The Bloody Doors Off

Friends of mine are moving this week. It prompted me to comment about my harrowing times, moving from location to location. Marlo reminded me that I had moved into the condo with no issues. And that’s true. I’d done a significant amount of downsizing, including the day of the move. There were no issues with picking up the truck. The only hiccup was getting to my new home a bit later than planned, and I think we had to pay a small fee for the weekend supervisor to wait for us.

But I could be wrong about the fine.

Moving into … shit I can’t remember the street name, but I was just off Pape Avenue in Greektown. I’d hired movers (it was a weekday move and no one was available to help).

Onto Greenwood Avenue, however. That was the worst move. Ever.

As a final ‘fuck you’ (because I took them to the Landlord Tenant Board and quashed their eviction attempt, then gave 60 days notice), the Supervisor double-booked the moving elevator.

Gowan Avenue. Yeah. The new landlord pulled every trick to force tenants out so they could ‘renovate’ the apartment and rent it out for significantly more money. Times were tough. I was between contracts. Money was extremely tight. I paid the rent late twice over several months. Both times they tried to evict me. The first time they accepted my late payment with that fucking service fee. But not the second time.

So yeah.

I was moving from Gowan onto Greenwood with a guy I knew.

Boyfriend of a friend.

But he became an ex-boyfriend.

I’ll circle back to him.

We had to share the elevator with the other person who’d scheduled their move out at the same time. That took us two or three times as long to load the truck. When we’d gotten to Greenwood, the truck wouldn’t fit in the narrow driveway, so we had to park on the street. On a Saturday afternoon. At the end of June.

That took a while.

Oh, and the stairs down to the basement apartment are a bit narrow. Most stuff you can clear easily, but a couch and mattress and box spring, not so much. And the kitchen island is just on the other side of the door.

The apartment had its charms. It got sunlight even though it was one-half below ground. The two bedrooms were large; I took the smaller of the two and still managed to fit my queen bed, dresser and nightstand. The living room was a decent size.

The fridge was small. That would cause a few conflicts over shelf space, with more than one roommate.

My computer desk fit perfectly against the east wall. And I had a metal shelving unit that acted as a small pantry.

Why am I giving you a guided tour?

Right. So in the middle of unloading the truck, I get hit with an anxiety attack.

Fortunately, I have lorazepam.

Unfortunately they were packed up and I couldn’t find them.

So the panic that I might’ve left them back at the apartment slammed into me.

And that’s when I knew moving in with Ian was a huge mistake.

But I’d already committed. We co-signed a 12 month lease. The moving truck was parked on the fucking street, half empty because half of the contents were already in the new apartment.

Ian had a drinking problem.

There was always beer in the apartment. Warm beer. In his room. Because I’d told him I wasn’t comfortable with alcohol in the house. This was 2013 and I was feeling shaky (In three months I’d be in a 72-hour hold on a Form One at Toronto East General Hospital). So he’d spend a fair amount of time in his room, drinking. Occasionally he’d come out, can in hand, either to grab food or chat. And fall asleep in the chair.

So all these memories come flooding back because Maddy, Marlo and I were talking about an upcoming move.

And I think to myself, I want to write about this.

And I thought.

No. That’s boring as shit.

But then I realized why I instinctively knew it was a bad idea to move in with Ian.

He reminded me of my father. And the time, he, Kevin and I shared a split-level townhouse.

Maybe I’ll write about that some time.