San Antonio, Issue 4

We've had our furniture over a week now. As the holiday weekend comes to a close, I am happy to report that everything is officially unpacked and, except for the lone martini glass, unharmed (including the prized and famed state mug collection). Having furniture hasn't been all sunshine roses and rainbows though. Now that we're finally able to start settling in, we're becoming aware of some of the charming quarks our new digs have to offer. Pay attention future visitors, this information may benefit you during your visit—it might even dissuade you from coming at all.

The date was Wednesday, August 31st. In the wee hours of the morning, as happy Texans slumbered away at 4AM, Jen and I were jolted awake. I will gladly take an earthquake any day of the week over the terror and adrenalin rush caused by the piercing cry we heard. At first I didn't know what was going on. In fact, I vaguely remember putting my head back on the pillow and closing my eyes. The sound itself was pulsating—piercing two-tone warbles for a few seconds followed by silence, and then more loud piercing warbles. It was easy to assume at first that it was some kind of dream sequence. It was easy, at first.

After about five seconds of "dreaming", it was clear that I was awake and this was at best a living nightmare. It took a few more seconds for my brain to register what it actually was that I was hearing. After ten seconds, the disorientation was wearing off. I remembered that I am a fireman. I leapt out of bed and ran for the pole, anxious to get to the truck—it was my turn to work the lights and siren.

After fifteen seconds I was disoriented again as I realized I am not a fireman, but this was in fact a fire alarm. Our apartment complex is only three years old, and like most new construction, it features the latest and greatest when it comes to building and fire codes. Each room has it's own fire sprinkler, as do the common hallways and staircases outside. There is also a centralized fire alarm, with pull
stations in the common areas and alarm buzzers inside each room in the apartment, mounted in the ceiling. Just in case that's not enough, we also have four smoke detectors mounted in the ceiling, one in each bedroom and not one, but two in the living room. The detectors are hard-wired with battery backups. For added legal protection, there is even a paragraph in our lease about the punishment for deactivating smoke detectors or failing to immediately report any problems. On August 31st at 4AM, I wanted nothing more than to make an immediate report.

Questions started popping into my head as my brain recovered from the adrenaline flood and began functioning again. Which alarm was going off, the alarm for the building or the smoke detectors in our apartment? If it was our detectors, were they connected to the building alarm? Were people evacuating? Where the hell is the smoke? It's 4AM and I just thought I was a fireman having a nightmare, something better damned well be on fire. I started having flashbacks of Henderson, Nevada during the Y2KRTE as I stumbled in the dark to the peephole in the front door. Nobody outside, and no smoke or flames either. This seemed to be our own problem, some kind of cruel Texas hazing ritual.

By now the warbles had stopped and the scene began to resemble the one from Christmas Vacation, where Chevy Chase's neighbors, Todd and Margo, return home to a mysteriously wet carpet. In response to his wife's inquiry about why the carpet is wet, Todd says to his wife with annoyance in his rising voice, "I don't KNOOOOOW, Margo!!". In the pre-dawn hours of August 31st, in our groggy and now disgruntled states, Jen quickly assumed the role of Margo and I of Todd. We thumbed through the lease, searching for a phone number—to no avail. We learned we were supposed to report such a malfunction immediately, but no one was immediately available. The loud warbles had stopped, but one of the detectors in the living room was still chirping every minute or so. It seemed the most likely explanation was a backup battery in need of replacement. I climbed on a chair and removed the battery from the chirping culprit. Satisfied I had solved the problem, I began to calm down and went back to bed.

No sooner had my head hit the pillow, the smoke alarm called me a coward. I got up again, this time ready to fight. Cursing profusely, I climbed up on the chair and disconnected the alarm completely. I set him on the entertainment center and, as I turned my back, the bastard flipped me the finger and chirped again. I took it to the kitchen and set it in the pantry behind the canned goods. I was about to slam the door shut when something caught my eye. I picked up the unit again. This wasn't Texas hazing, this was a conspiracy. The alarm was made by BRK Electronics, a tiny division of Allied Van Lines.

More To Come...

