DO NOT DO WHAT I DID (and other lessons about moving in NYC)

Put your feet up, grab a coffee/beer/bottle of whiskey, and get comfortable, because this story is a dousey and also so extremely long... but I need to write it so I can sleep at night. This is my therapy, you know? Read if you dare.

[Back story: I am moving from Harlem to Brooklyn, and I have NO MONEY. I consider hiring a moving company but then remember that I have NO MONEY, so I enlist the help of BFF's KS and AP to help me move. On Tuesday night, we carry 5 pieces of totally stuffed luggage down the street, on the subway, and all the way to my new Brooklyn apartment. We look like freaks, but it's kind of funny, as I keep reminding AP and KS, "We're going to laugh about this so hard one day!"

For the rest of my crap (dresser, book shelf, crap, crap, and more crap...) I rent a 10' Penske truck like this one for $50 plus mileage, and KS and AP again graciously agree to help me load/unload it on Saturday. Here's where it all begins..]

Since I have had two babysitting jobs and a 3 hour visit to the NYC Department of Motor Vehicles earlier in the week, I have had zero time to pack, so I wake up Saturday morning at 7am and for three and a half hours, I pack everything I have accumulated in the year and a half that I have lived in this tetris-shaped apartment. I begin to re-examine my life and its likeness to the A&E show "Hoarders." At 10:30am and in 90 degree heat, I take a bus and walk three blocks to Harlem Self-Storage to pick up my truck.

Am I terrified to be driving in NYC? Yes.
Am I even more terrified that my first driving experience will be in a 10' rental truck? Of course.
Does my heart sink when the guy at the rental place tells me I'll have to take a 16' truck instead? Abso-freakin-lutely.

But what choice do I have? KS and AP are on their way to my Harlem apt, and I don't have time/energy/money to figure out a plan B. Plus, how much difference could six feet really make anyway..? I try to shut up the little voice in my head saying incessantly, "ARE YOU CRAZY?!" and I hop up on the running board into the cab of the truck, and I'm off. My hands are clenched at 10 and 2, my back straight in suspense, and my eyes darting from left to right scanning for children running into the street and those pesky one-ways. I am driving in New York City!!

I arrive at my apartment and drive figure-eights around the blocks surrounding it trying to strategize how exactly I'm going to park a 16 foot truck all by myself. Then, by some act of the parking Gods, I do it. I parallel park that beast, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I fist pump into the air in the cab of that Penske truck.

I'm on a parking high, so I immediately go up the three flights of stairs to my apartment and start bringing boxes down. I decide to get as many of the heavy boxes loaded before AP and KS get there, so they can just help me with the really big stuff that I can't carry by myself. I'm on a roll, carrying suitcases and boxes in both arms, and I'm sweating like a whore in church (or like a person running up and down stairs carrying heavy boxes in 90 degree humidity). I drop off a load in the truck, then turn to go up my stoop, through the two entry way doors and up to my apartment. I reach for my keys and realize that I don't have them.

I have the keys to the truck. I have the keys to my new Brooklyn apartment. I do not have the keys to the apartment that is currently storing all of the boxes and furniture that I need to move. AP and KS will be here any minute, and I don't want to make them wait, so I have to think fast.

I put my entire hand over all the buzzers outside the front door, hoping that one of my neighbors will be annoyed enough and buzz me in. They shout some expletives through the speaker, but eventually, once, then twice, someone buzzes me into the building. I walk slowly and with crossed fingers up to my apartment door, hoping that it didn't slam shut and that I can still get in. I did, and I can't. I feel a little sick and am so sweaty that when my neighbor to the left steps out of his door and takes a look at me, I can visibly see the pity form on his face. Even though he's running late, he invites me into his apartment (which is, by the way, SO MUCH NICER than my apartment!), directs me to his A/C unit, and gets me a glass of water while I try to cool down and call our building super.

Super Caesar is no help at all; I can't understand him due to poor reception and poor English, and all I can make out is that he's three hours away. I realize that he doesn't even have a spare key to unlock my door. I remember that the other times I have locked myself out (not my first rodeo), our old super was able to pop open the door with a screwdriver and a hammer. A light bulb goes off atop my sweaty head.

After finishing my glass of water, I borrow a hammer from my adjacent neighbor, and then go hunting for a flat head screwdriver. I say thankyouthankyouthankyou to my neighbor as he leaves, and I promise to leave his hammer in front of his door when I'm finished. I go upstairs and knock on door #2 hoping to borrow a screwdriver. A Spanish boy, clearly hungover, in his early twenties opens his door to me, and is sorry to say that he does not have a screwdriver either (Side note: What kind of guys are these?! Who doesn't own a screwdriver?!) BUT, this guy also looks at me with sincere pity, and he offers to climb down the fire escape and break into my apartment. What a peach! Ok!, I say, let's do it!! Only.. it doesn't work. He can't get in. I guess in terms of safety, this is good news, but in terms of getting into my apartment, this is very bad news. He comes back up the fire escape and offers to call Caesar and speak to him in Spanish. I see some butter knives by his sink, and awkwardly ask if I can borrow one of them. I'm desperate. He says ok, and I head back downstairs with a hammer and a butter knife hoping to break down my door.

