by Mark Nutter
“I, Tom Schlatter, am confident in any situation,” although right then my bladder disagreed.
Mr. Quartzcrystal stood over me, chanting stuff. I thought the best thing to do would be to anticipate questions. I blurted out answers at random:
“We’re in the people business!”
“On-target messaging is the cornerstone of effective marketing campaigns!”
“Fifty-six percent!”
He plunged the knife into my chest and used it to pry my sternum aside. He passed the knife to another guy, then plunged both hands into me and pulled out my heart. He held it up to the sky.
I was alive. I could see my heart. It was still beating.
And I thought:
“What could I have done to make this interview go better?”
***
Needless to say I got the job.
Now I make the crops grow.
I cause the sun to rise.
I nourish the gods.
I would gladly write a positive review of Leo DiPaolo’s “Get That Job!” seminar if I still possessed a corporeal form.
In retrospect, the interview was the hardest part. I’m glad I only had to do it once.
Moving Day, Moving Day, Moving Day
I got the boxes unpacked about 6 AM. I managed to grab a couple hours sleep and then, after a cup of coffee, I realized it was going to be another busy moving day. I repacked the coffee maker.
I move every day. I don’t mean physically move, like hit my ten thousand steps. I mean move everything I own into a new house.
If I don’t do that I feel like I’m stagnating. Try staying in one house a little longer, people tell me, and I say I’ll think about it. And then I look at their faces and they looked so settled. Some of them have been at the same address for months. Sorry, that’s not for me.
I have a few moving companies I use all the time. As you might expect, they really like me. But just once I wish they’d give me a complimentary move the way a bartender buys a round for a regular customer. Come on, fellas.
Yes, it gets complicated. Yes, the utility companies resent me. Some days I’m on hold with them for hours, which really cuts into my packing time.
You’re probably saying to yourself, why does she even bother unpacking and then packing again? Well, I hate having all those boxes around. It just doesn’t feel like home.
Where do I get the cash for these moves? Sometimes I lose money on a home sale, and sometimes I make it back. It evens out.
I had today’s move all planned. It would be relatively easy, just moving a few doors down. My new house was bigger. I needed more space.
I called one of my six or seven favorite moving companies.
“Reliable Movers, can I help you?”
“Good morning, Art.”
“Oh, hello, Susan.”
Art didn’t sound very happy to hear from me.
“What time can I expect you guys?”
“We’re not coming today.”
Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
“Susan, you there?”
I found my voice.
“You’re joking, right?” I said.
“No. We’re not coming.”
“Ha ha ha ha,” I said, trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice as the kitchen spun around me. “Art, do I have to explain to you why it’s extremely important that I move today? Today!”
“Susan, you’ve been a loyal customer for all these years, and I appreciate it, I really do.”
“I can’t stagnate!”
“I understand.”
“I can’t stagnate!”
“Nobody’s asking you to stagnate. But I gotta tell you, some of my guys just don’t want to work for you anymore.”
“Why? I always tip them well, don’t I?”
“There’s nothing wrong with your tipping.”
“I always give them plenty of cold water to drink, don’t I?”
“You do and they appreciate that. It’s just that — they’re getting a little scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“You know. Scared of you. Scared that you might be...”
“Stagnant?”
“No.”
Art cleared his throat.
“Insane, is the word I’m looking for.”
“Oh. Okay.”
The kitchen walls were vibrating like they were made of rubber. I forced myself to remain calm.
“I think there’s nothing more sane than wanting to expose myself to new environments and new experiences and new houses.”
“Yeah, Susan, but every single day?”
“Art, my kitchen walls are all rubbery and I’m finding this conversation to be insulting.”
“Sorry, Susan.”
“Guess I’ll just have to throw a little business to your competition.”
“You can try. Good luck. It’s the Memorial Day weekend.”
Art hung up. I had to sit down. My chair grew tiny feet and began pacing around the kitchen as I called six other moving companies.
I got the same excuse from all of them: it’s Memorial Day, plus I’m batshit.
I was crushed, bereft. I might as well be dead and buried in the earth.
I walked out the front door of my current address at 187 Cherry Lane Drive (the doorknob stretched like taffy in my hand. I wouldn’t miss that one bit) and walked down the street to my new address at 191 Cherry Lane Drive.
I had the keys to my new place. I can let myself in. I don’t need anyone.
I will move myself.
This was a big decision. All my life I had depended on movers. I considered them family. Don and Luis and Billy and Jesus and Skip and Julio and Randy and Raul and Diego and all the rest of them. They were brothers and fathers and mothers to me, that’s right, dearer to me than my own mother, or mothers.
