Part 3: MY HANDS ARE BROKEN BUT IN A GOOD WAY

When all else fails, do like Bey

Making lemonade like a mofo. Photo by Stacy Antoville. 

Making lemonade like a mofo. Photo by Stacy Antoville. 

Already Friday. 

My head played mental ping pong. My brother’s suggestion to call the Attorney General, call the owner, call Vinny, read up on the NYS lemon laws — all these Good Ideas hovered righteously above me. I wanted to do these things, I needed to do these things, but I was so fucking tired. I’d blown through a week’s worth of physical and mental reserves in one gigantic impulsive fireball. I had nothing left for implementing Good Ideas. Not while I also had to move out and move in in just a few weeks. 

That night, I crashed hard. But something kind of incredible happened while I slept. Some magical voodoo took over my brain and smoothed back all its ruffled quills. In the morning, I woke up completely transformed—serene, full of purpose, and incredibly #grateful. Okay, I thought:

I can do this.

First, the flashers. I swapped out the covers so all the white ones faced front and the red ones faced back. I didn’t know if this made it more street legal, but it made it slightly less “ambulance.” Time: two hours. I spent the rest of the day running errands (and writing the first draft of this blog post). 

Afterward, for the first time in weeks, my mind felt clear enough to even catch up on some reading. Perhaps one of the Paris Reviews falling off my nightstand.

As fate would have it, the first story I cracked opened was “A Natural Man” by Adam O’Fallon Price:

Alex steered the juddering van to the shoulder, and, with his dog Munson howling along in the seat beside him, he cursed ­everything: himself, the van, the criminal used-car salesman back in North Carolina who’d sold it to him, the forlorn stretch of road they were currently breaking down on, the distant memory of a service station forty miles back….
…if he knew anything about cars, he wouldn’t have bought this one.
Still, he should have known there was something wrong with the van, a mint-green Ford Econoline—

Wait. What. A Ford Econoline? A lone driver with a dog? A cross-country road trip? Was this a crystal ball preview of my future literally writ?

Okay, that’s fucking weird. But probably nothing to take to heart, right? Because first of all, my van had definitely cost more than six hundred bucks. And men, you know how they are, driving cars they shouldn’t, right? The dog, though, is revealed to be an Australian Shepherd later in the story. Which… really isn’t that far off from a Catahoula. So weird. But ultimately meaningless I’m sure. 

I’d just have to disregard this anecdote/ominous warning/shitty story* (*just kidding, not shitty story) Mr. Price was telling, because of course there was no way it would have any bearing on my journey. It was just a story! And anyway, let’s face it, there was only one way to go: forward.

The next day, my hands ached like hell, but the physical pain was actually a welcome tradeoff for the mental anguish of the past week. It signaled work done versus time wasted worrying. 

Next, the decals, the tape, and the annoying cover-up paint Venemy had slapped on. I guess the fact that he used painter’s tape was a nice gesture, but, unfortunately, it was as good at taking off the body paint as the duct tape he’d used in other spots. 

For the decals, I’d borrowed a heat gun like Vinny had suggested, saying they’d come right off. But “right off” turned out to be ten hours of tedious work, even with friends helping out (thanks Kate and Stacey!). Plus the time in between to cool my scorched fingertips, remember to eat, and walk the dog. 

Part of the reason it took so long was that each letter set required a separate learning curve to figure out its Optimal Peeling Point™— liquid enough to peel, but not so hot that it bonded with the body paint and took some off with it or burned and crumbled. For example, the letters in “SeniorCare” didn’t behave the same way as “Emergency Medical Services” or the numbers in the phone number. So it took a few wrong turns before I learned how to get the decals off properly.

Wish I had taken more videos of the process, but I couldn’t exactly record with one hand while working with the other. I guess Arlo will need to pick up some new skills. 

But look at her now:

IMG_4994.JPG

A downpour over the weekend rinsed off the van rather nicely, which of course, this being Brooklyn, someone immediately ruined. 

Thanks jerk. Whose tag is this?

Thanks jerk. Whose tag is this?

Also removed some awkwardly placed shelving. 

Tada!

Tada!

And found a friend connection, Pablo, who helped me understand the nest of wires in the console—mostly emergency related and useless under normal driving conditions (and sorry, I never tried the sirens or lights before I unplugged it all!).

Pablo was working on his own RV, so he had a lot of good info I hadn’t considered, like buying yacht/boating supplies since they’re also meant for small spaces and run on very little energy. Portable toilets for example. 

Little by little, things were coming together. The storm had passed, I was gaining momentum, my brain had unleashed a really weird/cool superpower I didn’t know it could do. 

I just mainly now had to build a bed and winnow my belongings down to the mere essentials among the sixteen years worth of accumulated junk along with stupid sentimental stuff that I’d kept through every prior move. 

That means saying goodbye to a lot of cherished books, records, letters (maybe not letters), plants, kitchen gadgets, worn out shoes, my favorite bike. How do you decide what’s worth keeping? Do sentimental things depreciate or become more valuable over the years? Or do you just keep finding new sentimental things to replace the old ones? How do these tiny house people do it?? 

To be continued…

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