Strongly Worded

Smooth Moves

As I'm sure you've noticed, it is moving season in Greater Boston. It is the end of August, when, every year, an unsettled, transitory feeling pervades the city. On trash day, the sidewalks are crowded with cast-off furnishings, with things culled during the relocation process. You can troll through the streets, noticing the stained futons, rusted bathroom shelving, the other vestiges of former lives. Two of my friends are now in the throes of relocation, reminding me of last year, when I personally experienced the Great Migration of September First.

Last year, I reserved a U-Haul and learned that moving inspires a kind of war-story mentality. Friends and acquaintances described hard rain and back injury, squandered security deposits, and renters’ remorse. In particular, they discussed the horrors of U-Haul. I knew too many people who arrived at 6 a.m. on the day of their reservation, only to encounter a snaking queue and a dearth of vans.

Because of this, I cancelled my U-Haul reservation in favor of a 24-hour van rental. This meant compromising size in favor of certainty and time. I committed to moving all my earthly possessions in a vehicle National Car Rental described as a “Pontiac Montana or Similar.” I was terrified that “similar” would mean small or ill-equipped, or that the seats wouldn’t come out as indicated on the Pontiac Montana website. I was terrified that my bed wouldn’t fit inside, and that I would have to use the 8-foot bungee cords I bought at EMS just in case this happened. I was terrified that I would have to make multiple trips to the new apartment, and ask my brother to guard my possessions, cast out on the curb by the new tenants.

A week before the move, Mariko, my landlady called me, asking when exactly I was moving out. I replied “September first.” She knew this, because it was written into the lease, and we had discussed it earlier in the summer. Mariko asked whether the new tenants, who were evidently “really nice boys”, could possibly move in on August 31st. I said no.

Mariko played the “midnight on the 31st” card. “Technically,” she said in an imperious tone, “you have to be out of there by midnight on the 31st. So you’ll really be in their space. You’ve really got to be flexible about this.” This was a particularly enraging argument, because I definitely did not choose to move on the day the entire metro Boston housing stock changes hands, but my new apartment was occupied as well.

And yet Mariko had $785 of my money that I really wanted back, so we established that the “really nice boys” could move in some of their things and not their selves on the 31st. Satisfied, Mariko turned to the moving details. She told me to leave the keys on the kitchen counter on moving day, along with my forwarding address, for the return of my security deposit.

Is that it? I wondered. I’d spent four years in the apartment—and over $33,000 on rent—and she wanted me to leave the key on the counter? To slink out by dawn? To just disappear?

I realized I needed more closure than that. While I never had anything resembling a close relationship with Mariko, my apartment on Willow St. was my home during four very transformative years. During my occupancy, I lived with five different roommates, acquired three sets of dishes and as many sets of new friends, fell in love twice, held three different jobs, completed a master’s degree, and overcame a constellation of health issues. The apartment itself had transformed, too. The scratched linoleum kitchen floor was replaced by bright parquet. The sagging porch was restored to splendor. Brand new appliances were installed in the kitchen. And the bedroom, the bathroom, and the trim on the stairs were all painted (by me).

But as I was leaving, all was in chaos. I was cleaning and sorting through generations of occupancy. I unearthed things: frozen peas slated to expire in 1998, seven corkscrews, a malfunctioning VCR, four different containers of sage.

On the night before the move, I slept badly in my naked bedroom. Everything was packed, including the sheets, so I slept on the bare mattress. I awoke early, feeling nervous and emotional. Both coffee and cups had been packed, and no breakfast remained, either, so I drank water, ate a mozzarella stick, and proceeded to bring boxes down to the first floor.

Soon, my then-boyfriend (and obliging moving partner), D., arrived with the van (which I was too afraid to drive). We couldn’t figure out how to remove the seats or even fold them down (great job, informative Pontiac website). But we soldiered on. We started with the mattress, which seemed relatively light and pliable, but which buckled and slithered as we wedged it through the narrow doorways, down the three flights of winding stairs. I lost my grip on the last flight, and the weight of the mattress, and the height of the steps, and the sudden loss of control knocked D. over. He was fine, but I lost it, and started crying from frustration, exhaustion, and panic.

D. ushered me into the van, soothing me until I regained control. And then we proceeded to fit a surprising amount into the vehicle, remarking on each one of the eight trips how beautiful the new apartment looked, how easy it was to move into the first floor.

Once it was finished, I returned to the old place and left the key on the counter as promised. I welcomed the new “nice” boys who were moving in with their adorable dog. D. and I drove back to my new home. It looked huge, inviting: each room an opportunity. We collapsed on the couch, amidst the boxes, and somehow extracted two plastic cups from one of them. We toasted the new place with plastic cups full of warm orange juice.

“Cheers,” D. said, “We did it. Welcome home!” And I started to cry again. It was finally over.

Before I moved, I worried that I’d wake up the first morning and feel disoriented, not knowing where I was. But from the very beginning, I loved my new place. There are some very aggravating aspects: the lack of counter space in the kitchen, the strange placement of the electrical outlets, the total absence of storage. And, even after a year, I am still not used to the fishbowl feeling of living on the first floor.

But the new place has a medicine cabinet—no more perching toiletries on the edge of the pedestal sink. And it has cute tiles and shining new floors. AND: all the space—and the food— in the refrigerator is MINE. I can buy large quantities of groceries, two different kinds of juice, if I want, and there’s room for it! I can stock up on 32-packs of waffles. I do not have to contend with roommates’ moldy leftovers, their banging in the bathroom, their boyfriends, their dishes in the sink. I revel in the act of watching trash on television—at any hour—without feeling in the least bit apologetic or defensive. I revel in the unlimited access to the bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room. I revel in the order, the cleanliness, the quiet.

Still, I haven’t abandoned my roots. I pass by the old apartment frequently; I point it out to new friends and acquaintances. When the house is lit in the evening, I can faintly see the reconfiguration of the living room; the new blinds on the windows of my old bedroom. I may have left my keys on the counter of “my old house on Willow St.”, but the space will always hold a place in my heart.

Posted by Dori at 9:53 PM