I was about to betray them. I called them up, individually. I said, “I’m betraying you. Happy Memorial Day,” and then hung up. It felt good.
I started with the lighter boxes. Lighter, that’s a laugh. The lightest ones were still back-breaking. But I managed to get them down the street and into the front door of my new home.
“Where would you like me to put this?” I shouted to the empty house.
“Glassware goes in the dining room,” I shouted back to me.
It was hot work, and I gratefully accepted a glass of cold water from myself. I noted that green goo was climbing up the walls in the hallway. Interesting. That wasn’t there during the walk-through. Okay, back to work.
When you move as much as I do, it’s a good idea to not have too much stuff. I had pared my possessions down to a sofa, easy chair, dining room set, book cases, queen bed, dresser, floor lamps, ping pong table, a set of dumbbells, and a grandfather clock.
I dragged it all down the street. It took me all afternoon but I did it. I moved everything into my new home.
Whew. This calls for another glass of cold water. Ahh, that’s better.
It was odd. The house had seemed so much bigger before I moved in. And then I realized why. The house was already full of furniture.
I didn’t panic. The people who sold me the house were late in moving their stuff out, that’s all. Probably they thought they didn’t have to be out for three months.
No big deal. I’d help them get a jump on their move.
After another half glass of refreshing cold water I began dragging their furniture out the front door and leaving it on the curb.
A car pulled up on the other side of the street. At first the car tried to pull into the driveway but couldn’t get in because of the kitchenette table and chairs. I could see the young couple — what were their names? There have been so many — I could see them in the car screaming at me.
The car parked and
a man got out from the driver’s side. Now I could see the woman had a baby and was protecting its head, the way mothers do when they’re around me.
I guess you could say the father was mad. He seemed like a nice man, not somebody who displayed anger easily or often. His pale hands were balled into fists as he walked towards me.
“What the hell — ?” he spluttered.
“This will save your movers some time,” I said, waving at their furniture on the curb. “No need to thank me.”
I went back into my new house.
I wish I could have helped them more. But a pair of giant lobster claws came down from the ceiling and grabbed my hair. I’ve learned over the years that no house is perfect.
I have to admit I was pretty tired after all that moving. I batted off the lobster claws, curled up on the floor in the hallway and had just nodded off when the door burst open and a half a dozen men in uniform came in pointing guns at me.
“Hello,” I said groggily.
“Hello,” said a uniformed man who seemed to be in charge. “Are you alone?” A couple of his employees were looking through the house.
“Yes, I’m alone,” I said. “Are you the movers?”
The man in charge paused, then said, “yes, we’re the movers. We’re the special movers.”
A pair of his employees helped me to my feet.
“Great. I’d begun to think I’d never find a moving company on Memorial Day Weekend.”
“We’re always on duty.”
“Good to know. I already moved my stuff. You can help me unpack.”
At the front door I stiffened. The movers raised their guns.
“What is it?” said the man in charge.
“Tell your men to watch out for the lobster claws.”
“We’ll be careful.”
The movers led me out of the house.
The young couple was standing across the street, the mother still covering her baby’s head.
It was odd, I didn’t see a moving van. Just a bunch of cars.
“Where’s your van?”
“Back at the warehouse.”
“Is that where we’re going?” I asked as they helped me into the back seat of a car.
“That’s right.”
“Okay. Tell your men to help themselves to all the cold water they want.”
“I will, thank you.”
We drove away. I began to drift off to sleep. Moving wasn’t easy but it had to be done. Stagnation successfully avoided for one more day.
New York Has Everything
New York City has everything. That’s why a lot of people move here. And that’s why I won’t invite my friend Rick to stay with me ever again.
He came to visit from Chicago. I’d been living here a couple years. It was Rick’s first time.
I was still high on the town: its energy and diversity. We were having coffee in my tiny kitchen, and I told him, “New York has everything. Anything you can imagine, it’s out there.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
“So if I were to say I want, I don’t know, a back rub from a one-armed Sumo wrestler who sings opera, I can find it here?”
I laughed. “You probably can.”
“Back rubs, opera, Sumo wrestling! I love all those things!” shouted Rick as he jumped to his feet.
“Well, I didn’t mean you can literally find anything.”
But before I could stop him, Rick was out the door.
A few hours later I answered the buzzer and let Rick back in. He looked flushed and relaxed.
“That’s was great, just like you said.”
“What?”
“Rubdown from a one-armed Sumo wrestler. He sang an aria from Carmen. Not my favorite opera, and the rubdown would have been better if he had two hands, but still.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He’s on Fifth Street and Avenue A. Here’s his card.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“I love New York. What’s next?”
“That’s up to you. Maybe you’ll get lucky again.”
