Four days later, and the tops of both thighs still burn, sensitive to the touch. No, nothing to do with running, which is another sad story, left for another day.
I load my canons, yes one “n”, and fire.
- The Tort: “You entered into a verbal contract. You said you would stay.”
- The Economic: “Manhattan is nose bleed expensive. You’ll drain whatever savings you have.”
- The Nostalgic: “I’m turning your room in an extension of my Den, and calling it my West Wing.”
- The Desperate: “You know in Italy, kids live with their parents until well into their 30’s.”
- The Fear Mongering: “I’m cutting you off Netflix, Amazon Prime and yes, AT&T Mobile Service.”
Nothing works. And we’re off.
The family caravan departs in the Resettlement. Eric (Son) drives the U-haul with two friends. Mom, Dad and Rachel are up ahead in a separate car. Waze estimates 44 miles – a whopping 1 hour 42 minutes to lower Manhattan.
The rain falls gently, setting the appropriate back drop.
It’s a five-floor walk-up. I now know what a 5-floor walk-up means. No elevators and narrow stairwells. Walk-up means walk-up. With furniture, furnishings and oversize and overweight boxes, all up five floors – on foot. With adequate resistance provided by non-ventilated, A/C-free hallways. The musty carpet fibers are pulled deep into the lungs with each trip up and down the stairs. [Read more…]
