New in Town | 15 September 2021
“A little further back. A little further back. A little further back. Okay, you’re there.”
And there I was, the U-Haul successfully parked, right in front of the new place. I didn’t yet know the city. I hadn’t seen my new home. I didn’t even know the name of the neighbor who’d flagged me into the spot.
BNR Response
I got out and shook the hand of the seemingly friendly pleb who’d helped guide the U-Haul driver into the spot in the basement garage of my new luxury apartment. U-Hauls don’t come with drivers, but I insisted on personally moving my most valuable items separate from the corporate relocation trucks and had hired someone to commandeer the boat across state lines.
The pleb introduced himself as Hank, and, as I gazed over his should to survey the surroundings – not seeing any desirable basement amenities: no vanity parking spots, no golf cart parking, no vault…where had I landed, the Ukraine?! – I tried to palm him a Benjamin for his trouble. Hank laughed sweetly, refusing my tip and informing me he was my welcome wagon. Surprise!
“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood. I was told that a Junior Partner would be meeting me at the firm’s office later this morning to begin my introductions to this branch’s team. Are you the Super?” I asked, eyeing his ruddy cheeks and plaid Brooks Brothers shirt with confusion. Since when did BB make plaid?
“No, ma’am, I’m the Junior Partner. I heard about your having to drive the U-Haul across from New York and imagined there must have been some kind of problem with the moving company. I wouldn’t want to arrive in a new place to a new home and with no one to help me get situated, so I figured I’d head on over. Besides, the firm is just down the way, so it was the least I could do. Pa thought it was a good idea too, so here I am!” Hank gestured down the road as if we could see the office from the basement. He had a sort of “aw shucks” quality about him that was both charming and instantly irritating, but he was well-enough dressed, I supposed, to pass as a lawyer in these backwoods.
I didn’t feel the need to explain the U-Haul situation, though Hank was definitely perplexed when the moving truck pulled in a few moments later. After the white glove delivery of all of my furniture and belongings had been completed from the relocation trucks, I had the Help unload the U-Haul under my careful supervision, staging Hank at the door to my condo while I manned the basement operations.
“You must be hungrier than a dilly bird!” Hank said, after washing his large hands and replacing his tweed blazer, “Let’s get you some eats before we head over to the office.” His colloquialisms seemed to match my surroundings: rural Connecticut was supposed to be lovely, and while it was scenic it certainly had the stink of small town all over it. Had the transfer from the Manhattan branch been voluntary, say so I could settle down and have the proverbial picket fence, this may have felt quirky. Under the circumstances it just felt like some twisted Twilight Zone homecoming.
After a greasy Monte Carlo for lunch at the Grille just down the block, we walked another two blocks to the firm. When the U-Haul driver had pulled into my underwhelming basement parking lot I should have known it was an indication of more disappointments to come. My condo was best described as “quaint”: a mere 2,500 square feet, god knows who actually likes marble countertops anymore, an exposed refrigerator, no safe room, no dressing room, I could go on. The horror. The office had similar let-downs in store for me. I was anticipating our flagship office to be a building of stature, instead I was met with a space that looked like a country cottage: single story, gingerbread accents along the roof line, shingled exterior walls, brick walkway, very local sheriff-cum-fishmonger-esque.
As I sat around the Cracker Barrel board room table meeting my 5 new “colleagues” - 1 senior partner, 1 junior partner (Hank), 1 paralegal/admin, Hank’s mom (no apparent professional role), and the firm Cat, Murphy – I couldn’t help but wonder if this punishment fit my crime. I felt the need to shake myself awake from this nightmare. Didn’t they know who I was? I had a corporate townhouse on the goddamned Upper East Side! My former step-daughter went to camp every year in Switzerland (it did wonders for her celiac’s disease)! My dog, Rufus, vacationed at an elite canine retreat in the Hamptons that cost more than Dartmouth! Here I was, having put 20 years into building this firm only to be exiled to this Ashley Furniture shithole. Did my boning the intern really merit my being deployed on this tour of duty in Hell’s armpit? As I listened to Hank’s mom, Milly, adjust the Laura Ashley bib on her dress and prattle on about my duties of emptying the trash and walking Murphy, I realized that no. No 26-year-old dick was worth spending two long years in the limbo of rural Connecticut.