At this point KS and AP arrive, and I fill them in on the fiasco, but they're calm and collected, and they come inside with me to watch as I unsuccessfully jam a butter knife into my door and wiggle it thus bending the knife and leaving us stuck in the hall. Drats. Then we go to the downstairs neighbor to ask if they have a screwdriver (quick insert: Up until today, I have not met any of my neighbors, and I have been living here for a year and a half). I knock on door #3 and a big bellied man with no shirt on comes shuffling to the door and much to my relief DOES have a screwdriver that I can borrow. Thank you shirtless, beer belly man! KS, AP, and I go back up to my door, and before I try it, I remind them that I've never actually done this screwdriver/hammer/wedge thing before; I've just seen Angel do it. I do the sign of the cross, wham that hammer into the screwdriver, and watch as my red apartment door flings open. My keys sit innocently on my dresser, like nothing has happened.

I return the screwdriver, hammer, and bent knife to their respective doors.

So then KS, AP, and I get to work carrying up and down, lifting, maneuvering, grunting, and re-organizing. KS and AP are total moving bosses, and before I know it, we're all loaded up, ready to take this monster of a truck out on the highway.

We make a make-shift bench of bedding between the bucket seats, and AP and KS arm themselves with their iPhone GPS's ready to navigate me on the Westside Highway, through Chinatown, and over the Manhattan Bridge.

Brooklyn: here we come!
We are sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, hardly moving at all in the middle of Chinatown. There are tourists, knock-off souvenir shops, and food carts on both sides of us on Canal Street. Because there are so many cars, we are barely moving, and I'm actually at ease. I don't have to worry about cars darting in and out of lanes or missing my exit or driving off the side of a bridge. I feel like I can breath for a second, then the light we're stopped at turns green, and I slowly step on the accelerator to move forward. Before I know what is happening, we hear a huge SCREEEAACH noise. I look at the side mirror behind me and see a huge tourist bus and its 3 foot chrome side mirror fall to the street below. I instantly feel like getting out the truck, and running as fast as I can to a dark alley where I can hid out until nightfall when I can go to Central Park to become a bird lady like in Home Alone.

Instead I shout/whine/cry out to AP and KS, "WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo? To which they reply, "Idunno! Idunno! Idunno!" We realize that hit-and-run is out of the question since we're stuck in gridlock traffic, so we maneuver to the side of the road and pull over, waiting for the bus driver to come and yell at me. He comes and is understandably upset, as am I, though neither of us is willing to accept the blame- and really, what does it matter at this point. We were both driving huge-ass vehicles in a tiny NYC street that was jam-packed with traffic. He tells me that it's my fault because he "wasn't even moving." He tells me he has a whole bus of people that will agree with his story, and I swallow my fear and pretend to act confidently. (I later find out that there are only 4 people on the bus.. only one more person than in my truck! A-hole..). But truthfully, if this accident has to be someone's fault, I guess it makes more sense that in the case between the professional bus driver VS. the first time NYC driver, I'm probably more likely to be at fault.

So then he calls his boss, and I call the rental company, and I get my insurance information from my mom, and he calls the police, and it's all so awful that I can't even begin to tell you. KS gets out of the make-shift seat we have made so we don't get in more trouble for having too many people in the cab of the truck, and she buys us Diet Cokes and happy meals at the McDonald's conveniently located next to us. Then she hides out in various souvenir shops. Can you spot her?

AP and I are searching for the registration for the truck and are on hold with the rental company, and I feel embarrassed and guilty and stressed and angry and basically every bad emotion there is all balled into one. I swallow the lump in my throat that threatens to come out in the form of sobs, and I eat my baby french fries.

I thank GOD for AP and her humor and attitude and sweet text as she sits beside me and keeps me calm. I try not to imagine how much that side mirror must cost, how much trouble I may be in with the rental company. I try not to focus on the fact that I didn't choose to pay the $12.50 for insurance when I rented the damn thing.

The flashing lights finally show up, and two hardcore female NYPD officers with florencent nail polish step out of the car and immediately make me feel worse about the whole thing. Excuse me, OFFICERS, but I've never been in a car accident, so I don't really know the protocol! is what I want to tell them but instead, I fidget and mumble and look down at the sidewalk, and to say that the cops were frustrated with me would be a great understatement. AP and I look everywhere for the license and registration of the truck and can't find it anywhere. We can't help it that we don't have a pen; they're all packed! And I'm SORRY that we can't hear you shouting my name from inside your car when I'm sitting inside mine. is what I want to shout back at them when they tell me, "Ma'am, we don't have all day! We have serious things we need to do!" It's awful, and now I can add rage to my long list of terrible emotions.

