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Natelie Angela
Creative Nonfiction
 
Kate stumbles up the rotten deck step as she struggles with the box resting on her hip. “Oh shit!” she laughs, a huge grin appearing on her face. The bottom of the cardboard box shifts and bends while her hands push the contents back in. I follow closely behind her, lugging bags full of books from the truck through the alley. I stand next to Kate, resting one of the bags on the railing. “How ironic,” I pant, “that all of our friends had other plans this weekend.” “Assholes,” she answers, smiling. It’s a hot day to move, with highs in the mid-80’s. Kate and I had been going at it all day, driving furniture and boxes to our new apartment, sweating and swearing. The couch is the last thing in the truck. We huff and puff up the stairs, each of us holding an end of the black monstrosity, being careful to flip it vertically while turning around the corners of the apartment. Aggravation runs high as each gives the other instructions. We finally make it inside and plop next to each other on opposite sides of the couch, breathing heavily. We sprawl out, staring at the large family room around us, I notice the hardwood floors scratched and dull. It is eighty-five degrees. We have no air conditioning. * * * My mother moved me and my siblings nearly every year of my childhood. While remaining in the same town, we seemed to live in every neighborhood the suburb had to offer. Apartments, duplexes, two-flats. Some were brand new and others run-down; some within newly-developed subdivisions and others in more historical neighborhoods. We always rented, aside from owning a large five-bedroom house on the south side of Naperville during her second marriage. I remember it being truly picturesque: elm trees towering over the wrap-around deck, a long black-top driveway leading to the cul-de-sac where we played kick the can. We lived there for a year and a half. As a child, I often woke up unsure of where I was. My eyes opening slowly, I’d stare at strange shadows coming in from my new bedroom window. Each house made different noises: creaking, dripping, cars driving by at different speeds, their headlights beaming against the wall. I would stub my toes on the edges of doorways before I had gauged their width by memory. I sometimes headed in the wrong direction when in search for the bathroom. Eventually I would get accustomed to my new space, put my books and toys away, and struggle to realize that this was my new home. This pattern continued throughout my college career. My mother moved out of state with the man she was seeing at the time, and I was left to my own devices. I moved in with a boyfriend for a year, which seemed like a good idea but was ultimately disastrous. I went through a slew of bad roommates: people who stayed up all night drinking and yelling, roommates who stole money from me or skipped out on rent, leaving me to cover the difference. Twice I came home from work to find an eviction notice taped to my front door. Noise ordinances, payment delinquency, things of that nature. Left with no other option, I would pack what I had left into boxes, scrounge up money for a security deposit, and go searching for a new place to live. Being constantly relocated as a kid has made me develop minimalist tendencies. I remember sitting on the floor of my room with my mother, an empty box between us. She would scatter my belongings all around us, and we would discuss what should “go” and what should “stay.” She would hold up an article of my clothing and ask, “Now really, when was the last time you wore this?” “Well,” I’d reply nervously, “I might wanna wear it next year, Mom.” Flashing me a doubtful and authoritative look, she would toss the shirt in the corner, toward the “goodwill” pile, and then I knew that I certainly wouldn’t be wearing it again. These minimalist tendencies are now at their height of existence and I have resorted to throwing away memorabilia. During my most recent move, I sat in there middle of my then-bedroom and looked through pictures. I would ask myself, “Do I really need this?” or “when was the last time I listened to this CD?” Ultimately I would consider whether I would prefer carrying an object to the garbage can in my kitchen or all the way to my new apartment across town. Slowly shedding my keepsakes, I ended up with two shoeboxes to show for my twenty-three years of living. * * * Kate and I sit in the middle of the kitchen floor, eating pizza we had delivered and drinking Sam Adams from bottles. There is not yet a kitchen table. She tells me she’s going to meet some friends at a bar down the street and would I like to come? “No, no, you go on without me,” I answer. “I’m gonna hang out, start unpacking.” “Suit yourself,” she smiles. She stands up and heads to her room, grabbing another beer on her way past the fridge. I stay seated cross-legged on the floor and stare at the room around me, trying to picture my stuff—myself—in the shabby vintage apartment. Its large rattling windows, high ceilings and wooden cabinets. Where will I sit and write alone at night? Where will I chain-smoke cigarettes? I wander into my bedroom, glancing at the open boxes around me. I drag a large one behind me, into the center of my room. My bed is the only thing unpacked and successfully put together. I begin unrolling the wall-hangings I had stuffed into the box: Ralph Steadman’s painting of Fear and Loathing, a Radiohead concert poster, some pictures of my friends. I use thumbtacks from my backpack to pin them on the walls surrounding my bed. A start, I think to myself, as I lie down and try to get some rest.