It was finally happening, well, sort of. After weeks of hand wringing and tug of war, negotiating and throwing up of hands, walking away, then coming back for more: we were finally moving my father in law into his new apartment. A smaller unit directly across the hall from his old one. If it was across town, it still couldn't have been harder. Hell, child birth couldn't have been harder.
Cut to Friday, before the official move, at about 5 o'clock in the evening. Dwight and I are on the 60 freeway headed towards Riverside for a jazz show I'm performing in that evening. We're halfway to Riverside when Dwight gets a call on his cell phone from his father. He's just been notified by his building's administration that his apartment is ready and he can move in. When are we coming over to help? Sheesh, we've been waiting all week to hear from them and NOW they're calling? Well, let's see, I've got my show in Riverside this evening from ten at night to one in the morning. After which we're staying over a very gracious friend's home, allowing us to avoid the 70 mile drive back to LA at 2 in the morning. The next day is my record release/Dwight's 40th birthday celebration, the day after that will clean be up and a slow, desperate recovery from the draining week before.
During our conversation, there was some confusion as to whether or not his building's maintenance team was going to move the heavy furniture and vague talk of an "engineer" coming to pick up large items he wanted to let go of. I'm not sure what kind of engineer does that, but okay. We were under the assumption this was all arranged or had already happened and it hadn't happened and, of course, Dwight was frustrated to no end, cursing under his breath. But the move had to happen now and right away with the only notice being at five o'clock in the evening on a Friday. Dad, I'd talked about you contacting some of your church members to help while I was packing you up this week. You told me not to worry about it. It was handled. Are they able to help till we can get there? "No," he says. Apparently, he never contacted them. He's going to start moving his belongings himself.
Well, dad, we are on the road, so there isn't much we can do at this point. I am sure the building's administration will allow us a bit of a grace period, especially with the ridiculously short notice. After all, we were expecting to hear from them earlier in the week. "No they won't! If I can't be out by Sunday night, they'll put me out on the street!" My response, "Dad, that is a lawsuit waiting to happen. They aren't going to do that. Now, who can help you until we can get there. Who can we call?" We all go back and forth for awhile until he finally retorts, "That's it! I'm selling everything!", and abruptly hangs up his phone. We call him back with no answer on his end. He was just there. We were just speaking with him. Where the heck could he be? After pondering this for a few moments we both chimed: the front office! Wait. Nooooo! The scene of so many conflicts between my father in law and the secretaries who've presided there over the years. I'd made it a point to be in regular contact with them, telling them my father in law was taking that apartment (by God) and call me directly if he gives them any guff about it. Needless to say, they've got me on speed dial and we're bowling buddies now.
We'll need to head him off at the pass by calling them and explaining the situation. I refuse to believe they are that unreasonable. Dwight calls and speaks with one of the ladies at the front office who says we can have until the following Tuesday and to please let her know if we need more time. Dwight hangs up with her right as his father is approaching to speak with her (Dwight can hear him in the background). Relief.
We call and call my father in laws apartment, leaving two messages asking him to call us back. We eventually get Dwight's father back on the phone and confirm what we were sure he'd already been told by the front office staff. He has until Tuesday to move his belongings. We would be there Monday. We'd already started packing weeks ago. Securing breakables into boxes, giving away old books and clothes, throwing out trash. Dad said he would take light things over, his clothes, dishes, etc. Okay dad, but absolutely no boxes and nothing heavy. Don't strain yourself and do see if you can get a hold of those church members. Or call Steve from downstairs. He'll help if you ask... Please rest. In fact, give me a couple of numbers and we'll call. Why didn't you just give them to me last week? "Don't worry about it. God bless you," he says hanging up.