I woke up today to my house shaking. Not just my bed, or my floor, but my entire house. I quickly ruled out an earthquake, and decided it must be someone downstairs jumping from a high height. I actually pictured Tom clinging to the ceiling like Spiderman and then letting himself go, landing 10 feet down, wearing big construction boots.
When I left the house to get my haircut, I found out what it really was; my neighbor’s tree had been felled. The tree cutting guys had been sawing away at it all week, getting all the branches out of the way and leaving only the exposed trunk to sit sadly in the rain for the last few days. The force that shook my house was 150 years worth of tree smashing to the ground. That age is just an estimate; my neighbor had only counted 137 rings when I interrupted him to ask, so I rounded up.
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I spent the majority of the day continuing to pack. I’m to that point where all the natural categories of possessions are gone. Yesterday my boxes were labeled clearly with titles like “Books”, “CD’s”, and “Art Supplies”. Today they say things like “Large Items” and “Random”.
Tomorrow Meredith and I go to Chicago to pick up the keys, and take her couch and desk to the apartment. It’s nice to think of the new place being empty right now, waiting for us.
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I went over to Josh’s place to fix a mouse problem he’s been having on his computer. It was a quick fix, so I stuck around to watch The Simpsons. When I left, 45 minutes after I arrived, my truck was missing. Apparently you can’t park at his apartment complex without a permit, and I failed to notice the signs on my way in. So I’ve wasted $78, and I hate tow people even more than I did before.
The place you have to go to pick up your vehicle is super shady of course. It’s a building attached to a fenced in area, guarded by a huge dog. There’s no door, only a window with a doorbell. Taped to the window are all sorts of hand written warnings about how they don’t take credit cards or checks, and can’t offer any change when you’re paying with cash. The guy comes to the window, takes my money, puts it in his wallet and lets me in his cage to get my truck—which he stole from me. Somehow this is legal, but it doesn’t feel like it.
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The evening winded down with me going to watch Meredith’s poetry reading at K College. It was a reading with everyone in her creative writing class. Only she and a handful of others stood out, but I had a good time. I get excited whenever I hear her read a poem that I know is referencing me; it’s like a secret.
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