There’s a special place in Hell reserved for movers. It’s right next to the room with the cable guy who swore he’d be at your house between 9 and 6, and just a hop, skip and jump away from the mechanic who looked you square in the eye and swore that your car needed a new filibusterator.
The room with the movers is called something fun, like Limbo Land, and it’s hot. Very hot. It’s also void of any furniture, personal belongings or entertainment. Oh, and there’s a lot of shaggy, brown carpeting. About 528 square feet, to be exact. Funny enough, Limbo Land looks an awful lot like my new apartment.
I’m writing this via the floor of my apartment…ahem, my empty apartment. Where is my furniture? Where are the clothes, dishes and my Best of WrestleMania DVD collection? Last I heard they were all resting comfortably in Jacksonville, Florida.
Naturally, this begs the logical, adult question, “Rob, why are your possessions in Jacksonville when you live in Philadelphia?” Here’s a logical, adult response:
Because movers are BIG, DUMB, MEANIES who are TOTALLY, COMPLETELY, and UTTERLY USELESS!!! They are lower-than-low, slimier-than-slimy, sleazier-than-sleazy lifeforms who deserve to spend eternity making small talk with used car salesmen, insurance agents, and politicians.
I realize that I’m making gross generalizations here, but I don’t care. And unless you’re like me and sitting on carpeting that’s about as comfortable as sandpaper, surrounded by nothing but four beige walls, hold your criticism.
It all started in March when my wife and I started looking for a trustworthy moving company (ha ha!) to transport our stuff. After much research, we made our choice, signed the contract, and wrote a fat deposit check. At this very moment, all across America, people with common sense are shaking their heads in unison.
Anyway, I guess we should have been suspicious when the movers showed up two days late. We also should’ve known something was up when the driver (aka Knucklehead #1) started throwing his partner (aka Knucklehead #2) Heisman-winning passes with our boxes.
“What’s this word…FR-AH-JI-EL?”, Knucklehead #2 asked.
“I dunno know,” Knucklehead #1 replied. “Heads up!”
After three hours of cramming our entire lives into a dirty, white truck, the Knuckleheads drove off into the sunset. We arrived in Philly a few days later and waited for them to arrive. We waited. And waited. We waited so long that I was beginning to think our boxes got cold feet and ran off to Albuquerque. Finally at 10 PM, the phone rang.
“I got a funny story for ya,” Knucklehead #1 shouted over some very loud and very live Jazz. “There was a little (hiccup) mix up…I’m in New (hiccup) Orleans!”
Funny enough, neither my wife nor I found that story to be funny at all. Equally unfunny was the dispatcher (aka Knucklehead #3) telling us the next morning that our stuff was on its way to Jacksonville. O-kay. So when will the truck arrive in Philly?
“Monday or Tuesday,” Knucklehead #3 growled.
As you might’ve guessed, Monday and Tuesday have come and gone. Our stuff, on the other hand, has not. Phone calls to the company only lead to voice mail systems that mention (and I’m not joking) great customer service. On the rare occasion that someone does answer the phone, it’s equally useless. The person claims to have just arrived from a distant planet (Jerktopia or something) and knows nothing about our move.
The Knuckleheads are not responding to us either. My wife thinks they’re ignoring us. I think they simply don’t know how to use a phone. Whatever the case, our possessions are being held prisoner by a trio of Knuckleheads. So earlier today, I did the modern-day equivalent of the classic Three Stooges eye gouge: I contacted a lawyer.
I faxed our moving contract over to my sister, a lawyer in Atlanta.
Her one-sentence response of “How could you possibly sign a contract like this?!?” said it all.
We’ve been duped. Hoodwinked. Screwed. People tell me this is one of those stories that I’ll look back on and laugh, laugh, laugh. Of course, these are the same people who are kicking back on their couch, wielding a TiVo remote and, in most cases, have changed their underwear in the last week.
And so for now, we’ll sit and wait. We’ve got our beige walls and our brown carpeting and plenty of time on our hands. Looking on the bright side, it’s not as if we’re completely without entertainment. In fact, I’m currently building a set of voodoo dolls that just happen to resemble the Knuckleheads. Constructed completely out of leftover packing peanuts, the dolls will bring much-needed serenity to my life.
Although…it’s going to be mighty hard for them to drive a truck with their heads ripped off.
© 2005 robbloom.com.
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