This morning was the day. The day of the move. Everything in boxes, FPL notified, Comcast appointment made, Chilli at grandma’s, movers on their way.
We have been up since 5 AM, getting all of the last minute items ready. We even pushed all of our boxes into the living room, effectively blocking the door. Normally, we would have fought about this logistical snafu, but we were in high spirits and eager to leave our sweet little apartmet that turned sour with the terribly scary neighbors and blind, deaf and mute association.
I was away last week and will be away again for the next two. This weekend was it. It was the only weekend I had to move. But, about an hour ago, the Walmart greeter at the security gate denied the movers entry into the community.
Denied entry. A reputable mover with adequate paper work and identification was turned away at the gate. The same gate that allows the mafia to come in and hold meetings in the downstairs apartment. The same gate that lets in shirtless men in bass booming cars at one in the morning.
After speaking to the mover on the phone, I ran down the stairs and through the parking lot. I ran as fast as I could. I couldn’t stop running, as exhausted and out of shape as I am,
it was as if my body was trying to keep up with my mind. I ran passed a man walking his 90 pound German Shepard mix. Clearly, a violation of association rules. I passed parked work vans, which are also not allowed. I turned the corner around the green tarp that has been covering what used to be the recreation/office center. It was demolished two years ago, but the association has done nothing about it, claiming they are broke.
And I believe them. I guesstimate that 40 % of units are bank-owned.
At the gate, I see my mover and the rent-a-cop/walmart-greeter/my-would-be-gunshot-wound-to-the-big-toe-if-I-owned-a-gun-and-believed-in-shooting-people-for-sport.
When I approach, the gold-toothed individual pointed at a paper scotch-taped to his window that read:
No Move In/Move Out On Sunday
Remaining incredibly calm – in an almost American Psycho-like trance – I walked away from the gate and settled with the movers and watched the truck leave, without my belongings.
I walked back home. Slowly. Replaying what had just transpired. The complete power trip of one, small man in a uniform. The moving team that wasted their time. The association representative that was conveniently unavailable. The security supervisor that was out of town. Tears of anger started to stream down my face.
I wiped them clean, right before opening the door. I had to remain strong and calm to break the news about the cancelled move.
I took a deep breath, turned the door handle and pushed open the door – only I couldn’t get back in because she had once again rearranged the boxes.
So, I did what everyone does in moments of great distress. I went to the church of Denny’s to find grace in the communion of chocolate chip pancakes.