“Twenty-six Footer.”  The words echoed in my mind like a bad Billy Rae Cyrus song as I squeezed my way up the vein, um capillary, of a road called the Henry Hudson Parkway on the Westside of New York City.  The Henry Hudson is the straight line between the insanity of New York City and the serenity waiting on the other side of the Tappan Zee Bridge.

Armed with over $40,000 in certified checks, I was headed to close on an old farmhouse on the Esopus Creek in Stone Ridge.  (Or is it Marbletown?)  It would only be my third visit to the area—the first was a quick “we’ll take it” and the second was for the home inspection.  On neither of those trips did I have a sofa, loveseat, and ottoman sitting in 1,538 cubic feet of cavernous space.

The Henry Hudson Parkway was for all I knew the one and only way to the country and my eyes were looking forward to my new country house, not for any “No Trucks Allowed” signs.  Besides, the lady at the counter had insisted that even though it wasn’t the “10’ Mini Mover,” it was still “the truck that drives like a van.”

“Moving made easier” had power steering, air conditioning, and more mirrors than a beauty contest, and as I was about to discover, if it drives like a van, but looks like a truck, the highway department considers it a truck.  The embarrassing whirl of sirens pulled Twenty-six Footer to an alarming stop, and given Code Blue’s mad dash out of his car, I was sure he thought I was heading to blow apart the Tappan Zee. Or, a more gruesome thought, maybe I had accidentally bumped that glowing orange highway crewman about 1000 feet back, who had been waving his flag rather dramatically.  

I rolled down the window, and flashed my most pitiful swear-I-wasn’t-speeding look. Bushy-browed Mr. Blue glared up at me and yelled, “What are you crazy? Trucks aren’t allowed on the Henry Hudson Parkway!”  

“It was supposed to be a van,” I said meekly, as Jasper stood by my side.  Well, sat, panted, and hoped this guy had a treat.  “What should I do?”

“Get it off!”  At least he was clear.  He directed me to turn around at the toll plaza and take the George Washington Bridge.  

After paying the toll in both directions, I picked up the cell phone and called my partner who for the entire trip and during this near-arrest had been hiding in the shadow of Twenty-six Footer in a cute, red, conveniently tiny sports car.  “Don’t get mad at me,” he said, anticipating my fury.  “It’s not my fault.”

“I’ll blame later,” I screeched from cell to cell, “just get us to the George Washington Bridge.”  End call.

Little Red zipped around me and headed south toward the majestic suspension bridge in the distance. Somehow, it is your fault, I seethed.  We’re going to the country to get away from stress, I remind myself.  Deep breath.  I turn up the a/c and call him back.  “Do you know how to get there?”  I ask nicely, swallowing a passive aggressive edge. 

“Yes.”  End call. 

From my nosebleed vantage point atop the Hippo, I could see the green sign in the distance—“George Washington Bridge, right lane.”  At last, good-bye city life, hello country….  Then, the unbelievable.  Little Red gets in the left lane.  The right lane!  I scream.  Jasper pops up and looks around.  For a moment, I thought of letting Little Red drive on and living happily ever after somewhere else.  After all, I had the sofa set. But Little Red had the checks.  Follow that car!

Within ten seconds of seeing the call to glory—George Washington Bridge, right lane—we were again headed north on the Henry Hudson Parkway back towards Mr. Blue and his bushy-brows.  I hit redial. 

“You idiot!” I road raged.  End call.

I floored Twenty-six Footer and in a theatrical move into the emergency lane, I overtook Little Red, but in my effort to avoid Bushy Brow and the Orange Highway Crewmen, I exited into an area of the city we had never seen, and hope to never see again.  After a three-point turn, a brief wrong way stint on a one-way street, and a close call with a startled squirrel, Twenty-six Footer found its way to the George Washington Bridge, shadowed annoyingly by Little Red.    

A mad fight via cell phones—a “convenience” early settlers lacked—broke out between the occupants of the two vehicles.  With views as opposite as the sizes of our transports, the fight would last the entire way to the Garden State Parkway.  It went something like: 

“Say you’re sorry.” End call.  “I’m not sorry.”  End call.  “Yes, you are.”  End call. “I’m pulling over if you don’t apologize.” End call. “Pull over.  I don’t care.”  End call.  “I’m pulling over.” End call.  “Pull over.”  End call.  “I’m really pulling over.”  

Well, actually, I’m slowing down so I’ll be out of your sight and you’ll think I’ve pulled over.

Very slowly I crawl along the highway until finally my cell phone rings.  “Where are you?”

“I pulled over until you apologize,” I say, not sure why I’m owed an apology.

“Apologize! For what?”  

“For making me drive this overblown box on wheels!”  When pressured I can think quickly.

“I’ll drive it,” he answers.

“You’ll wreck it.” End call.

Not quite a conversation, but it was more than a one-sentence call.  We were getting somewhere. 

Meanwhile, creeping along at the state minimum, I am being passed by drivers either shaking their fists and blowing their horns or giving me “I’ve-moved-too” pity looks.  My phone rings after what seems like an hour, but was probably only a mile or two.  

 “This is supposed to be the greatest day of our lives,” I hear.  “Where are you?”

“Way back,” I say, proudly indignant.

“Meet me at the first gas station on the Parkway.”

“Okay.”  End call.

I don’t see him as I pull into the Exxon.  “Where are you?” I demand on my cell phone.

“At the first gas station.”

“No, you’re not,” I say.  “I am.”  End call.

My phone rings again.  “Okay, meet me at the second gas station.”  

Then, distracted with my cell phone call antics, I clip the tollbooth with one of Twenty-six Footers many mirrors.  “Watch it guy,” the tollbooth operator says as he stumbles backwards.  

“Sorry, it’s moving day,” is all I can muster.

I now issue a blanket apology to all those at the second gas station on the Garden State Parkway who witnessed a man in a U-Haul lose it.  Innocent bystanders saw a performance worthy of the stage.  

“You’re right,” Scott said after I climaxed with an instructional display of the dizzying multi-mirrored kaleidoscope that showed every glaring metal angle above, around and under the monster.  “It’s like a bad amusement park ride in here.”  I accepted his apology, even though he failed to mention the right lane/left lane fiasco, and we made nice and were off to the country to close on a house.  Little Red followed by Twenty-six Footer.

The Moving In adventure had just begun….