I helped my best friend move last Friday. Ernie had to move a bunch of stuff from her old old apartment, which she’d sold, to her more recent old apartment, which she’d vacated after a break-up, and she didn’t want to ask her ex-boyfriend for help because she didn’t want to see him, but she had to ask someone for help because she doesn’t know how to drive, so I volunteered, in the same spirit in which I volunteer to attend parties which I know will bore me to death but which I won’t have to go to for at least a month. Sure enough, just like it happens with the boring parties, when my alarm went off Friday morning, I sat up straight in bed and groaned, “Oh, no, I have to do that today – why did I agree to do that? I should have never agreed to do that,” and stomped into the shower, and out of the shower and into my clothes, and out of my apartment and across the street to the coffee cart, and across town to the subway so I could go pick up the minivan we’d rented, because according to the almighty Internet, Dollar Rent-A-Car only offered minivans at their West Village location.

By the time I arrived at the rent-a-car place, I’d gotten a bit of caffeine into my bloodstream and felt a bit better about the whole thing, only to find that the West Village location had no record of my reservation.

Sarah: “But the Web site assured me I had a minivan reserved.”
Dollar Rent-A-Car employee: “We ain’t got it.”
[Lather, rinse, repeat until ear begins bleeding.]

After we had established to the satisfaction of everyone at the counter – not to mention everyone else on earth – that I did not have a reservation in their computer, I agreed to rent a minivan at the non-reserved rate, which cost forty dollars more, but Ernie would wind up paying for it and I wanted to get the moving over with, so I agreed to the higher rate. The girl at the counter put my information into the computer, a process which took five minutes short of forever because she had fingernails long enough to make Indian swamis cry real tears of envy, and which she had to repeat because she’d taken the Jersey address off my license and had to start over with my New York address. Finally, shortly after my first Social Security check arrived, she tore the receipt off the printer and handed it to me with a pen, and as I signed it and initialed it in about fifty different places to indicate that I would indemnify Dollar Rent-A-Car, its employees, its employees’ siblings, and anyone else who had ever walked past a Dollar Rent-A-Car in case the car blew up or veered off the Williamsburg Bridge and into the drink, Pinky McManicure mentioned casually that she’d called the 84th Street location and told them to clean the car. “The 84th Street location. The 84th Street location,” I repeated. “Tell me, how does that figure in here? Because I’m here, with you, on Charles Street, on the diametrically opposite point of Manhattan Island from East 84th Street.” “Well, we don’t have a minivan here,” she shrugged. “Don’t worry, Richard will drive you.” Richard, who had spent the last half hour slumped against the back wall, seemed scarcely able to sustain cardio-pulmonary function on his own, much less drive me uptown, but the whole lost-reservation snafu had cost me precious time, so I got into the front seat of a Neon with Richard and primly sipped what remained of my freezing-cold coffee.

During my childhood, my parents refused to so much as turn the ignition key in the car before everyone had buckled up, so nowadays I fasten my seatbelt automatically, and as Richard zoomed down Charles Street, eventually hitting a top speed of 47 miles an hour – did I mention that Charles Street is a rather narrow, very short, almost completely residential street? Because it’s all of those things – I felt very very grateful to have formed that habit. We squealed on two wheels into packed Eighth Avenue traffic and proceeded to sit through no fewer than three red lights, but we didn’t exactly “sit”; we kind of lurched closer and closer to the car in front of us. Apparently, Richard cherishes the belief that, if the manufacturer put the pedals there, then by God he’s going to use them. The instant the light turned green, Richard stomped on the gas, then slammed on the brakes, then leaned on the horn. Richard repeated these three steps exactly seven thousand two hundred and thirteen times. I counted, because I thought I’d better concentrate on something or I’d wind up barfing all over the dashboard, and since it seemed pretty clear that Richard’s unbelievably crappy driving would soon have me face-planting on said dashboard in spite of my seatbelt, I wanted to keep it barf-free for as long as possible. I would have looked out the window, but Richard had tromped on the gas just as I attempted to take a sip of coffee, and the sip destined for my mouth landed in my eye instead, so I couldn’t see jack anyway. Somewhere around the four thousandth whiplash, I got out my cell and phoned Ernie to explain the situation, finishing up with, “Yeah, we’re in crosstown traffic on 50th Street right now.” “Yikes. So you’re not moving?” “Oh, we’re moving, believe me. We just aren’t getting much of anywhere.” Richard chose not to dignify this, or anything else I said, up to and including pleasantries like “hi” and “how far east do we have to go” and “thanks for the ride,” with a response. I hung up the phone and slumped in my seat, hating Richard and vowing to have his feet amputated just as soon as I combed the Sweet ‘n’ Low out of my eyelashes.

