This was a weekend devoted to packing. By packing, I mean boxing everything up, all of it: closets, drawers, cabinets, refrigerator, everything packed and boxed. From television to toothbrush. The furniture can stay, but my stuff and I had to vacate the premises this morning at 7 a.m. For two consecutive days.
Am I moving? No, I’m not. My apartment is being renovated.
Are we being compensated for this unwelcome uprooting. Say, a break in the rent, free cable, anything? No. We’re supposed to be grateful. And there’s the rub. I’m not.
What I am is hugely inconvenienced. Being displaced, I’m finding, is unpleasant, no matter how temporary or short-lived. It’s only 7:53 and I’m stuck at a McDonald’s, where the atmosphere’s redolent of sausage and aftershave and retirees. Good god, is this what lies ahead? Wandering from place to place, adrift and untethered, filling empty days with bad coffee and greasy food?
Hey, everything’s packed. Why not just stuff it in the car and run like Hell. Like Thelma and Louise? I could, you know. I could be Thelma. No, Louise. Oh, who cares, what’s to stop me. I’m not married, have no kids, and I’m ready for an excellent adventure. Is that crazy? I gotta tell you, I’m in the mood to run away and not look back. Head for a beach, an ocean, a chaise. I have a swimming suit and I know which box it’s in.
Oh, wait. Money, I don’t have any. Damn it, I knew this was too good to be true.
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