San Antonio, Issue 3

August 21st

It has been twenty-seven days since we were exiled here to Texas. Yesterday is just a blur of subconscious mind tricks. I remember driving Jen to work. We were hungry. Maybe she was uptight; maybe it was me who was high-strung. It doesn't really matter to a police officer. One moment we were not-so-calmly discussing where to eat lunch, the next I was crossing two lanes of traffic and flying into an Arby's driveway. About thirty seconds later I was being asked "what
on earth possessed you to do THAT?".

Perhaps it was my facial expression. Perhaps it was the blank stare I gave as I contemplated the answers to the question:

You see officer, my furniture has been stolen and for the better part of a month now I've been coming home from work to sit on a resin chair while I eat some variation of a frozen dinner and stare at a blank wall before grabbing a clean pair of underwear and a shirt and driving to a hotel around the corner. But that's not really what POSESSED me, that was merely the motivation for slamming my foot down, squishing the gas pedal to the pavement and lurching—no, FLYING—across two lanes of traffic while pretending I cared about such things as turn signals and this ridiculous notion you Texans have plastered all over the highways about "driving friendly" to get into this godforsaken parking lot where I will buy yet another fast food meal that will come back to haunt me later as I sit on my hotel-issued toilet. The POSESSION, as you call it, was the indecisive voice of my lovely fiancée sitting next to me who decided—as I was passing the driveway mind you—that yes, I suppose Arby's would be acceptable for lunch.

Or maybe it was the voice that, before I had a chance to actually say anything that was racing through my head, squeaked out from the seat next to me "it was me."

Instantly the good fellow's demeanor changed, his incredulity turned to understanding and he gave a disapproving but brief explanation of how "dangerous" that particular road is. This of course after the obligatory "you folks are a long way from home" spiel that I'm sure he
was dying to use when he saw my California license plates.

August 22nd Day 28
Just like clockwork, my "move coordinator" phoned me at 2PM Pacific. I've really got her trained now. She confirmed the truck arrived in Austin safely and that my goods would be arriving Wednesday. I thanked her politely over the phone, hung up, then cursed her a few times as I usually do, muttering incoherently about how it was about time and delivery my ass and so forth. Two hours later the Allied agent in Austin where my goods were delivered called. He set up delivery for the following day. It really wasn't convenient for me but I was anxious at any opportunity to spite my "move coordinator" and my future marriage would have been cut severely short if I had, after 28 days of exile, told him "no, I'm sorry, I'm supposed to go bond, drink beer and have pizza with my coworkers tomorrow after work." Oh well, it's just the people I'll be spending 9 hours a day with for the next 12 months. Not important.

August 23rd D-Day
Still skeptical of the claims made the previous evening, I left work at 2:30 to meet the movers that had still not called to confirm delivery between one and three. I doubt anyone is surprised. As luck would have it though, 4:30 rolled around and a truck rolled into the complex. Two hours later I had 1200 square feet of brown boxes, interspersed by a few couches, tables, and beds. After twenty-nine days of exile my goods are finally delivered and, ironically, I still have no decent place to sit.

August 24th The Morning After
Last night was our last in the hotel. I suppose I should say something romantic and wistful about how it was our home away from home and doggonnit we're going to kind of miss that place.

I will not.

I don't think I've ever had a three-page hotel bill before. I am off today and Jen and I begin the daunting task of a) seeking out damaged goods b) unpacking and c) breaking down empty boxes and carrying them down three flights to the trash. Preliminary reports indicate only one casualty—a martini glass in a box that was crushed. I suppose it's our fault though, the only marking on the box was some Italian word, I think they pronounce it FRUH – JEEL – AY.

San Antonio, Issue 2

The saga continues...

August 8th Day Fourteen
Checked everywhere, still no furniture.

August 9th Day Fifteen
Discovered the joys of Happy Hour at the Radisson: $2.50 Budweiser and $2.00 appetizers.

August 10th Day Sixteen
In the initial correspondence I was sent from the movers, I was told to only contact my "personal move coordinator" in Seattle for any communication regarding my move. Today I decided to call the company in Tustin that picked up my goods directly. It's my stuff, I will call whomever I damned well please. I spoke to a woman at Schick Moving & Storage in Tustin—an agent for Allied Van Lines. She confirmed that my goods were now scheduled to load and depart California on August 12th.

