It's closing day in NY.
Call the lawyer. Call the lawyer for the new house. They just picked up my wife's car. Hey, I sold my car! Hey, I have no car!?! Now how am I suppose to get around? The buyers called and want the jungle gym removed. Is my axe packed? The couch won't fit out of the basement. How did that happened? Must have soaked up all the moisture down there for ten years and grew two inches. Get the chain saw. Now we have a love seat and a ottoman. 80…90…115 boxes. My wife packed three of those so it's not like I didn't have help. Keep moving, keep packing. Do I want that? I guess not. Trash. How about this? Probably not. Gone. No the dog comes with us.
Go to closing. Sign some checks. Get some checks. The dust is settling. The movers are leaving. Everything we own is on that truck. Am I going to see any of them again? They seemed like nice guys, even if they had tattoos that read "Death for the Hell of it." Dinner in Smithtown for the last time. My son drives us to a hotel near La Guardia Airport. It's been a long day. But I don't fall asleep right away. Instead, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling wondering if I remembered to pack my 1962 copy of 'What Happened to George,' a children's book about a pig that could not stop eating. My family used it to poke fun of me when I was a chubby little boy. Why was that popping into my head now?