A Good Guiness and Chicago Crooks

There's something about being surrounded by an igloo of brown U-haul boxes that makes a Guiness taste like holy water. Well, maybe not, but it is a welcome bite at the end of a long series of evenings holed up in a comfort inn with retired- in-laws while apartment-hunting, lawyer-hunting, and bathroom-crying.

Cat and I thought our move from Boston to Columbus was possibly the worst a move could get between severe poison ivy that required emergency room visits and steroids, mono, a broken down truck in upstate new york, and a pair of movers recently released from prison on a felony charge. But the thing about that last move: at the end of it all, we had a place to lay our heads.

This time around, our health has been remarkably good, by comparison.

It took nine and half hours to drive caravan with Cat's parents to Chicago (it's usually a six hour drive). I drove most of the way in the Uhaul (I gave Cat a two hour leg with her still-new license) despite my physical therapist warning against it. At the end, my hips felt as if knives were searing through from the outside while pinching ants were attacking from the inside. When we gps-ed our way to the new apartment and got out of the car, I could barely stand. But I thought: we will unload quickly, grab a pizza, then sleep. Then its over. The three months of moving will be over. I felt like what I imagine the Boston Marathon runners feel when they hit Heartbreak Hill.

As we jimmyed the front gate open, ascended the stairs, and saw our first glance of home, we felt relieved. Then we turned on the kitchen sink to give the dogs water and it sprayed all over the floor. The fawcet was not connected. The tub had blue paint-tape x's over the jets. There was a dead christmas tree on the postage-stamp-sized deck. We started counting the myriad of other maintenance problems when Cat realized this wasn't even the right layout. The apartment had been switched.

We found out later this is a common scam in Chicago by leasing agencies. We drove away. We called the person who had shown the apartments. He didn't know what happened. We should talk to closing. We called them. We had signed the lease--they said--so you need to talk to the property manager. We went to the office the next morning, which was Friday. The property manager was out of town until Tuesday. We left a message. We found out about free legal services through Northwestern, where Cat is starting grad school. We sent them a message. But they are free, and not in until September 20th.

Meiver, our roomie, woke early and made a list of Craiglist apartments to follow up on from her home in Boston.

Cat got a call from the property manager: there's not another apartment in the building but they are evicting two families in mid-September: do we want to be on the list for those?

Our dogs are costing us 30 extra bucks a night to stay in the Comfort Inn. Which they think is fine--in fact, they might actually prefer the funky smelling carpets of the hotel to the hardwood floors of our apartments.

I made appointments.
A condo-owner took pity on us. Cat's dad offered up the security deposit.
We moved in the next day.

Tuesday, Cat and I went back to the office. Property manager was out, showing apartments. Can we come back later?

I sat firm and said we would wait.

Twenty minutes later: He'll be back at 1:30. Great. We'll get lunch and return.

Property Manager is all "there's not much we can do, you signed the lease" and "I've lost time showing this apartment"
Me: "We've lost nearly 2000 bucks and you have first month's rent"
Cat: "We just want out of the lease right now"
PM: "Well, I don't know what I can do"
Me, impatiently: "Here's the thing. We have already been in touch with a lawyer from Northwestern and they think we have a case of misrepresentation so we can either take care of this now or"
PM: Slams his chair back: "That's it. I can't talk to you." Puts his hands in the air. "The second you mention a lawyer, I have to talk to my lawyer. And this is going to get messy. I was going to let you out of the lease but now I can't do that because you brought a lawyer into this"
Cat: "Just let us out of the lease so we don't need to bring in legal services"

He leaves. He's a big white dude the size of my father, the age of me. I think I really fucked things up with my bravado. Cat reminds me its all a performance in masculinity. Right. She's calm. My palm's are sweating. For her, this is research.

But I know the money terrifies her. All of her savings--gone.

Eventually, he comes back, sweetly, with a lease release. It says nothing about not being able to ask for our money back later. We take notes and pictures and photocopies for our meeting with the lawyer. We feel success, even if only partial.

I haven't been able to walk for days.

Exercising in our igloo of boxes is almost impossible. Our days have no routine. I can only try to get as much movement as possible as we scrub, paint, and unpack.

And the guiness: a bitter, biting ending to a bitter, biting week.