This is the sort of adventure that really makes me miss home. I love a good shit show disaster in the making. And whenever any of us moves, it’s always that way. Always has been.
But Crazy D has always been the best. When he moves, he really puts his all into it. Back in the day, when he and I were both living in Toronto, I remember being invited along to help. Now, with a dodgy back and no packing skills, I wondered why, but I didn’t question it too much. I turned up at his apartment at the correct time to witness whatever it was that was meant to happen.
The first thing I noticed was that not all the packing had been done. He had a room mate at the time, but there was rather a lot of stuff that I knew was his – probably because it may have been mine at some point – that wasn’t in a box, or even near an area that looked like it was designated to go with. I don’t remember much else about that day, beyond that we loaded up The Mom’s car until it could take no more. That and then there was this, too: There was a chair, a fairly large chair if I recall, that I believe was used when Crazy D needed to relax and enjoy his crackers. This was a holdover from our teenage years, when he was often to be found in his room, in a similar chair, enjoying his crackers. I appreciate that level of specificity, though I believe I may have been the only one.
At any rate, when it was mentioned that the chair was still in the apartment and we were about to no longer be in the apartment, Crazy D decided the chair’s time had come. The bins were cleverly located at the bottom of the apartment, right under his balcony. So we just heaved the thing off the balcony and hoped for the best.
This tactic has also been instrumental in days past when The Mom told us to get rid of the Christmas tree upstairs: we threw it out the window.
It’s really quite freeing doing that sort of thing, as long as no one gets hurt. And so far no one has.
But I suspect that since Crazy D intended to take his things with him, and The Mom, perhaps with the wisdom of the ages upon her, now discourages us from throwing things bigger than say, a milk crate out the window. Apparently this is the sort of thing that gets one a bad reputation in the suburbs.
Anyhow, this coming and going of Crazy D has had The Mom in a bit of a tizzy. I get frequent updates on his location, then strange pauses, followed by emails asking if I know where he is. It’s when I get those that I realise she’s at the end of her tether. I mean, I live in England. She lives in the next town over. The only way I’d know where he is is if he were here. Which could always happen, just you know… hasn’t yet.
When we were teenagers, The Mom used to also like to keep track of us. Not that she wanted to forbid us to go somewhere, really I think she was just trying to get an idea of numbers for food. How much, what kind, when, that sort of basic information. We were, as ever, not as helpful as perhaps we could’ve been. So, being clever, she devised another method of figuring out, roughly, who was in the house. She started counting pairs of boots. It worked a treat, too. Six pairs of boots in the mud room and that meant an extra three people.
I suppose she used to do a similar thing when we have all at various times been the adults in residence. Since we have more than one pair of boots now, she couldn’t count, but to know where anyone was at a given time, I believe she’d peruse the relevant room. Which is probably how she deduced that Crazy D had moved out.
Anyhow, I can only imagine the creative swearing that took place when they tried to get the big bed out of the house. It would’ve involved a lot of tight corners, heavy lifting, that sort of thing. It would’ve probably ended in tears of laughter had I been there. I like narrating other people’s misfortune, it’s a habit I’ve developed.
Sad then, that I’ve missed it. But never mind, when I arrive home fro Christmas I’ll have my case with me, which is sure to cause a drama of some kind. Then there’s the couch that belongs to me that’s been languishing in the garage for years, that we haven’t had the heart to get rid of. If The Mom’s ever down one day, I might just suggest we try and deal with it. That’ll be hours of hysteria, and the couch won’t have to move an inch.