Moving To Victoria, The Final Day
I am waiting for my cab, it is about 20 minutes later than I had asked it to be. Speaking on the phone, before the phone was packed. Now falling from the sky, rain, standing beside a totem pole of my possessions: a large brown trunk, an orange duffel, a black back pack and 2 tiny folding tables, packing taped together. The cab arrives, the containers are contained in the cab, we are off.
The cab driver asked if I am Indian, no, I tell him all about my complicated family tree.
At the terminal, my bags and trunk are heaved upon to a ViaRail baggage cart, we roll to the desk, the woman, behind a glass wall, see my bags, asks me their weight, I don’t know, she tells me they cannot move anything over 75 lbs. I place my trunk on the handy, nearby scale. It is 112 lbs.
I protest, she calls some guy (I think the driver)
He reiterates the 75lbs rule.
She tells me the rule again. I ask what to do. She tells me I have to send it via freight, that I will miss the next bus, that I have to take a cab 2 blocks down the road to Greyhound Courier Express. I am livid. I consider my options.
I am rolling the cart to Greyhound Courier Express. I get there, soaked, in this squat, shitty bunker. This is where a helpful asshole educated me on the obvious and well known knowledge that nothing over a 100 pounds has ever been sent to Victoria. That WCB regulations does not permit shipping items over 100 pounds, that even if he was engulfed in a passion to drag my trunk over there himself, the law would stop him. I ask what happens when people was to move things to the island, he tells me to hire a moving company. A complex curse from many lands has been placed on him, and the business he represents.
I remove a number of items from the trunk. The weight is 99.5 lbs. Money is exchanged and the trunk is now off. 12lbs is 1 can of soup, 1 bottle of detergent, a liquid soap dispenser, an orange enamel bowl, a 250GB hard drive a jacket and 2 towels. All are in greyhound garbage, except for the detergent and the hard drive. I will never let go of my detergent.
I get back to the bus station, and I indeed have missed the 3.30 by 5 minutes. I end up chatting with a two folks about just how annoying this day is turning out. They also have troubles, I listen attentively to the stories of just missed buses and MP3 players in jackets, and a possible sinking of our ship.
I end up telling one of them all of my troubles I have ever endured during the bus ride to the boat, he laughs. I guess it is pretty funny. We trade stories until a post dinner parting. I watch a movie on the eeepc. Homecoming was all tales of woe.
The next day Rachael and I wander down to the terminal to pick up the trunk and it is not there, it is a 20 minute drive away in the Greyhound Courier Express depot, not the bus terminal. I chat with the Greyhound Courier Express fellow on the phone, ask him about bus routes, he tells me the 31 is the one. Rachael see one roll by the terminal we are at. It rolls away as I jog behind it.
Later she and I were waiting at a bus stop, a Greyhound Courier Express cube truck drives past us. On its door, it is written “Door to Door Service”. I call the fella again and ask about some door to door action. It is reserved for Monday to Friday only. Silently in my head I imagine a giant fish falling from the sky and smashing his building into powder, my trunk flying through the air and landing beside me. His dismembered hand following a moment later, still holding the phone receiver.
Another day has past and I am just about to catch a 31 bus and visit my trunk.
I took the 31 to some such road and disembarked too early. The blocks here are very long. I walked, up a hill, down a hill, past a glowering family and post advertising a lost cat and a request for a home, I walked until my shins, creaking under my girth complained with pain. The trunk was here at the depot, I chatted with the fellow I cursed with fish death earlier and felt bad, he is not deserving of such a end. The coffee maker vase broke, I had packed beside my favourite rock. I suppose I never really liked the coffee it made, it was a modified french press without the press part. The glass was given to the fellow behind the counter.