Charm-o-Matic

Chaos theory has a new case study, as if it needed one.

Observe:

Scene 1: A lady in Memphis breaks her hip. Ouch, I say, ouch! She presumably calls my landlord in Nashville, who happens to be her son, to report the demise of said hip.

Scene 2: My landlord perhaps sits in his Adirondack and sighs. He realizes that, while I’m nice and all, I’m not his mother and my bones are all fine as far as he knows and I don’t really need to live right next door to him as much as his mother does.

Scene 3: I see a handwritten note when I arrive home from being a productive citizen and working all day. The note says I must please and thank you go away very soon, but it’s been a pleasure having me as a neighbor and collecting my rent check every month.

Scene 4: I decide that if I have to move anyway, I may as well leave Tennessee altogether and go back to California. I suppose it’s worth noting that I’ve been considering this plan for a couple of years. If you believe that the universe if full of signs just waiting for your personal interpretation, getting kicked out of where you live is surely one of them. “What does it mean,” I queried the universe. “Get out of here,” the universe obligingly replied. (Except the universe also used a curse word for dramatic effect.)

Scene 5: I ponder the merits of not taking my various objects with me. Objects that I’ve curated over my 40 years on the planet. Objects that I’ve hauled around from Iowa to Kentucky to Tennessee to Minneapolis to San Francisco to Los Angeles to Washington, D.C. and back to Tennessee. Objects that I’ve recently acquired. Objects that you can sit on and sleep on. Objects that will fit in an average-sized pocket. Objects that require a truck, if you want to move them more than a few yards. Objects that have histories. Some objects that, while not objectionable, I wouldn’t pick again. Some objects that I love. Objects that are heavy either way, all told.

Scene 6: I decide to get rid of nearly everything. Saying goodbye to both possessions and people commences.

Scene 7: I meet the lady who broke her hip. She asks if she can keep my groovy kitchen table and chairs, the last items remaining that a friend with a pickup was going to help me take to Goodwill later that day. Lady did not use the word “groovy.” Still, lady has taste. Enjoy those fantastic metal vintage cabinets that line the kitchen, lady.

Scene 8: I mail a few things to California, and I pack a few things in my car. I make a run for it but don’t make a scene.

Scene 9: I start a Tumblr along the way to chronicle my adventure.