Rick gazed at the ceiling in a dreamy way.
“I want... to be fed blueberry pie by three Italian albino brothers as we ride unicycles down Park Avenue.”
I laughed so hard I cried. When I dried my eyes, Rick was gone again.
I was on my way back from the corner deli with a blueberry pie for Rick. I thought his latest quest was a tall order even for New York City, but I could at least feed him real New York pastry.
As I turned the corner a meaty hand grabbed me by the neck and slammed me against the wall. I faced a Japanese wrestler in a loin cloth, missing his left arm.
“Help me. Please.”
I was choking. He released his grip.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, his voice shaking. “Please.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m impressed by the way you said ‘please’ and not ‘prease.’”
“Thank you. I probably had an opera teacher who taught me diction. I can’t remember.”
“It shows you have discipline.”
“Do I? Again, I can’t remember. Everything in my life is a blur up until a few hours ago.”
“What happened?”
“I became conscious of the fact I was singing ‘Votre toast, je peuxvous le rendre’ and giving a back rub to a guy named Rick who said he was staying around here.”
I had to get away. I squeezed past his blubbery body and ran.
“Stop! I don’t know what to do.”
“Try giving more back rubs, and don’t think about it,” I shouted back at him.
His tears continued to flow. “I don’t know where I came from...”
He started singing what I later learned was ‘Che gelida manina’ from La Boheme. Even though I know nothing about opera I could tell it was sad.
***
“This is better pie than what the albinos had,” said Rick, licking his lips. “Plus only two of them had unicycles. The third one had to run alongside. Even so, how cool.”
“The craziest thing just happened... “ I began.
“I can’t wait for my next New York experience!”
“You’d better hold off for now. I ran into your one-armed Sumo guy.”
“Really? What did he sing?”
“I don’t know, but it was sad and he was scared.”
“Must’ve been ‘Che gelida manina’ from La Boheme.”
“Could be. The point is, I don’t think he existed before you thought him up.”
Rick gave me a cockeyed look.
“That’s crazy.”
“I can’t think of any other explanation.”
“Here I am beginning to think New York is the greatest city in the world. And you’re trying to tell me that crazy stuff appears just because I dream it up?”
I nodded.
“That makes me love New York even more!”
Rick was on his feet, pacing around my apartment.
“I’m the God of New York!”
“Rick, sit down.”
“I want to be served the most disgusting dishes from every country in the world. Rats and snakes and beetles and monkey brains. I want expert advice on the wine pairing for each one.”
Rick was foaming at the mouth, blue foam from the pie.
“I want to have sex in a stretch limo with every single Rockette! And then I want to fly over Central Park hanging from a giant Macy’s parade balloon that looks like me!”
“Rick, you’re out of control.”
“It’s all going to happen, because I’m making it up!”
Rick started for the door. I blocked his w
ay.
“Don’t do it, Rick. The Rockettes, the wine expert, whatever he’s called, will be Rockettes and a wine expert from your mind, and once you’ve had your fun they’ll be scared and won’t have any place to go!”
“You can’t stop me. I wanna be a part of it!”
Rick grabbed me and with superhuman strength threw me aside.
I chased him out the door and down the stairs.
When I came out on the sidewalk, my path was blocked by two albino brothers on unicycles, pedaling to stay in one place.
A third albino brother seized me from behind.
“Let me go,” I shouted.
“Not until you tell us who we are and where we came from.”
“You’re Italian albino brothers who make pies.”
“We know that,” said one of the unicycle-mounted brothers.
“We just opened a bakery in the East Village a couple hours ago,” said the other unicycle brother.
“We thought it would be nice to put our bio in the menu,” said the brother who was restraining me. “But none of us remember our history.”
“I can’t help you,” I said, breaking free.
***
I spent the rest of the day searching for Rick. I went to Radio City. I checked the Macy’s balloon warehouse. I asked for him at the Sommelier’s Union Headquarters, sommelier being the technical term for a wine guy.
Nothing.
I trudged home thinking about the sad creations of Rick’s mind wandering the streets, filling the homeless shelters, taking beds away from the real homeless.
Rick was sitting on my stoop, depressed.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
“What’s up? Did you have your New York fun?”
“I tried. The sommelier I created wanted five thousand dollars. Can you believe it?”
“That’s pretty steep.”
“Same for the balloon people and the Rockettes. Everybody quoted me sky high prices.”
“Understandable. There’s a ton of Rockettes.”
“If everything I dream up from now on starts charging me, I don’t want to do it anymore.”
Rick sighed. I nodded in sympathy, and then sat next to him. After a moment I turned to him.
“You want to get a slice?” I said.