Since the ever lovely Tama was already down slaving for wages in Santa Cruz, it fell unto me to box up everything we owned in readiness for the movers.
At first things go smoothly… you’ve got two months so let’s start with making sure to pack at least one box every day. That lasted about a week. Okay, two boxes every day… no, wait… better make that a minimum of four boxes every day. The last box is still on the far horizon.
Eventually you begin muttering that some bastard is sneaking into your house late at night and leaving more things for you to pack. You rail against the Gods and cry aloud, “Who owns all this shit?” You begin counting coup… “geez, 19 boxes of books”… “there, the bedroom is completely packed”, etc. In the final stages you begin to worry that it won’t all fit in the gigantic truck soon to back down your driveway.
As you near the end, knowing that two other shlubs are going to have to do the actual loading and unloading, you begin to wax philosophical and marvel at the sobering concept that in the last 60 days you have touched everything you own. Each and every thing. You assess, after the fact, and rest assured in the knowledge that you edited out the detritus and packed only that which you need to live in the manner to which you have become accustomed.
You throw a bunch of things in the car, wave goodbye to the moving van, leave a check for the cleaning lady and head down the pike and into the bowels of the beast where, nearly effortlessly, you sit in a folding chair and conduct the unloading process… “uhmmm, that one goes in the garage… that one goes upstairs… all those go in the downstairs closet…” It goes quickly and all seems to be well and good.
Ah, well then, yes. Comes the day of reckoning and the grand unpacking begins. Almost immediately you realize that two practiced movers can unload your shit faster than you can track it and boxes, even labeled, can find a home most any place. Shifting, shoving, sorting and swearing you develop a vague uneasiness that perhaps you should have made maybe one more run to Quincy Thrift in the pickup. The 19 boxes of books, though heavier than a dead preacher, begin to fade into inconsequence as you unpack all 27 boxes with the word ‘kitchen” scrawled across the top in black marker… (okay, in truth that includes two full boxes of booze and several filled with cocktail glasses…)
The mover’s words come back to haunt you, “6000 pounds…” Yes, that’s three, count ‘em, three tons of things and you are charged with finding room for all of it. You want nothing more than to abandon the project, fling yourselves onto the bed and watch your Netflix offerings. Everything is hooked up but, unfortunately, technology dictates that in order to get from play feature to actually playing feature… you need the goddamn remote.
Back to the stacks and a relentless search begins. You begin tearing open boxes just for a peek inside and finally, after a process of elimination; you can close your eyes and visualize exactly the contents of that elusive box. It is nowhere to be found. You review nearly every box again, even opening the boxes marked ‘books’ to assure yourself that is true. Finally, in desperation, you rumble thru the garage one last time and, lo and behold… there, buried under several plastic tubs of drills and sanders and such, hidden from cursory view, sits one lone box that should have gone into the house. Well, sonofabitch…