At last, we arrived. Richard threw the Neon in park and bolted, leaving me to sit in traffic with a box truck honking at me before I scuttled indoors. At the 84th Street Dollar Rent-A-Car, a woman coughed, fondled the keys to my minivan, and then announced that she had a stomach bug. I silently thanked the universe for assisting the city of New York in conspiring to make me puke while trying not to inhale in the woman’s presence, and then I took the keys gingerly between thumb and forefinger and ran out to the street and jumped into the minivan and peeled out of the space and shot down 84th to Second Avenue and rounded the corner to make the turn to get back to Lex, and in the process I ran over a traffic cone.

84th and Third. Waiting for a light, I got a much-needed cigarette lit and whipped out the cell again: “Hey, it’s me.” “Dude, where are you? I’m in the lobby with all my stuff and the super’s getting all pissy.” “Yeah, well, take it up with FUCKING RICHARD. That guy is the WORST driver I have EVER SEEN! I grew up in the bad-driving capital of the world, but THAT guy is THE KING!” “Who the hell is Richard?” “Never mind. I’m arranging to have him killed, so the less you know, the better. Hey, do you have an eyepatch?” “Huh?” “Forget it. I’ll see you in ten minutes. No, better make it fifteen, I might hit 59th Street Bridge traffic.” “Okay. Do you want a coffee?” “God, no. Get me something fizzy and a box of Dramamine. And a gun. And some new neck muscles.”

79th and Lex. I couldn’t find a damn thing on the radio except ‘N Sync, which I took as further proof that the cosmos really really wanted me to speeyack that day, but for some reason I had a mix tape in my bag, and I lost no time stuffing it into the tape deck. The mix tape dated from junior year in college and had a few seriously embarrassing songs on it, but I didn’t care; I cranked the volume and smoked.

St. Etienne: “Radio Etienne / Only Love Can Break Your Heart”

I squealed up to Ernie’s apartment building and wedged the minivan into a parking place. Well, it felt like I wedged it, because I usually drive a coupe and thus have no concept of the space larger vehicles occupy, but as it turns out I had plenty of room. We trucked all the fragile stuff and the clothes on hangers and the framed pictures out to the minivan for the first trip. The doorman helped. Then Ernie vanished for a few minutes to make a phone call, and I stood outside and chatted with the doorman, and a breeze came up, and I had a moment of utter horror in which I realized that, because I hadn’t shaved my legs since going to Florida a month before, I could feel my leg hair rippling in the wind like a field of wheat, and that my coffee-stained cargo shorts did not hide the sheaves one bit.

Peter Gabriel: “Digging In The Dirt”

We prepared to make the first run to Brooklyn. The tape started up again. Ernie: “Damn, I haven’t heard this in ages. Was this the poo song?” “No, ‘Elephant Stone’ was the poo song.” “And ‘Vapor Trail’ was the fart song.” “Right.” “Right. And ‘Linger.'” “Right.” “So what song was this?” “This wasn’t any song.” I asked if Ernie knew how to get there, and she said yeah, just take the Williamsburg Bridge, and I said I actually meant how do we get to the bridge, and she said to just go to Delancey, so we pointed the minivan downtown and Ernie watched for potholes so her dishes wouldn’t break. “Are you sure this wasn’t a song? You know, ‘something in me, dark and sticky’?” “Ew.” “Ew.” “Ewwwww!” “EWWWWW! Hey, do you have gum?” “No. You know, this song reminds me of Nip.” “It reminds me of The Doctor.”

The Sundays: “Goodbye”

A woman with Ohio plates totally cut me off at the light before the bridge, so I honked at her, so she made a big old show of rolling down her window, winding her arm out, and giving me the finger. Ernie and I made fun of her for thinking that two New Yorkers would give a crap about a woman flipping them off. We inched towards the bridge. “Wow, the Sundays. Total Nip song.” “Yeah. Total Don Yarnelli song, too. Reminds me of sex.” “‘Sex,’ huh? I think I’ve heard something about that.” “Oh, please. This is nothing. You’ve gone eighteen months without it before.” “Yes, and that was an extremely dark period for the rebellion.” “And for the rebellion’s best friend, who had to listen to the rebellion bitching about it all the -” “All right, ALL RIGHT, God. My hymen has reformed, but if you don’t care, fine. No, that’s fine. See if I help you move again, you – you – sex-haver.” “Oh, shut up.” “Sex-haver.” “Shut up!” “Sex-haver, sex-haver, sex-haver.” “I didn’t know five-year-olds could drive.” “I didn’t know twenty-seven-year-olds couldn’t drive. And by the way, OH BURN!” “Oh god, SHUT UP!” “Ha ha, that’s a total burn.” “I hate you. Can I have one of your smokes?” “Ha ha ha. Yeah, sure.”

