I am crumpled in the clawfoot bathtub of my almost-not neighbor, letting her ancient showerhead spit cold water over me. I try to keep my wailing quiet enough to not upset her dogs. I am filthy, and burning hot, and my whole body feels like it’s been felted together with mallets.
It’s August of 2022. This move is already a disaster, and we have 1200 miles to go.
What was supposed to be a brief sojourn in Minnesota, the only child equivalent of “visiting my sister,” has spun out into nearly a year of displacement and homelessness. While there have been well-earned moments of lightness and beauty, it’s overall been a wildly dramatic year full of loss and grief and constant emergencies, evaporating any illusion of choice.
So when an impossibly lucky opportunity to come back to Jersey lands in my partner’s lap, we take it. Anywhere but here.
Really? Even South Jersey?*
YES. Anywhere but here.
I call U-Haul for the first time in my life and begin counting down the days until we cross the Mississippi. Yes, a 15’ truck should fit everything we have and more. Yes, I can come pick it up at this depot at 7am on a Saturday. Yes, I can hire these movers—conveniently through U-Haul!—for an 8am start that same day, getting us on the road by noon.
I arrived here with two suitcases. I am leaving here with a bizarre Lego rebuild of my life, as is Doc, an unexpected necessity of this last year. After a month of packing it all into boxes, the arthritis in my hands is raging, and my battered knees remind me that they are, startlingly, approaching 40.
At 6am on moving day, I smear Aspercreme on my throbbing hands and knees and drive to a U-Haul depot that is fully abandoned. There’s not a single car, not a single truck in the parking lot, and a handpainted sign on the window says ‘CLOSED WEEKENDS.’ I triple, quadruple check that I am at the right address. I call U-Haul and am put on hold for an itch-inducing amount of time. When a kind customer service rep finally connects with me, a wasp flies into the car, and I tuck and roll out the door while trying not to yelp as I explain the situation.
He sounds honestly concerned, and tells me my truck was moved to the Iowa state line–but not to worry, because he could try to get me another truck. Just hold on and I’ll get you a dispatcher, okay? Moments later, a Midwestern voice grumbles a ‘Hello?,’ as if I’ve called during her afternoon stories. The movers text me–they’re at the house. Oh no. I speed through telling her what’s happening, explaining that the movers are there *right now,* and she cuts me off several times, telling me ‘You knew this was going to happen’ and ‘There’s no way you’re getting a truck today.’
Before I could stop myself, I spoke in the parlance of my people.
Listen. I come from a land where if your timed-to-the-minute cross-country move is canceled, you will hear things like ‘fuck’ and ‘what the fuck’ and ‘are you fucking kidding me,’ and not a single one of them will be or even mean ‘fuck you,’ but if you are saying these things to a lifelong Midwesterner, you are going to learn quickly that they do not understand this nuance.
She curtly says do not curse me out on my name and tells me she will simply cancel my reservation, and as I yelp in panic and beg her no, please, you don’t understand, I’m from Jersey, she hangs up on me.
I start sobbing and resist the urge to call my mother, the only next logical step in my panicky birdbrain. Doc instead brings us to a U-Haul center where these things happen in rapid succession:
-This man also says ‘You knew this was going to happen’ (???)
-Doc wants to speak to his manager, and he walks away, insulted
-Doc gets on the phone with the aforementioned dispatcher and all but grovels, and suddenly, a truck is available right here right now
I know this is an unacceptable level of bullshit, but I have no time or will to do anything but accept this miracle truck.
I call my movers and tell them I’m moments away, stay right there. One of them is outside in his car, waiting for his partner. When he arrives, he says, they’ll come in and get a sense of things. Ten minutes later, a different man comes in, introducing himself as Floyd. Oh hey, Floyd, I say, your partner is out there in the car.
“Nah, he had to go to work,” Floyd says.
Floyd comes in with a small, lithe woman who I presume is his girlfriend. She has on stiletto sneakers and long acrylic nails. She. Is. A. Beast. She hustles up and down the deathtrap stairs with unruly boxes of pots and pans and clonking pieces of furniture, despite the fact that I’m sure she was promised a slow, easy Saturday morning replete with stuffed French Toast.
For two hours, Floyd and his lady and our almost not-neighbor and Doc and I shuttle things down the deathtrap stairs and into the swollen U-Haul. Finally, it is crammed full of our stuff.
Unfortunately, so still is this place. The cleaners I’ve hired arrive, gamely winding around the scattered, unlabeled boxes and pieces of furniture and appliances from Doc’s previous life that we can’t make our minds up about keeping. We pack the small cab of the truck and the smaller car, and there’s still. So. Much. What has been abysmal drought-heat all summer combusts into pouring rain, and the things that would not fit anywhere are soaked.
Next door to the other side, almost-neighbors move in, a robust Ethiopian family with no fewer than six children. They are rhapsodic over finally being in The Great State of Minnesota. They have moved here with the equivalent of suitcases, and in an effort to stop weeping, we ask them–would you like this bed? This dresser? This vacuum cleaner? They excitedly take it all, introducing us to their children ages 4-21.
It is long past noon, and the plan for how far we will get and where we are staying tonight is falling apart by the minute. Doc’s family has COVID, the hotel can’t move my reservation, and this driving rain threatens to turn into a wicked thunderstorm any minute.
So now I am in my almost not-neighbor’s tub, after she found me weeping on the floor and softly asked me if a shower might help? I wipe my nose and turn off the cold water, wrapping myself in a Turkish towel that I make a note to get when I press reset on my life for the umpteenth time. Her dogs whuffle up to me, and I give the blind one an extra kiss on her head.
Almost-not-neighbor Michelle offers Doc a shower and some peace of mind, watching over two exquisitely heavy and precious boxes that have no room on our journey. At 5pm, we bring the terrified dogs into the rain and secure them in the backseat, between stacks of bedding and clothes. We are wet and hangry and aching and miserable and oh God, we still need gas.
The engines start as thunder rolls through the sky. Doc gives me the plan: just keep it together until Wisconsin. We fall apart in Wisconsin.
We roll into the parking lot of a shopping center with a Chipotle, blessed be. The line is out the door and we take turns holding our cowering dogs, peeing, and shoveling burrito bowl down our gullets. When Doc goes in for one last pee, the sky is green slate and eerily quiet. The dogs are panting, their eyes wild. As I start to tell them it’s okay, a bleating siren peals from the woods. Oh no, it’s happening, Godzilla has landed.
I search the parking lot for people, yelling WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? JUST A TORNADO WARNING, HON a sweet cheesehead tells me. YA DON’T HAFTA WORRY IF IT’S JUST THE ONE, BUT IF YA HEAR TWO, SEEK SHELTER, OKEY DOKEY?
Doc emerges from Chipotle, teary-eyed and so tired. BABE WE GOTTA GO, I cry. I KNOW YOU WANT YOUR TACOS BUT THERE’S A TORNADO.
We peel out of the parking lot before the siren can let loose again and rocket towards Jersey, crying through mouthfuls of beans and rice, outrunning the weather until it is just stars and silence across a moonless Midwest.
(To be continued.)
xx Jen
*Nothing but love for South Jersey—I fully drink the Boost.
You slay me 💓