Holly and I finally found an apartment. It was perfect. It had hardwood floors and high ceilings, window seats, a clawfoot tub, a porch, and huge rooms, the living/dining room even being big enough for my spinet piano. The kitchen was tiny, though, which everyone commented on. Personally, I liked its exact symmetry with the bathroom. I thought it was economical, and indicative of how bodies should be. Holly said we’d learn to cook anyway and have big Sunday dinners, but we didn’t.
Despite how fucking cool the apartment was, I was still a little nervous about getting my own place, especially when I thought about things like Vaporub. Was I supposed to just go out and get some, to have it on hand for when I needed it? Or would Holly go get it for me if I was congested? Is Vaporub still around? Is it expensive? Does it even work?
We moved in in the beginning of October. I wanted my bedroom to look how Shpongle sounded. I put the Klipshes in first and turned the bass up, then nailed swaths of African batik around the walls. My bed had a purple Mexican afghan for a comforter and jutted out diagonally from the corner, and a red star lamp hanging above it. I lit incense and candles and put plants on the window seats.
I was fixated on the idea that I would stop being nervous once the piano settled into its place in our giant living room. My friend Kristin and I had been using my parents’ minivan to cart stuff over, so the piano was still at their place. The plan was to just wait for them to come home, when they said they’d help with it, but that was two weeks away. It became imperative that I get the piano before then. I did some research while sitting at my horrifically boring desk job: piano movers are expensive.
As happens sometimes, I wasn’t able to concentrate on anything except getting the piano before my parents came home. I inventoried, and these were the things at my disposal: about fifty dollars, Kristin, Holly (sporadically), my parents’ minivan, and the phone number of Tom, a fellow coworker, who was a very nice and very large man who had offered the services of himself and his truck, Sylvia, for any moving needs I might have.
Feeling desperate one boring day at my desk I started texting all the guys I knew. Could you help me move a piano? I have one guy, myself, two females, and a truck. And beer. Thanks. A few people wrote back saying they’d be glad to help. I confirmed with Tom. It was all set for that weekend, moving the piano. One by one, everyone but Tom and Holly backed out. But so it was set: the three of us would drive Sylvia from Edgerton Street out to the boondocks I used to call home, collect the piano, and bring it back. Then I could relax.
When Tom saw the piano, he said, ‘Wait. This is what you want me to move?’
My heart sank. ‘Well, yeah. We talked about this, remember? It’s a piano.’ I didn’t mean to be rude, but I needed to move that piano.
Tom was dubious. Holly was tiny. ‘I can help,’ she said redundantly. ‘We’ll try,’ said Tom. We all bent down and tried to push the piano toward the door. It moved about an inch, which was a bad sign, because it was on wheels. ‘I don’t know about this,’ said Tom.
‘One more try,’ I said. We tried again.
I felt horrible, both for myself and for bringing Tom and Sylvia out here, an hour roundtrip, for no reason. To save face I invented some other possessions I needed from the house. I felt like crying.
The ride back was awkward, because I was depressed, and Holly kept saying things like ‘I don’t know why you thought we could lift a piano, anyway,’ which made me hate her. Tom was nice about it.
I lay in my diagonal Shpongle bed that night, wondering if I had made the right decision. Was it a good idea to move in to my own place, which, granted, was only $375 a month, but when I could be saving that money by living at home, where there was already Vaporub and a piano? Sure, I wouldn’t have as much freedom, but I was twenty one; my parents couldn’t be that overbearing. Was that worth $375 a month? I had no idea at the time how monstrously cheap that was; it seemed like a dizzying splurge, and I felt overwhelmed with my own selfishness.
Oh well. At home I didn't have a Shpongle room, I thought, as I stared up at the chiffon draped under the ceiling light and listened to ‘Tales of the Inexpressible.’ Nor could I play piano at all hours of the night, which I was sure I would do here, as soon as I possibly could. I had never done that before, stayed up till morning writing and practicing songs, but I was confident I would here on Edgerton Street.
In the end I had to wait till my parents got home. They hired movers for me as a birthday present, and we got the piano into its place in the glorious living room without a hitch. I tried to give Tom a six pack of Yuengling for helping me but it turned out he doesn’t drink.
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