Cocteau Twins: “Carolyn’s Fingers”

We landed safely in Brooklyn and whizzed past Peter Luger’s Steakhouse to begin the approach to Ernie’s ex’s apartment. The Cocteau Twins came on and Ernie bounced up and down because it’s her favorite song, and she turned it way up and shouted, “Damn, another Don Yarnelli song! It’s, like, the ex-boyfriend-nostalgia tape!” “Well,” I told her dramatically, “this is no ordinary minivan. This is . . . THE EX-BOYFRIEND TIME CAPSULE!” and then we cracked ourselves up with that for the rest of the day, like, “Do you think we can just back it up to the freight elevator?” “Oh, sure. Because, you know, no job is too difficult for -” and then we’d both yell, “THE EX-BOYFRIEND TIME CAPSULE!”

Cypress Hill: “Pigs”

A brief battle with the freight elevator behind us, we start unloading the stuff into Ernie’s ex’s apartment. “What kind of person eats Fruit & Fibre?” “Well, exactly. You can see why I don’t live here anymore.” We stacked a bunch of boxes. “What kind of person stores a guitar in the bathroom?” “If you want an answer to that -” “I don’t. I’m just saying.” I got in a fight with one of Ernie’s long dresses and almost fell into the elevator shaft, but we hustled everything in and went to the bathroom and got back into THE EX-BOYFRIEND TIME CAPSULE and hit “play,” and Ernie said, “Remember how I used to play this all the time and Roon Four almost killed me?” “Remember how you almost killed Roon Four about ten times?” “Ten? That’s conservative. Remember when Roons Two and Four came in and we were on the floor trying to figure out how that sexual position worked that we read about in Glamour?” “Bwa ha haaaaa! Yeah. ‘The T position.’ I still don’t quite get how that worked.” “And what was the big deal, anyway? We weren’t naked or anything.” “Not even close.” “Do you think they thought we were gay?” “Well, practically everyone else did.” “Not everyone. The guys we hooked up with didn’t.” “Speak for yourself. Remember Conflict Boy?”

XTC: “The Smartest Monkeys”

“Oh god, Conflict Boy. Whatever happened to that guy?” “Didn’t you run into him at Jazz Fest and he’d gotten fat?” “Ohhhhhh yeah! Ew! Ha ha, fuck that guy.” “Yeah. And whatever happened to Farkas?” “Oooh, that guy.” “I heard he got fat too.” “Farkas? No. But Farkas could pull off fat.” “Um, no he couldn’t.” “Yes he could.” “So call him up. ‘Hi, are you fat yet? Oh, really? Great, come on over.'” “Shut up. Why is that guy changing lanes?” “This matter is of no concern to – THE EX-BOYFRIEND TIME CAPSULE!” “Ha!” “So does Farkas still live in New York?” “Shut up, I’m not calling Farkas, I have enough problems.” “How is old Rockhead, anyway?” “Oh, boy. Rocky. I mean – well, you know what I mean. We have to work a birthday party together later.” “His birthday?” “No, some kid.” “Oh. Well, why not buy him a neck anyway?” “Bwa! Shut up.” “Stilts?” “SHUT UP!” “Can I call him ‘Shorty McSmurf’?” “NO YOU CAN’T! Besides, didn’t you give that nickname to someone else already, like that guy over New Year’s?” “Good point. I forgot about that guy.” “Ugh, that guy.” “You never even met that guy!” “Well, no, but I’m familiar with the genre. Hey, check out that old guy playing tennis. Nice backhand.” “Is he wearing khakis?” “Yeah, I think he is.”

Crowded House: “Tombstone”

“‘Shorty McSmurf,’ hee hee hee.” “You know, you think you’re funny, and it’s really sad.” “Not as sad as your face, OH BURN!” “Oh, fine.” “Hee hee.” “He’s NOT THAT SHORT!” “Not to you! I can barely see him from up here!” “Oh, whatever.”

Soup Dragons: “Pleasure”

We got stuck in traffic in Chinatown. I love Chinatown on foot, but in a car it sucks, and it also smells, which makes getting jammed up there even worse. “Oh, yummy – CK Dead Chicken. For a man, a woman, and your dinner table.” “Gross.” “How much stuff do we have left?” “Not that much, like the same amount, and it’s all boxes and not fragile stuff.” “Thank god we got the clothes over with.” “Word. Hey, guess what?” “If you say ‘Shorty McSmurf’ again, I’m going to hit you really hard in the head.” “I wasn’t, until you put the idea in my – hey, people, let’s MOVE IT ALONG HERE! I wasn’t. Oh, look, we’re here.” More boxes, more hustling, more sweating. We packed the van so tight that I couldn’t see out the back at all and Ernie had to direct me out of the space, and I almost got greased by a limo in the process. We settled into the front seat and popped the tape back in.

