I took the Rambler over to the new place with a load of items I didn’t want to place on the moving truck – my stereo, a neon sign I’d carefully bubble-wrapped, and a few other things. So I got to be the first one into our new place. Keys were carefully laid out on the kitchen counter with thoughtful notes alongside. I was almost home, looking forward to the actual move to begin, when my cell rang. It was Christine. Her voice was curt with stress. “The movers are here, and they’re sketchy!” Rounding the corner, I soon saw what she meant. Their moving truck was parked, not on the street, but way down the ramp leading to the underground garage – blocking everyone from using it. I stashed the Rambler at the curb, where the movers should have been. Christine told me the driver had said that “if he got one more parking ticket he would lose his license”. Our assurances that moving trucks don’t get ticketed for parking in front of the buildings they’re moving fell on stubbornly deaf ears. Then Christine asked to see his license – just so we could confirm he had one, and to know with whom we were entrusting all our stuff. That’s when the driver dropped his next bombshell and admitted, “actually, my license was already suspended.” In retrospect, we realized why he’d stashed his truck so far down the ramp. He was hiding from the cops! I approached as this conversation was happening – I could see Bad Things were afoot. A decision was made. We told the mover that we didn’t want to proceed – he’d have to put back the items he’d already placed on his truck. Although I’d had a hard time finding any mover who was free on the 31st when I made calls over a week before, we both felt we had no choice but to figure out some kind of alternative. Another disaster was only a minute away, though.