Everything I own was stacked against the far wall of my apartment when I walked through the door tonight.
It as all there in a big pile: my couch, my big red chair, my Ikea chair, three guitars, two lamps, and my shag rug all rolled up and sad. And it was all covered in fine white dust.
I called my landlord well prior to Thanksgiving.
“Remember when it rained for a week straight two months ago? Well, my collapsed ceiling still hasn’t been repaired. But as as luck would have it,” I said, “I’m going to be on tour for ten days. So that’d be a perfect time to have someone come in and patch everything up.”
So when does the nice Mexican dude show up with a ladder and some spackle? Exactly 36 hours after my plane landed.
Figures. It’s four degrees out, New York is crawling with Christmas shopping tourists, I have a sink full of dishes, a closet full of dirty clothes, and … and cue the construction!
So I dragged everything back where it belongs, shook out the rug, reheated a leftover burrito, cracked a Modello Negro, and slipped “Serenity” into the DVD player.