What A Long Strange Week It's Been

It started Wednesday with a Toyota commercial.  Not one I’d seen, rather one I’d be in.  That experience should be a post of its own.

I agreed to ten hours on set as an extra for a flat fee.  What I knew about the shoot beyond that  was limited to wardrobe.  I was told not to wear heels.  Having never done camera work before, when I heard the word “set” my inexperienced mind conjured images of a controlled environment -- bright lights, big heaters – so I arrived at the hilly Highland Rim Speedway that January afternoon without a coat.  I was not alone in my thinking.  As the sun made its hasty exit, a host of extras came to regret its wardrobe choice.  “Racing casual” had not included coats, gloves, and hats to the majority of us, but even those who had bundled themselves were asked to remove their winter garb while shooting a “springtime” commercial.  As temperatures dropped to 39 degrees, this met a great deal of resistance.  As the time edged past midnight, the half of our compliment who had not already walked off the job grumbled – particularly those who had misinterpreted “ten hours on set” to mean “ten hours from the time you sign in.”  For the next three hours, morale in the splintered wood stands was low.  Any coat, blanket, napkin, or neighbor that could be used to shield the wind was employed and not removed for the camera. At three, the true ten-hour mark, there was another mass exodus.  Those of us who stayed until the 4 a.m. wrap found that there was extra money in it for us.  Later, even those who had not yet grumbled were disgruntled to discover that the others who left at three had gotten the raise, too.  I doubt that much of what was shot after midnight was usable, given the low number of too-bundled spectators left in the stands, but when the spot airs during the Daytona 500 this February, I’ll be watching to find out.

On Thursday, my now former roommate returned to our apartment for the last of his things.  Best summed up as an adventure in time management, a flurry of activity ensued, much of which I was at a loss to understand.  Dirty dishes and rolls of toilet paper were stored, clothes were taken to the Salvation Army, and a perfectly good mattress and box spring were hoisted into a city dumpster.  When Joseph returns to Nashville, whether in 4 months or 8, he won’t have a bed or a car, but he’ll have toilet paper.  

Now, I would have opted to keep the most expensive item and replace the cheaper one, but then, as it now takes two 10x20 storage units to house what I’ve kept over my 15 years of furnishing temporary spaces, I represent the other extreme.

Oddly, though… there’s not one roll of toilet paper in either of my units.

On Friday I returned focus to my own preparations: sorting, purging, and boxing.  Readying for the weekend U-Haul; but Saturday presented another stall:  I was called in to work.  I could have said no, but it is hard to resist money thrown at you – particularly when there’s a rental truck waiting to drain your wallet.

On Sunday my brother drove in from Manchester.  Together, we picked up the U-Haul and loaded it in little more than an hour.  Though I am skilled, I bow to Jake’s ability to arrange too many items into too small a truck.  I’m not sure which one of us is due for seven years’ bad luck, though, as when we were loading an antique sideboard my question “are we going to lose this mirror?” was met with a crash. Jake drove the U-Haul to Tullahoma and I followed in his GMC, making a detour to the car I’d left waiting there with the storage keys… and then another detour to Tractor Supply for a set of bolt cutters and a new lock.

Once the unit was opened, we unloaded as quickly as we’d loaded.  Jake, who lives on that side of the journey, drove his own truck home, leaving the U-Haul to me.  It was the first time in all my many moves that I’d been behind the wheel of the beast.  I was glad that, this time, I’d gone with a smaller truck.  

I’d known when I made my rental plans that I would have to drive it home to Nashville, returning it to the store where I picked it up, and taking a beating on mileage, but I forgot all logic when I went with Jake to pick it up.  Without my own vehicle waiting in the parking lot, I was stranded when I returned the truck.  Afraid, I’m sure, that I was calling to ask them to lift something, none of my West Nashville friends answered their phone when it rang.

I walked to a nearby gas station and called a taxi.  Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

There was plenty of time for morbid thoughts before two taxis arrived – the one I’d called more than an hour earlier and the one I’d called within the last fifteen minutes, having given up on the first.  Since only the latter actually made the turn into the Mapco where I was waiting, I did not have to decide which to reject.  I climbed in and watched as the meter reminded me I hadn’t stopped paying out the wazoo for mileage when I’d turned in the U-Haul.  At least I wouldn’t have to fill the gas tank in this one, too.

In order to save my brother a degree of work, I had borrowed the family F150 and loaded it with boxes, but with only two of us on the job Sunday, the F150 hadn’t made the trip. I would have to unload the truck before I could use it to remove trash and straggling items from the apartment on Monday.  But first, I had an appointment to deliver a bookshelf.

I had bought and stained a bookshelf for Brian, Christmas 2004; then we spent most of 2005 apart – San Diego, Florida, Germany – while the bookshelf sat in my apartment.  By Christmas 2005, neither of us was driving a car it would fit in.  Having the F150, though, made it possible to deliver.  A few boxes had to be taken back into the apartment before it would fit, and despite three years’ dating, I had to MapQuest directions to my boyfriend’s house before the delivery could be made, but finally, the bookshelf had gone home.  And Brian stepped up to the plate.

Hearing my dilemma, he offered his truck and his services.  He followed me home, loaded his truck with things I was discarding, and made several trips to the dumpster that I could not make in the loaded F150.  More than that, though, when all the trash was gone he asked what else he could do.  I joked that unless he wanted to help me unload the truck in Tullahoma….

He did.  Talk about a head spinning day!  Not only had I been allowed to his apartment, but he had agreed to a 4-hour round-trip sojourn to my old hometown.  Still, he has no idea (until he reads this) how essential that trip was.

After a short but frustrating search for my wallet, whose home had moved out a day earlier, we were on the road, trying to beat the clock.  We’d left West Nashville after 4 o’clock on a deadline.  The Tullahoma storage complex would lock the gates at 6.  To make it on time, we would have to hit the Manchester exit by 5:30.  We did.  Just.  Then the real race with the clock began.  5:40. 5:45.  5:50. AAUUUGGGHH!  At 5:52, we pulled into storage, victorious.  At 6:02, we pulled away and drove back to Nashville.
I could never have done it alone.  But more than that, I might not have done it at all.  I might have waited a day.  That would have been a mistake.

On Tuesday, as I went to reload the truck I found that two boxes we’d deliberately left in the truck bed had disintegrated in the overnight rain.  The camper top had leaked; and had I not been to Tullahoma, a many more boxes would have been ruined.  I have a continuing history with flood damage, and I can only imagine what mess would have met me this morning had Brian’s offer not kept me on schedule.

The rain, by the way, has continued.  Finally!  Finally!  The daytime rain that I’ve been begging for comes – while I’m trying to move.  Figures.

Loading the truck today – in the rain and aware of the leak – has been a challenge.  And there is no doubt that another trip to Tullahoma is in order this afternoon.  In fact, though this post could use a substantial edit – it’s now 3:00, and the unload won’t take a mere 10 minutes today.  

Tullahoma, here I come.