Ashley and I will be moving to a new apartment in a week. The apartment we’ve been at for the last nine months or so has been good, but frankly it gets a little warm. As in, it’ll be a comfortable 70 degrees outside with a light breeze but as soon as I walk inside I feel like Satan’s doctor’s thermometer – unaccountably warm and without any type of pleasant air.(1)
Having finally this morning settled upon a good day for renting a boxtruck, I set about calling the requisite utilities companies so they could continue providing the services necessary to our way of life, such as showers, warm food, flushing toilets and the internets.(2)
First I called up the local utility company – curator of electricity and good ol’ H2O.
‘Yes, I’m moving in a week and I’d like to transfer my utilities.’
‘Okay. You want to put the utilities in someone else’s name.’
‘Nonono. I mean. I’m moving and I’d like to take my utilities with me.’
‘So you need to close your account.’
‘Noooo…I need to move my account to a new address.’
‘Right. So you need to close your account.’
‘At the end of the week, who comes to pick up his paycheck?’
‘No Who. Or sometimes Who’s wife.’
Okay, so it didn’t go down exactly like that, but it was damn close. There’s even a distinctive Costellian logic behind their process: rather than simply transferring addresses or whatever, they’re closing my account at this apartment and opening a new account at that one. It seems like more work to me, but I suppose I don’t know their processes so what the hell.
Next I rang up the natural gas company. This is when the stupidity hit legen-wait-for-it-dary levels. To being, they follow the same process: closing one account and opening another. At this point though I’d spent a few minutes on the YouTubes looking up Abbott and Costello routines, so I felt like I was an old hand at the logic. No sweat.
She told me I’d need to pay out sixty bucks as a security deposit. I politely informed her that I’d already done this, to which she politely responded that I hadn’t. I somewhat-less-than-politely insisted that I had, and she fake-politely said that none of that showed up in my payments when the account was opened back in November. I not-even-pretending-to-be-politely told her that I’d actually opened the account in August and they’d screwed up, somehow switching my address and my neighbor’s address in some Gregorian confusion that, frankly, Steven Hawking probably couldn’t figure out.(3) But since I couldn’t explain it to her, she definitely-dropping-all-smattering-of-politely told me that none of it mattered anyway because we hadn’t stayed at the old address for more than 12 months.
And then here’s when stupid kicked into high gear: ‘If you’d stayed there for 12 months we would refund the deposit from the old account and charge a new deposit on the new account.’
Yep. Bend over, shove your head up your ass, and roll down a fucking hill. That’s pretty much how I felt.
- And plus the stench of dead jr. high cheerleaders is wafting up from beneath the floorboards and making Ashley suspicious of my nocturnal absenteeism.
- Necessary because of the amount of time I spend on the toilet.
- No disrespect intended, Mr. Hawking.