The move was pretty successful except for any part dealing with the moving company we hired, “All My Sons”. If you are moving in Atlanta, avoid them at all costs. They made promises and broke every single one of them. When we argued, fought and threatened, they would actually do what they said they would do, and act like they were doing us such a huge favor. They were quite easily the sleaziest people I have ever dealt with, and my ex-wife’s mom was a heroin junkie.
Don’t use “All My Sons” moving company in Atlanta. That’s my public service announcement for the day.
I do however have an amusing story about my new neighborhood. I was throwing away boxes when an attractive woman came up to the dumpster to throw away her items. She asked me if I was moving on, or moving out. I said out, and she became very excited.
“You’re going to love this place,” she said. “We are having a lot of people moving out, people that need to be moving out.”
Oh joy! That sounded nasty. Was she talking racial prejudice? Maybe criminal elements? I looked her over and tried to guess who she thought the undesirable types would be. Let’s see, she was black so I ruled out other black people. She had two pieces of bling, one was a glittering cross and the other was an American flag pin. I guessed she didn’t like Hispanics or maybe Indians.
“What kind of people?” I asked.
She looked me in the eye and said, “People who needed to mind their own business,” she said. “People who care too much about what other people are doing.”
Okay, I was not expecting that. That sounded like something a kinky or alternative person would say. I was a bit confused and she just added to it.
“The management figured out these people were bad, so they hiked up their rents and drive them out. Now it is going to be a paradise around here.”
I changed my assessment of bigot to possible drug user. I know that is awfully judgmental of myself, but hey, I had just dealt with that moving company and was thinking about my ex-mother in law heroin user.
“I hear you,” I say, which is my standard non-committal agreement for crazy people.
“I just got a call from husband,” she said. I was still throwing away boxes because when you buy a desk from Ikea, Ikea thinks you need enough cardboard to build your own Ikea franchise. So I was trapped while she kept talking.
“My husband is in Beirut,” she said.
“Oh wow,” I said. “I didn’t know we still had troops in Beirut.”
“Beirut, New York,” the woman said. “But he was in Iraq, and they dropped him off in Beirut. He called me and wanted me to come pick him up. They just left him there.”
Keep in mind that I had been moving all weekend and was fucking exhausted. I smiled and nodded. I felt like there was a sales pitch coming.
“I’m taking that car,” she said, pointing at a jeep. “How much money do you think it will take me to drive to New York?”
Notice how she did not ask how long will it take, or how many miles? She wanted to know how much money. After dealing with the sleazy moving company and now about to be hit up for money, I felt like I was back in North Carolina again. I was almost homesick. I was also really bad at math but being a writer I am genetically incapable of not giving an anwser no matter how bullshitty.
“Oh at least 200 dollars,” I said. I still have no idea why I picked that number.
She looked me up and down and smiled. “Listen, how can a woman like me earn two hundred dollars right now?”
Did I just get propositioned? Sometimes I wonder if being a sex writer destroys my ability to have normal conversations. I think my porn brain thought it was ludicrous that a woman would try to scam me out of money, but propositioning me was less insulting.
I said, “I have no idea,” which by the way is non-committal anwser number 2.
I turned around to throw some garbage out and when I turned around, the woman was already heading to her car. No good-bye or anything.
Damn, I was actually looking forward to the follow up pitch. For a brief moment I thought I might have totally misread the situation but then I realized the whole situation was pretty ridiculous no matter how you saw it.
Oh well. That’s what writing is for, filling in the blank spaces that reality drops the ball on.