Moving Out

First published May 20, 2005

I fondly remember the day a couple of years ago when my 21-year-old live-at-home college student son announced happily, “Dad, I’ve found a great apartment, and I’m moving out.” While I knew I was going to miss him, I was glad to have him asserting his independence and leaving home without the assistance of federal marshals.

“So, you want to move out,” I said, paternally.

“Hey, you caught on right away,” he replied. “And they say old people have a hard time keeping up with new thoughts and ideas!”

“Right. So where is this apartment?”

“Real close to school.”

“I see. And who are you rooming with?”

“This guy Tony, who used to work with Tom.”

“Now we’re getting some information! And who would Tom be?”

“You know Tom. He was here last New Year’s.”

“Is he the one who slept under the piano?”

“The bathtub.”

“Ah yes, that Tom. Worked with young Tony, did he?”

“In the prison laundry or something.”

“So Tony’s rehabilitated then?”

“According to the parole board.”

And so it went. We learned that Tony was really a good guy, that he had a girlfriend who could cook, and that he had a stereo with butt-kicking speaker columns he bought out of the trunk of a Mazda over by the high school.

Tony’s credentials established, we moved on to financial matters;

“So where will you get the money to pay the rent?

“Well, I’m working four hours a week for $7 per hour.”

“Decided against that math major, did you?”

And so we proceeded, carefully discussing and weighing all aspects of the pending move. Eventually we worked our way around to the actual logistic considerations;

“So when are you moving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What will you be taking?”

“I don’t know. Some stuff, I guess.”

“And how are you going to move everything?”

“We’ll get a truck or something.”

Thus reassured that all the details had been carefully ironed out, I could relax until moving day rolled around.

I came home the next evening to find the living room couch, the coffee table, and all the furniture from the den missing. I intercepted my son and five of his friends out in the driveway, loading a rusty pickup truck.

“Where are you going with the pool table?”

“Mom said I could take it.”

“Do you have room for it in the apartment?”

“I’m pretty sure it’ll fit out on the deck.

After five or six trips, the house was pretty much looted and my child was gone. The next evening, I sat alone on the carpet where my favorite chair once was, looking at where the television used to be, and waxing nostalgic over passing one more milestone through the kidneys of my life. Then the phone rang;

“Dad?”

“Hi son! How’s the apartment?”

“Great! It turns out there’s a party store right next door! And, even with two couches and a coffee table in the living room, there was room for six people to sleep on the floor last night. Say Dad, what does it mean when the smoke detector goes off?”

“It means the place is on fire.”

“That’s what I thought. (aside) See, I told you dude. It’s not a real fireplace. Ok, thanks Dad. Talk to you later. Bye.”

“Goodbye son.”

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball