Moving sucks. It always takes longer than expected. Unforeseen second and third trips are usually required. Beds are too wide for doorways. Newly painted walls get nicked. Glass gets smashed. My younger brother Joel disappears every three minutes to text-message someone. Dad yells — frequently.
"Hey, you lazy ass, what are you waiting for?" he hollered early in the day. "Pick up that [200-pound] desk and put it over here, now, come on!"
Last Saturday, my parents upgraded from their condo on Gandy Boulevard in St. Pete to a house in the city's Central Oak Park neighborhood. I love it. Threatened to move back home, occupy one of the vacant bedrooms in the back. Getting them there, though, wasn't what I'd call fun.
It took a steady stream of beer to keep me sane and relatively pleasant to be around while doing such brain-numbing and physically demanding chores as moving the unnaturally weighty, prone-to-fly-open-every-few-seconds, too-wide-to-wrap-my-arms-around sofa bed. If I consume whiskey or wine early in the day, it'll leave me sleepy and useless by midafternoon. But a constant flow of cold ones is the perfect salve for a misery-filled day of transporting boxes filled with silverware, photo albums and other stuff that my mom deems important.
I spent last Friday night at my parents' condo so I'd be ready to go at the crazy early hour of Pops' choice: 8:30. That's when he poked me in the ribs, waking me from my deep slumber on the living room sofa.
"Let's go, boy," he said.
Mom finally rousted Joel out of bed 30 minutes later, and by then my sister Allison and her hubbie Chris had arrived. With a force of six able bodies, we filled the rented U-Haul with everything from the condo in little more than an hour. I couldn't believe it.
"Now remember," Mom said in her kindest mom voice as I went to the fridge to celebrate with my first beer of the day, "we still have to pick up the stuff from the storage unit."
Shit. I had forgotten about that. I sheepishly put the bottle back.
Beer consumption started at 11 a.m. when we got to my parents' new house. I had instructed Mom to pick up a couple cases of cold Miller Lite cans, and she came through.
"Don't you want a better beer," said Chris, my Guinness-only imbibing brother-in-law.
I explained to him that I had spent a recent workday taste-testing about 100 import beers and was in need of some refreshing American-made suds. Plus, I reminded him: When on the job, a light domestic brew is the best way to go — because the high water content actually keeps you hydrated and buzzed at the same time. I also informed him that aluminum cans keep the beer colder than glass bottles.
"These are scientific facts," I told Chris. "You can look 'em up after we get done unloading the truck."
Luckily, our family's good friends, Terry and Jeff, who are now my parents' new neighbors, met us at the house and lent a hand. I retreated to the kitchen to suck down beer and slice tomatoes for the foot-long sandwiches Mom was making. Unfortunately, that was my sister's job.
"Get out there with the men and work," Mom said. "Before you embarrass me."
Tough words to hear from your mother, but she was right. I needed to get back out there, in the heat, in the realm of Dad and the Heavy Lifting.
During the weeks leading up to Moving Day, I tried in vain to sell Pops on hiring professional movers. My brother Joel did, too. We pleaded, begged, did everything but offer to actually help pay for it.
"What would I do that for?" Dad replied incredulously. "When I have two grown sons?"
That was that. In his defense, I've relocated up and down the Gulf Coast — Temple Terrace, Carrollwood, Sarasota, Bradenton, Palmetto, South Tampa, not to mention Gainesville — about nine times since leaving the family nest a decade ago. And Dad usually helps. Even if his assistance once led to my favorite recliner falling off the back of his pickup and being destroyed on impact.
We were on the top of the Green Bridge that spans the Manatee River. The structure connects Bradenton to its northern neighbor of Palmetto, a podunk place I begrudgingly called home for a year — a year that would have been much more tolerable if my beloved, powder-blue chair had survived that windy day, had survived my dad's speedy driving.
"I kinda forgot it was back there," he said after it bounced about six times before landing splintered on the shoulder of the road.
Luckily, nothing got busted during our move Saturday, which continued, to a lesser extent, through Sunday. It wasn't so bad, though. We took breaks to watch the Bulls and Bucs win, and I kept from complaining (too much) by keeping a cold one close by at all times.
This article appears in Oct 17-23, 2007.