Moving Home

October, 2001

Greetings Everyone!

Well, I made it to Milwaukee and I wanted to touch base. Thought many of you would be interested in the details of the move home. For those of you who've know me for awhile and have heard my other stories...you'll file this one under: 'The MACK -DADDY of all Ellen stories'.
However, unfortunately...with my reputation for drawing disaster, I'm sure you won't be shocked by what you are about to read. Although, I do warn you - my moving experience makes my 'root-canal-bomb-scare'-story seem like a walk in the park. Read on:

The plan was, my mom was going to fly out to New York from Milwaukee and drive my car back while I drove the 15 foot moving truck that I'd reserved. (moving on a budget). Prior to the move, I called the truck rental joint several times.....you know, this was a post 9-11 world now. And, I was just checking and re-checking to make sure the truck was still available.

I had a few sleepless nights prior to my moms arrival. This was to be her first flight after 9-11 and I was praying that my pension for bad-luck would NOT begin with my mothers flight having any problems. Mom landed safely at LaGuardia airport....so I thought we were off to a good start.

Moving Day - we were scheduled to pick up the truck at 11am. I awoke that morning and realized my home phone (land line) still had a dial tone, even though I'd cancelled the service. I attempted to call the phone company, but of course they were closed for the weekend. I realized I'd have to deal with them from Milwaukee to get them to shut off the service.

So, because the land line was still working, I used it to call the truck rental place one last time before we drove out there. It was then, that ROSE - the truck rental chick informs me that "There is no moving truck for you". She proceeded to babble about how they'd tried to call me, but apparently had the wrong number written down.

"Oh, so I guess all THREE of the phone numbers I gave to the reservation lady, didn't work?" I hissed. ROSE proceeds to calmly prattle on about how there are no trucks left because they'd donated so many of their vehicles to the recovery effort. Her calmness, which translated into sheer stupidity to me, was making my eyeballs bulge.

Not being able to match her ability to remain calm, I shout back at her, " What the hell do you mean you've got no truck? I'm scheduled to drive that truck half way across the country...today! What do YOU plan to do to rectify this situation, ROSE?"

She directed me to call the customer service number, which was CLOSED when I called. Well, my career as an investigative reporter came in handy as I plowed through the voice-mail-hell of the reservation line and was able to get through to a human being. And, no sooner had the Rental Reservation person said, "hello" than the PHONE DISCONNECTS.

Okay, so I don't have to call them from Milwaukee to cancel the service, I thought to myself.

As the line went dead, I let out the longest most vile tirade of expletives I could muster. And, believe me - five years as a hardened New Yorker, did NOT go to waste during this explosion. It was then, that I turned to look at my 72 year old mother, still dressed in her nightgown, perched on a moving box in the middle of my empty apartment. The look of horror on her face will haunt me forever.

I move over to my cell phone and after three hours of journalistic persistence I'm finally told I can get a 24 foot moving truck for the same price I was quoted for the 15 foot. Without even thinking about the size difference of the vehicle, I agreed.

Can you imagine the look of surprise on the faces of both my mother and I as we arrive at the truck Rental place and lay eyes on the freshly washed 24 foot MAMMOTH RIG that I now realize I'm about to drive 900 miles? Keeping in mind, I'm a Honda Civic owner. Hell, an SUV freaks me out. We don't have time to dwell on this turn of events, because back at the apartment, I had a bunch of friends anxiously waiting to help me move my stuff.

The actual moving of the furniture went relatively well. Well, except for the moment I went out to the truck to check on things....only to find my 36-inch television set laying SCREEN SIDE DOWN on the splintered wooden floor of the truck. It was at this moment, I broke down and wept like a kindergarten child on her first day of school. I was a wreck. And, I instantly cursed myself for providing my friends with the BEER before the truck was packed.

5:30 Sunday morning. Time to hit the road. I say goodbye to my New York apartment, and climb into the RIG as my mom gets behind the wheel of my Civic. We get on the Van Wyck expressway and off Long Island without incident. It wasn't until the Van Wyck turned into the Grande Central Parkway that I realized I was on a literal collision course to HELL.

As I'm traveling at 50 miles per hour in the middle lane, with my mother closes behind I see a bridge up ahead with a sign that reads: Clearance - 11' 7......... I'm in a RIG that has a height of 12' 6. DO THE MATH!

I slam on the breaks as I approach the bridge...the truck slow down, but, doesn't stop....and by the GRACE OF GOD....I make it under the bridge withought ripping the entire top of the RIG off. Just for future reference - Trucks are NOT ALLOWED on the Parkways of Long Island.

As the blood rushes from my body and I turn completely numb my mother is panicking behind me and has no clue what is going on. Keep in mind, its pitch black outside and New York cab drivers are FLYING past us on both sides, honking their horns. At first I thought they were angry because we were moving too slow however, I soon realize they are honking as a signal for me to GET OFF THE PARKWAY!

A yellow cab pulls up next to me and motions for me to follow him. He scoots in front of my RIG and puts his hazard lights on. We ease over to the next off-ramp and he gets out of his cab and comes up to my truck, "Where are you trying to go?"

He then proceeds to tell me that I couldn't afford the fines they give to truckers who come onto the Parkways. He was a guardian angel, as he led me with his hazards flashing, to the entrance of the Whitestone Bridge.

Again, in a post 9-11 world, we are stopped at the base of the bridge by the State Troopers who are performing the safety checks on all vehicles attempting to cross. I was still ghost-white and shaking from the near-death-Parkway fiasco as the Trooper asks me, "what are you carrying and where are you going?"

I look him square in the eye as I begin to sob, "I'm just trying to go home."

The rest of the trip was relatively painless. Actually, it was a blur. I don't think it has quite sunk in yet. I'm still exhausted from the whole experience. But, the way I look at it, my ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK will be an entire chapter in my future book!

Stay in touch - Ellen