Change of Address By Trista Hurley-Waxali I remember the day I moved out of one home and into the next, when I still danced on the hope of having first and last month- desperately trying not to obsess over the days in-between. This afternoon, my old landlord called said he can help with his truck and trailer, that his son’s would join to help carry out my possessions. Manhandling out of his house, where I called home and shuffling me into the recently vacant room. I had the key to the new spot already by sheer luck with work hours and agreed that Sunday was perfect. I lied, it wasn’t. There was a Saturday night with my name on it. Scribbled along the barstool and left behind later along the walls. Shots of Canadian Rye mixed with coke, lime wedges cut to perfection to be balanced along the rim. I thought I was so hot then, even as I was in a disgusting state- searching for repair. I don’t know how I woke up at home, voicemails from my friend that he just got home too and that I was to shower and get ready for my move. That was as much of the night I needed to remember. I lifted my head and reached for my half full glass of rum to sip on while I searched for my faded blue vintage Vans to slip on, feeling a little bit more secure when I walked around my room. Maybe I thought I was fancy in my kicks or maybe I just didn’t want anyone to see I was a drunk. I got a call from my old landlord to confirm we were ‘still on for today,’ not really having a choice I said ‘yes.’ I had no truck, no trailer, just boxes of possessions- items that I kept to sell online for money to cover a meal. A meal from my local pizza place, where they always snuck in a 2-piece meal to my order. “A couple hours, yeah I’ll be ready.” I ended call and got some ice from the freezer, letting the clinking together in liquid to freshen me up. When 3pm came around I was half way through a fifth and taping up the last box. Maybe it was the dust or May blooming pollen but when I opened the door to let them in, I stepped out and puked in the bushes. I turned around and dropped my hair to my shoulders, thanking them again for coming over. The older son was a couple years older and stood silent when he saw the blocks of ice melting in the rum. The sides were condensing on the glass shining like puddles along the window sill. He thought for a moment he was better than me, and in that moment, he was. The trailer had more than enough space for all my stuff and they promised me nothing will get damaged. I trusted them, I had no reason not to, his whole family has been really kind to me during this time. When they first told me about how they wanted to sell the house, they never hesitated to give me the time I needed to find a new spot. I took advantage of their lax nature until his wife called to wish me luck on finals. Pinched with sudden guilt, I promised her I’d be out at the end of the month. I sipped on my drink after they started lifting box after box, a train of light brown toppling down the stairs and onto the trailer. “Are you going to help?” the other son asks while I was putting my clothes in garbage bags. “Leave her alone, she needs to finish packing.” My old landlord says, “she’s got enough on her plate…” “More like in her glass.” The boy looks over waiting for a reaction. I don’t give it to him because I’ve heard it all before. He picks up a box labelled shoes and nearly toss it on the trailer. I watch him through my window, deep down I want to flip him off but he’s too fucking right. I walked outside and thank them again, I tell them how I’ll be at the new place with the front doors propped open. They asked how I was getting there as I walked to the back porch to retrieve my bike. Drunk or numb at this point, I wasn’t quite sure. I just knew I couldn’t be around the brothers. I rode the back streets to avoid traffic noise from E.C. Row, I rode on the sidewalk and maneuvered around children on tricycles and hoses left across by dad’s. Was I even going the right way? Was this really where I should be heading? When I reached the house, I opened the door. Maybe it was the smell of cleaning supplies, or the sun reflecting off the hallway floor that made me dizzy but I puked in the dried up bushes. Like a dog to a tree stump, I marked my territory. But this time I couldn’t stop, I was shaking and my hands went clammy. I grabbed a brick and put it by the screen door and left the door unlocked. I then crawled to a tree and threw down my scarf on the lawn. I just laid there waiting until I heard my old landlords truck coming around the corner. I waited to hear the boys get out of the truck and comment. I braced myself for all of that, the noise, the silence the whispering questions and even the flyer for AA to be left on the table. So when it was over I went inside to my new room. I looked at the boxes marked clothes, kitchen and heavy. I opened my laptop and called up Craigslist and started to browse: rental spots downtown Windsor. About the author: Trista Hurley-Waxali is a transplant from Toronto, now perched on barstools in West Hollywood. She has performed at Avenue 50, Stories Bookstore and internationally at O’bheal Poetry Series in Cork, Ireland and a TransLate Night show from Helsinki Poetry Connection. She is currently working on her novel, At This Juncture.
1 Comment
|
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
April 2024
Categories |