 feet tall). Being a box truck and a constricted construction zone, I had very little room. For about ten miles I kept waiting to see sparks coming from my side mirrors. But none of this could prepare me for the move I just had.
This time I had about 5 days to put together my itinerary. I had it all timed like clockwork. I'd fly to Virginia on a Wednesday, arriving late afternoon. 2 hours in the car to get home, dinner with Mom and Dad, and late that night my buddy Karl shows up. While I'm in the air, a moving container is dropped in the yard. Thursday, after catching up a little and sleeping well (and probably late), Karl and I were supposed to load the moving container. In the process, we'd vacate my storage unit, and knock out an unneeded monthly bill. That night or Friday morning, Karl would drive home, and I'd fly back out of Norfolk Friday Afternoon. The plan was to be in town for about 46 hours - I didn't announce my presence at all. When i got back to Arizona, I'd start training and about 5 days later the container would arrive on my doorstep and I'd unpack.
What really happened was somewhat different. I dropped my van off at the airport very early in the morning. It was early enough that the shuttle bus driver ignored the route and standard stopping points, but drove more of a figure 8 around the parking lot trying to track down the few stragglers that wander in at such an ungodly hour. I called my mechanic from the airport to tell them where the van was. You know you drive a money pit when your mechanic volunteers to pick up your vehicle from airport parking, fix it in your absence, get it to pass emissions, then drop it back off at the airport - all while you're away. I went through security, bought a huge bottle of water, and prepared for the misery of air travel.
There was a time in my life when I absolutely loved flying. But then I grew taller than 5' 11", started flying longer distances, and otherwise became an opinionated adult. The hop from Tucson to Dallas/Fort Worth was pretty uneventful. It was early, I was sleepy, and frankly I don't remember much of it other than the very, very bad chocolate chip "muffins" that were like a sub-par Twinkie. I slept most of the flight and therefore didn't have a chance to drink my gargantuan bottle of water that I'd bought in Tucson at a newsstand. Once on the ground in Texas, I hopped on the tram to get between terminals. At the top of the stairs on the other end was a security checkpoint, with a guard looking at my water bottle and shaking his head side to side. Nobody told me that I'd left the secure zone. No sign stood out saying "you're going to spend the next half hour on the phone with your mother while chugging five dollar water out of spite instead of simply throwing it away..."
When I got on the next plane I realized that i was walking through a nightmare. This thing was a tin can. I've been on puddle jumpers that shake in heat lightning, and I've been on bread box planes where the stewardess has to shout over the propeller noise, planes so small the pilot asks to re-seat the fat guy and move a few suitcases so we can balance out. I actually find all of that amusing, but this plane was small in a new way. i ducked my head walking in, but once through the door I didn't have space to raise my head. There was a single row of seats on the driver's side, and a double on the other side of the aisle. Overhead bins were on the left, by the doubles, which meant the tallest part of the plane was on the left of the aisle. i pasted my left ear to my shoulder and walked as slouched as possible, still burning my right ear on the ceiling as I walked. I sat in the double row with a spectacularly skinny girl. We both agreed that if we put the center arm rest down we'd need the jaws of life to get out...or one of us would break a hip. Directly over my shoulder was the bathroom door, in front of which was the jumpseat for the second stewardess, who I overheard saying "This just isn't right, they oughtn't use this small'a plane to fly more than a hour or so." We were on that paper towel tube for two and a half hours...
I landed in VA stiff and ready for a nap. The moving container had already arrived, but the keys had been lost in the mail. When he picked me up, my Dad informed me that the replacement keys had in fact arrived at the last minute, meaning I wouldn't waste my not-even two days in town. Then he rolled his eyes and told me not all of the four locks would turn, and the box was "smaller than expected." When I recited the dimensions, he said "yeah, picture two Port-A-Johns fused together..." Usually when I move everything gets slapped into boxes in about a week and I am always running late. This time, the vast majority of my possessions were packed, some from two years ago when I moved out of my house in Pasadena! The problem was that I hadn't seen this stuff in one place for the same amount of time. i had no idea how much stuff was left, and when i saw the box in the front yard, I immediately knew I'd need at least one, if not two, more.
Karl arrived and we ate, drank and were merry. We slept later than planned, but not quite all day, and eventually got around to fighting the locks on my moving container. The one that didn't move turned out to be disassembled from the inside. Apparently, other customers had figured out that the lock had seized and moved the locking tab 90 degrees so the door would still come off easily. We only got two of the locks to function properly. That was alright because the walls, which were basically made of science fair board anyway, weren't screwed together very well and i was able to get my entire arm into the container and proper use of my shoulder would have yielded the locks pointless. Light shown through the welds, and before loading my possessions i realized i needed to pad them against the harsh environment of the moving container, not just the bumps on the road. Dejected, I went to my storage unit in Dad's van and realized it'd require at least two trips. Essentially, the contents of my storage unit would fill two of the moving containers that i didn't feel were fit to haul garbage. And then I saw the rental truck sitting in the yard, drawing me in to the office for more information.
A 14' rental truck with top notch insurance and gas was just barely over the cost of one moving container, so I went home to see if I could get out of my container contract. My misjudgment of the size was my own doing, but this thing was not structurally sound and eventually the company saw things my way and I was told that my money would be refunded, so I went to get the rental truck.
Renting a truck meant a few things. First, we had planned to be done with hauling and here we were sitting in an office trying to get a truck so we could simply begin. Second, I'd have to leave first thing in the morning with not quite enough sleep, and I'd have to drive for three days straight to get to Arizona in time to begin training for the new job. Lastly, we'd have to travel across state lines to actually pick up a truck, because the one at my storage unit was a loaner while her regular one was in the shop. This loaner was not really rated for long distance moves, so they sent us on down the road.
This is where my sarcasm ends. I have, without a doubt, never driven a better rental truck in my life. It had less than 7k miles when I picked it up. The radio worked well, and it took 3 solid days of abuse from me. I drove through my old stompin' ground in North Carolina, listening to a little WKYS along the way, heard the British chick that's a country radio DJ in Tennessee - i kept waiting for the British version of "Y'all" or "You'un's" but it never came... As I drove, I heard the radio gab on about the 10th anniversary of the assassination of Chris Wallis, otherwise known as Notorious B.I.G. and thought about my days working at Sonopress in NC where we pressed and packaged his last album. That Friday was also the 20th anniversary of U2 releasing the Joshua Tree album. Saturday was Sharon Stone's birthday. I drafted the big rigs, ate salty food, and kept my foot on the gas, thoroughly enjoying inching my way across the states.
In west Texas, I hit the border patrol inspection point. Kinda pointless to put up a big garage so that everyone knows where you are, but what do I know? I had been driving a long time, and until I pulled up to the officer, i really didn't know what the line was for. But then a guy in a border patrol uniform asked me in one of the thickest Mexican accents I've ever heard, "hey man, are you a United States Citizen?" I understood him fine, but the fact that he didn't call me "esse" in the process really confused me - his accent was that thick, and when i responded with a "yes" i had to repress a smirk. Who's asking who here?
Eventually I made it to Sahuarita and parked the truck just in time to get a good night of sleep before my first day of training. Throughout the week, I managed to pick up my van (which has never run better), unload the truck, and finally my roommate and I have a furnished living room and the place feels warm and inviting (In my absence, he acquired new couches, and I showed up with tables). Now I realize how small my bedroom actually is. But I still like it here and although training is over and I'm really on the job and i find it completely underwhelming, everything is going great. I'll update this again when there's a story worth telling. in the meantime, I'll just continue my own adventure...
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