The move, continued.
Cleveland, February 2005.
OK. You’re sitting down, right?
You might want to sit down.
Remember all the strain and stress of the move? The bent-back thumb? The waking at night all a-panic? The sheer tonnage of stuff?
I’m moving again.
The whole shebang: the trucks, the gantry crane, the $$$. Clearly, I just can’t get enough of it. It’s possible I have some kind of moving Munchausen’s, or perhaps just your garden-variety masochistic streak. But when I was looking for the freight elevator Tuesday (after Saturday’s near-calamitous breakdown), I found it on up on the sixth floor, back in operation and being loaded by a couple moving out of their space. I stuck my nose in their open door, only to be struck green with jealousy. The light! The view! The sink!
Calmly, I asked if the space was taken. They suggested I knock on their neighbour’s door, but nobody was in, so I left a scribbled note and an old letterpressed business card. We spoke that night, and I saw the space the next day. I conferred with my mover, who agreed that yes, I am insane, but so long as my money’s good, he’ll open a monthly account. A builder friend took a look to assess the possibility of installing a double door, and today, with my heart in my mouth, I gave notice to my second-floor landlord. Our conversation began with him telling me that yes, I had overloaded the elevator Saturday, and ended with him telling me that he understood my predicament. We do have a month-to-month agreement after all, but I’m sure neither of us expected it would last less than six weeks. My nerves are all shot to hell.