Living Colour: “Glamour Boys”

“Oh my god – ‘Grammar Boys’!” “Oh my god. Was that you or Mr. Stupidhead?” “That was me, but Mr. Stupidhead thought the line was ‘I’m famous’ instead of ‘I’m fierce.'” “‘I am a grammar boy – I’m famous!'” “Hey, what were you about to say before?” “About the leg hair?” “No, and besides, your leg hair is blonde, so don’t talk to me. No, before before, when we were on Third.” “Damn, I don’t remember. Oh, crap, lunch traffic.”

Pixies: “Here Comes Your Man”

“Oh, here comes your man.” “Which one?” “That guy, with the shirt.” “Oh, man. Ew. I think that’s your boyfriend. And what is his name?” “Oh, please don’t. I hate you.” “‘Shirty McSmurf,’ of course!” “OH MY GOD, SHUT! UP!” “Hee hee hee! And also, OH BURN!” “Okay, the thing is, I’m TOO COOL TO BURN!” “Okay, the thing is, ONLY IF IT’S OPPOSITE DAY! OH! OH! OH, BURN, AGAIN! You’re a BURN-AGAIN CHRISTIAN!” “I think I really have to get my driver’s license, because – just shut up.” “Hee hee.” “Snerk.” “See, now, that’s funny.” “I’m humoring you.” “Oh, right. Come on, ‘burn-again Christian’ was good.” “Yeah, okay. Wow, check out the view.” “I would, but I’m trying not to drive off the bridge. Did I ever tell you about the panic attack I had -” “- on the Pulaski Skyway. Yeah, about a hundred times.” “Oops. Sorry.” “Ohhhhh burn.” “Okay, that’s so not a burn. Where’s the comeback there? That’s not a burn, dude.” “It is to me.” “I already burned you to a crisp, so you’re dead, so you don’t know anything.” “Okay, Sar? That was so feeble. I just had to tell you that.” “No need. I felt it dying in mid-air.” “Okay, just so we’re both in agreement there.”

Indigo Girls: “Joking”

“Yikes, the Indigo Girls.” “I like this song.” “Me too.” “Well, it’s on your tape, so duh.” “Maybe we are gay.” “Oh, we’re gay, all right, but in the Smurfy sense.” “Oh, we are SO Smurfy.” “We’re Smurfalicious.” “We’re Smurf-tastic. HA HA HA!” “Dude, it’s a good thing you’re cracking yourself up so much today, because I’m getting nothing over here.” “Shut up. And I blame David Letterman for that last one.” “I blame – THE EX-BOYFRIEND TIME CAPSULE!” “Damn you, o CAPSULE, our arch-nemesis!”

Talking Heads: “Wild Wild Life”

“I cannot believe we did all that in two trips.” “I cannot believe I almost backed over a baby stroller and you didn’t fucking tell me!” “Whatever, you didn’t hit her.” “Yeah, no thanks to you – you were supposed to direct me!” “I did!” “You couldn’t have mentioned the infant I was about to turn into a grease spot?” “Hey, the mother got out of the way, chill out. Don’t put that stuff on my side!” “It’s one wrapper. And by the way, no backsies no givesies infinity.” “Oh – gah, I hate that crap!” “Too bad. Don’t put that over here, I said no backsies. Don’t make me turn this car around.” “Ha ha.” “Heh.” “Where the hell are we?” “Don’t look at me, dude – this is your borough.” “Okay, take a left. Wow, Talking Heads. How very The Doctor.” “Never underestimate THE CAPSULE!” “You know, THE CAPSULE did us right.” “Word. I’m never making fun of minivans again, this thing rocks. I like how it’s silver. Okay, I know that’s stupid so don’t say it.” “And I didn’t have deal with my ex. And silver’s cool, I think.” “Word. Oh, here’s the ramp. Hey, did you ever see Take The Money And Run?” “No.” “Because that guy looked like Woody Allen when he took the experimental drug and it turned him into a rabbi.” “That guy was a rabbi.” “I know, that’s what I’m saying.” “What are you talking about?” “Nothing. Fuck! What is up with the Coke leaping out of the holder? Little bastard.” “Well, at least you already had – something – all over your shorts. What is all over your shorts?” “Coffee. Fucking Richard’s fucking leadfoot made me spill coffee all over my fucking life.” “You have no life, OH BURN! OHHHHHH BURN!” “Is it still a burn if I acknowledge that I have no life?” “Yes, it is.” “Fuck.” “Fuck! Dear beverage container: Please contain the fucking beverages! Love, Ernie.” “Oh, not, it’s foaming.” “Hey, there’s the turn! Finally.” “Finally. Sweet!”

They Might Be Giants: “Particle Man”

[insert tunelessly horrible singing here]

Pamie does these dialogue-based entries way better than I do.
Your moving-out resource.

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