There was a real moving van and real movers and four-wheel square skateboards that carried hundreds of things across the lobby and floors, and, in what felt like just a couple of minutes, every room in the apartment burst open with boxes and lamps and coffee tables, all cooking from the heat wave.
A much different day than the one that I moved on in 1976.
For one thing it wasn't a day; it was a night. And whatever small belongings I was taking in this forced expulsion from the Quartchyard fit into the trunk of my father's beat-up Valiant. There wasn't much. A record player and hifi set, clothes, maybe some books (I can't remember), and this chair.
When vacating this second time, now the adult age of 17, I took the chair. I remembered it as being paid for with my $2 and living in my room all those years. Florence was pissed as hell when she saw it gone and for the next three decades she'd comment about how that chair was really hers.
However, I had no intention of ever letting go of it. Moving into an apartment of many rotating roommates and room changings, that chair followed me from bedroom to bedroom until one day, with most of my life filling those walls, it took its final spot outside the front door, a rest for the cat in his wanderings, a seat while the Mariner opened the door, a safe place to put the bag of groceries with the eggs in it, a reminder of that night I left to seek home. ** Related Posts:
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.