Here are some things you might not know about the underpasses connecting the Bronx to Long Island.
1. They're ancient and hang low enough that trucks and vans are not allowed under them.
2. If these vehicles ignore, miss or misinterpret the warning signs declaring it unsafe for them to drive underneath these thousand tiny underpasses, there is really no way to escape and correct the error.
3. The displayed clearance heights of these bridges range from 11'10" to 5'11," which is why it isn't a good idea to drive a 12 foot truck like ours under any of them.
4. Holding your breath, closing your eyes and praying to some merciful being in the heavens moments before passing underneath each bridge apparently is the natural reaction of U-Haul drivers in this situation. Additionally, it seems to work because our truck's roof never touched any bridges.
5. The clearance signs on each underpass are wildly inaccurate.
Upon our arrival at Chris' beachy pad, I realized that Chris never planned where anything we were moving might possibly fit in his new place. He had more furniture than room to store it and some of the stuff I was straining my back to haul up his stairs wasn't long for the dumpster.
Those old Long Island seaside doors and stairways were built for stocky sea captains and, at best, a 6 foot marlin.
It was going to take some creativity to get some of Chris' stuff into his place. I lifted Chris' queen sized box spring onto my shoulders and then onto a nearby railing. Chris stood over his second floor balcony, grabbed the thick plastic covering encasing the box spring and held it firmly. Once Chris secured a strong hold on the spring, I let go, sprinted upstairs and onto his deck, hopping the balcony, leaning off the roof and assisting Chris as we both yanked the spring over the balcony railing and onto his deck.
It was our 6 foot marlin.
Not bad for two dudes with mild cases of vertigo.
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White Knuckle sidebar #3
If you find yourself in a new town chances are you're going to eventually going to take a taxicab somewhere.
Nothing wrong with this, of course, but if you take a cab try not to act like a rube.
The best way to do this is to have your destination address memorized. If you climb into a cab with a crumpled scrap of paper with what may or may not be Worchester, Winchester, or Wisenheimer Boulevards scrawled on it, your chances of getting ripped off double if not triple.
Another manner in which your chances of getting ripped off increase is if you have no idea your destination is in relation to where you are currently. Especially in Long Island, if you climb into a cab, stutter your way to explaining where you're trying to go and that place is less than six blocks away, the driver won't even turn on the meter. "Ten bucks," he'll say. No matter what. Your trip will cost ten bucks. Not $10.35. Not $9.80. Ten bucks.
And you'll tip him. Even though your mind is telling you that you just took a $2.45 cab ride, you'll hand the cabbie ten bucks and tip because you know he'll make you feel like the stupid asshole you are if you don't.
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Eventually our triathlon was over. Moving out, traveling and moving in someplace else took no less than 31 hours hours and I was exhausted. Chris and I both slept like the dead that night, slept in our bruises and stink and sweat; slept in whatever a shower couldn't rid our bodies of.
Moving stinks. I stink. My socks stink and only now standing in JFK International Airport do I realize just how much it all stinks.
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