Tuesday, June 17, 1997 | 11:59 a.m.
Las Vegas, Las Shmegas.
As my brain pan melted, my patience plunged and my sanity sank, Chattanooga started to look awfully good. Pardon me, boys, but I even missed that damn choo-choo song everyone hums over there.
Not that I'm a Tennessean, mind you. I was just passing through the Bible Belt for a mere 18-month career stop on my way to this desert jewel. I'm a Nooo Yaaawker, born and bred -- which largely explains the melting brain pan, plunging patience and sinking sanity for which we, a rather restless Northeastern species, are noted.
But I had good reason to melt, plunge and sink. It was Moving Day. The moving company, I concluded later, was Mephistopheles Van Lines. Also putting in an irksome appearance was the telephone company -- Beelzebub Bell.
It was, if you're catching my drift, a devil of a day.
After being a border for two weeks -- sharing a small bedroom with two cats and coming perilously close to committing feline-i-cide -- I was thrilled to finally slip into my new apartment, barren as it was. And a message from the movers that they were delivering my life -- scrunched into the back of a semi -- a day earlier than planned convinced me that fate had slapped me a high-five.
Anticipating fate was never my strength.
Having phoned the phone company several times to insure that my service was turned on a day before I moved in -- preparedness pays, I wrongly presumed -- I found the phone line as silent as Teller at his most loquacious. A call from my cell phone -- already wildly, expensively overused -- brought their assurances of immediate action. "Immediate" being a relative term.
Then the movers arrived. "Yippee!" Actually, make that "Yikes!"
The driver -- a very nice American man who spoke what could only be described as Mumblish -- announced "Cnnnntdooooeeeet. Cnnnntgiiiaaatdatwwwuuuuuen yeere." Two migraines later, I interpreted that as: "Can't do it. Can't get the truck in here."
Seems my apartment complex features too many tight curves and corners. Lovely to look at; murder on mammoth vehicles. Even if said vehicle was only one-third stuffed with my stuff, which could have comfortably fit in a 24-foot, complex-accessible Ryder truck. Which it did. At my expense.
After much teeth-gnashing (me) and shoulder-shrugging (them) -- and a reminder that I was already paying in excess of three grand for this move -- I shelled out an extra $70 for the truck, plus $180 to have the movers schlep everything into the apartment. Seems their contract permitted only one schlep -- in this case, from truck to truck. To the apartment? Shoulder shrugging -- and palm outstretching -- all around.
The option? Listen to Mr. Mumblish try to explain how much a "long carry" -- extra charges per foot to lug everything from where the truck could park outside the complex -- would cost. Understanding not one monetary mumble and fearing I might have to fork over my future children's college funds, I went with the Ryder choice.
Oh, and the phone company? Several cell calls later -- still no service. Not their fault, they tell me. Seems the problem is in the apartment's phone lines. For an additional charge, they'll be glad to send a repair crew out tomorrow. Charming.
The Ryder truck should have been easy, with a rental place only feet from my apartment. In the spirit of the day, it was closed. Padlocked. Take a hike, Move-In Boy. Open was another Ryder place, completely across town. 'Natch. Breathlessly, at T-minus 15 minutes to closing, we got there.
Back at the complex, loading -- semi-to-Ryder, then Ryder-to-apartment -- finally commenced. After the first transfer, Mr. Mumblish seemed to be communicating that every item was off his semi and, with his responsibility ended, split.
As the other movers finished the job, one fact became apparent. Mr. Mumblish had not left alone. My bookcase had left with him. He had, however, managed to deliver my 12 boxes of books -- now homeless. A search-and-rescue would have to be mounted for my piece of furniture, which was probably Seattle-bound by now. But that would have to wait.
After striking a deal with the remaining movers -- they helped me return the truck and I shuttled both of them home -- this devil's day finally ended. Exhausted, I climbed into my newly delivered bed -- wrinkled bedsheet, mashed pillow and cardboard-flecked blanket newly fished from a box.
Finally, sleep. Then a curious noise. A phone. Ringing.
"Hello?"
"This is the phone company. Your phone works. We incorrectly entered your number into the computer."
"Thank you, Beelzebub."
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