adventures in moving

So here is my moving tale. Or tale of moving. I am moving my 1BR two and a half blocks, from one three-story walkup to another. I decide I will use try using the $19 per man/per hour movers you see advertised on countless utility poles around Manhattan.

They are 2 1/2 hours late — they do call — and I am stressing because I am supposed to be at work at 2. It’s now 11:30. The movers show. They suggest locking faithful kitties Papi and Coco in the bathroom. They are wriggly and hard to catch, but I manage to grab both of them and stuff ’em in the bathroom. They are not going to like this. I decide to open the bathroom window so they can gaze at pigeons as they sometimes like to do.

I had asked for three guys, but the movers send 4. There is also a hidden charge: 1 hour for “travel.” It all comes out to $110/hour. (I don’t know how their math worked out … I really should have asked about hidden charges). But they are moving stuff quickly. My bed is staying so the only big thing is my dressers — all three of them — and shelves. In an hour, we are fully loaded. I am sweaty.

I kick open the bathroom door to let the kitties out. It swings open and taps the windowsill, where Coco is standing. I start to the door, to go meet the movers downstairs.

Then … do I hear mewling out the window? Huh?

I look back into the bathroom. No Coco. Where is my fav. fluffy black kitty? Surely … Coco could not have fallen out? Am I hearing things? I look down out the window. There is just a nook, a little crannyway, between my building and the one next door. It’s three stories down:

I don’t see anything. But on my way down … I sure as hell do hear something. A meowing — like, a pained meowing. AWG! The movers are waiting for me. I race over to meet them at 49th and Ninth and let them in, then run back. How do I even get into this little nook-crannyway? It’s closed off from either side … it’s almost like an air shaft. Maybe that’s what to call it, a long, slender air shaft.

Maybe I’ll have to rappel down into it to get the cat. Except I really don’t know how to rappel. I run past a fire truck and have visions of having to call the fire department. I remember covering that cat stuck in the West Village wall. FUUUUUCCCKKKKK.

Looking out my window, I can’t see any cat. But I can hear him. “MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!” So heartbreaking! He’s like screaming meows.

Thankfully a guy is doing some work on the fire escape. He’s able to find me the super, whom I never really dealt with. It turns out there is a door to the crannyway/shaft. I open it and go in. Under a garbage pail filled with water I find … a cowering PAPI. He is nearly shaking he’s so scared. But aside from a little blood around his mouth (it looks like he banged his face) he looks unhurt. I bring the shaken tiger kitty up to my room and he runs under my bed.

But where the F. is COCO, the kitty I thought had fallen out the window? There’s not very much furniture left in my apartment for him to hide. I look under my bed. He’s not there. He’s under the sink, in the kitchen cabinets or in the closet. I demand the super let me back in to look for Coco. He’s not in the crannyway.

I look on the roof — how the hell could he have gotten to the roof? He’s not there. How could he get out of the crannyway? There are no exists, other than the closed door. Coco is superkitty, the Michael Jordan of kitties, but I don’t see how he could get out that crannyway. But he’s certainly not in there.

I look back in my apartment. No kitty. I shoot my water pistol under the kitchen cabinets, just in case he’s hiding there. No kitty. Papi is still cowering under the bed. Ugh. I start making up signs: missing fluffy kitty. I post ’em and run back to the movers. They have almost finished moving my stuff. C. is going to kill me, I’ve brought so much stuff. My boxes dominate the bedroom.

A woman calls. She’d heard meowing a half hour ago. But she doesn’t have the missing Coco. FUUUCCCK. I run back to my apartment and start making more signs. I post ’em throughout the building, on the next building, even on a few trees.

I am quite possibly the lowest form of human life anywhere. One step up from Adolf Hitler. Who loses a kitty? Coco is like my best buddy. (well, him and Tallman). I make him prance and play and beg for treats. Now … where could he have gone?

Why the hell did I leave that window open? I’ve left it open before, for hours on time. They’ve gone out on it safely. But …

My girlfriend calls. “I can’t find Coco.” I tell her, probably sounding terrified. “I don’t know where he is.”

I start telling her the story. I’ve put up signs. Surely someone could find him. But how the hell could he have gotten out of the crannyway? There is really no exit. He’s gotta turn up … right?

Then — I walk past the kitchen cabinets, under the sink. COCO!!!!! He was hiding there all along! I can’t believe it.