August 11th Day Seventeen
It's been nearly a week since I was promised $500 and I thought it might be prudent to make sure the check wasn't lost in the mail. The woman whom I originally spoke to is out of the office until Tuesday, naturally. I called Allied Customer Service and entered their phone tree... "If your move is in progress please press four…" After muttering a few obscenities, I begrudgingly pressed four. When my call was answered, I told the woman I was waiting for a check for $500 that hadn't arrived yet. She asked me what it was for. I told her "you have my stuff and I don't". I guess I was feeling a little hostile at the time. She said, "oh, it's a delayed shipment check, hold please." Yeah, sure. She came back on the phone and told me the check wouldn't go out until Tuesday. Almost a week after I was told they were sending me a check for my "inconvenience", I find out the check won't go out for nearly another week. That's much more convenient. Now even more wound up, I told the poor woman who had the misfortune of taking my call "oh this will be exciting, we'll have a contest to see what gets here first, my furniture or the check".

August 12th Day Eighteen
I've had enough. I called Schick this afternoon to find out about the status of the truck that was supposed to be leaving with my goods today. After putting me on hold for a few moments, the woman came back on the line and asked me if I'd been in contact with my booking agent in Seattle already. This was not a good sign. "They're going to have bad news for me, aren't they?" I asked her. She replied, "I don't know what kind of news they'll have, but you need to give them a call". This was clearly a load of bullshit. The woman has the same access to the "system" that my contact in Seattle has, the fact that she didn't want to tell me what the "system" said was a tactic on her part to not have to deliver bad news to me that she was afraid I would most likely take out on her. I called her on it. "I worked in the moving business for nearly ten years, I know what's going on here" I told her.

I called Seattle. Sure enough, the truck DID NOT load today and was not even close to leaving. It was time to escalate this to the next level. I asked to speak to a supervisor. At this point I thought I had dropped the call. There was literally a full minute of silence before my "move coordinator" told me that she needed to talk to her supervisor and get back to me. I verified the return call would be before close of business today.

Next I got in contact with Boeing Traffic—it was time to bring in some bigger guns. The lady I contacted was appalled at my situation. She lit a few fires under Allied's ass and at 5:15PM Pacific time my "move coordinator" called me back. To make me feel better, she told me I wasn't the only Boeing employee in this type of situation. I'll sure sleep better tonight knowing that they treat ALL their customers like this.

August 13th & 14th Days Nineteen & Twenty
I've spent the weekend trying to calm down from the events of the week. I have been unsuccessful. I'm still madder than greased owl shit coming out of a scalded monkey's ass.

August 15th Day Twenty-One
Still no furniture, but my "move coordinator" now calls me daily at 4PM (2PM Pacific). I think she said something about my goods leaving on a day ending in "y".

August 16th Day Twenty-Two
No furniture, still. The "move coordinator" thinks they have a driver (I've heard that one before). She should know for sure tomorrow. Goody gum drops, I just can't wait.

August 17th Day Twenty-Three
It is now confirmed that someone is supposed to pick up my goods on Friday from Tustin, California. Just to make sure I understood the situation, I stepped through it with my "personal move coordinator".

Schick loaded my stuff from Mission Viejo onto a trailer (one). They took the trailer to their facility and loaded the goods into their warehouse (two). On Friday, they will load the goods into another trailer to be transported over the road to the destination agent in Austin, Texas (three). The destination agent in Austin will unload the goods from the over-the-road trailer and load them into their warehouse (four). One day, the goods will get loaded onto a truck (five) for delivery to my residence in San Antonio where they will unload them into my apartment (six). I asked my "move coordinator" if I had it right. She said yes. I said good, I'm out of fingers on one hand to count how many times my goods will be handled. She said "I just love your sense of humor".

August 18th Day Twenty-Four
My "move coordinator" is really excited that my goods will load tomorrow. I'm glad she has some pleasure in her day.

August 19th Day Twenty-Five
Amen to the 9/80 work schedule. I am off today and enjoyed a morning of leisure. I slept until ten, went out to breakfast, then took my car to the car wash. I know there is balance in the universe because ice now falls from it. At least there was no furniture blocking my path as I ran to the window cursing.

Oh yeah, the truck is allegedly "on the road".