I get a copy of the police report, and we wait for the cops to leave before KS comes out from Chinatown hiding, and then we're back on the not-so-open road again. Two minutes until the Manhattan bridge. Now, if I wasn't feeling confident driving this monstrosity of a truck before, I am now utterly terrified and about to drive 40 mph over a 2 mile long suspension bridge. I look straight ahead, grip my hands on the steering wheel, and go.

Instead of going straight to my new apartment, we decide to go to Ikea to pick up my new mattress! I get on yet another expressway until we reach the land of Swedish meatballs and build-able furniture in no time. I park at the end of the parking lot and take up 4 spaces. At this point, proper parking is the least of my concerns.

AP, KS, and I walk into Ikea with BRING IT ON looks on our faces. We've have all had not-so-great experiences in Ikea-land (flashback: I went there after a night of sleeping on hardwood floor and was too vulnerable to furniture shop objectively, and AP and KS spent 7 hours there once before realizing that they had to pick out the furniture in the warehouse). This time is different.

GIFSoup
We walk in side-by-side with tough faces and skip all the cutesy colorful stuff (well, most of it), and we find my mattress and slates (and you know, just a few cutesy colorful things). I pick out some Ikea chocolate for my faithful friends and give KS my credit card to pay, so I can go out to the parking lot to bring in 'ol Penske. It's such a great, time-saving plan until I realize that the damn truck is too tall to fit in the loading station. We have to haul our big buys all out to the tumbleweed section of the parking lot, load it, and finally we are on our final leg of the Saturday moving day journey. 99 Downing street, or bust.
We get to the apartment and wearily, yet determinately unload the whole truck into my new room. It's awful and hot and you know, really, really terrible. But we do it! It's over!! Now, we need to find a place to park the truck until I can take it back in the morning. AP and KS find a spot, and we think it will fit, and it does fit, and I am SO ready to get out of that thing for the second to last time.

Our trio disperses to go home and shower, and then to reconvene for food and spiked lemonades at a BBQ place a few blocks away. We eat and drink and slowly begin to come back to life. That pulled pork sandwich pulls me up, and by the time I make it back to my apartment, I am riding high on my 6th wind! The spiked lemonade has given me a false sense of energy, and I decide it's time to put together my bed frame! Let's hope I have all the parts! (remember, the bed frame came from the side of the road. AP and KS found it and brought the frame and ziplock bag full of screws home for me.)

 So I put the bed together. Three times. The first two I put it together wrong, and then I sort of lose one of the screws.. but whatever, it's upright and I'm sleeping on it, by God!

I am awake for every half hour from the time I lay my head on my pillow to when I have to get up to return the truck. I am so exhausted and I want to sleep, but my mind is telling me no, but my body, my body is telling me yes!

I give up and get up and call KS to meet me at the damn truck for the LAST TIME I EVER rent/drive a 16' truck ANYWHERE. I feel awful asking KS to give up another morning for me, but there is no way that I can drive and navigate this thing on my own. Before KS gets to the truck, I open the driver's door and a parking ticket for $65 comes falling down to the ground, along with what's left of my spirit. I take a deep breath and put the key in the ignition to start the A/C.

KS is exhausted and bruised and sore but such an amazing friend, that she sucks it up for me one last time and navigates me through new neighborhood streets to the Brooklyn Bridge. Right before I turn right to go on the bridge, there is a group of Police Officers standing in the median waving their arms at me in a you-can't-come-here kind of way. I think one of the officers points to a clearance sign above him, and though I'm not sure why they're telling me not to go on the bridge, it's probably a good reason.

KS and I frantically try to devise a plan B.. Queens? Tri-borough Bridge? Ok? Sure, let's add another borough to this adventure. Might as well stop in Bronx while we're at it.

Now I'm on the BQE and then on the Tri-Borough bridge and I have to pay a $13.00 toll, which at this point, I don't even care. I just want to be off this bridge and out of this truck.

We miraculously make it to Harlem and then up to the rental office on 141st street (I may have taken a few wrong turns before this happens exactly, but I don't need to bore you with those details...) I go inside to turn in my keys and then RUN away as fast as I can, but first the man at the office asks me if I have filled it with gas before returning it. SHIT. NO I DID NOT DO THAT. He tells me that I can go fill it at a gas station nearby or they can fill it $8/a gallon. I consider my options:

I have a vision of me attempting to back the huge ass truck to a gas pump and hitting it causing a huge explosion where my face melts off, and then I do some shitty math where I figure it can't cost more than $20 to have them re-fuel it for me.

"You're sure??" he asks me. Yes, I've never been more sure of anything in my life. The man takes the keys, parks the truck, and comes back inside to print off a receipt: $70 for rental and mileage and $80 FOR GAS!!! AHHHH!!! I did NOT estimate $80!! It's too late to take the chance at the gas pump, so I hand him my credit card, and look away as he swipes it.

KS and I walk to the subway where KS gets on a Downtown C train, and I walk to my Harlem apartment to give it one last sweep and turn in my key. Then I, too, get on a Brooklyn Bound C train, appreciating public transportation like never before.

And now I'm in Brooklyn. And now I'm home.

And I'm never. moving. again.