I am not unique.
This realization came about two hours into a treacherous moving day in June when I realized I should not have kept the textbooks from my 18th-century British literature course. At the time, I was burdened by the conviction that my preservation was a form of intellectual stewardship, and no respectable assistant editor would be without Alexander Pope’s An Essay on Man: In Epistles to a Friend. Now, I was burdened by two boxes I’d taken from the dumpster of an old grocery store, and a rising hostility towards books I would probably never read again.
Sweat beading down my face and sticking to my back, my arms shaking under the weight of my intellectual vanity, I caught a glimpse of someone a few streets over. She was around my age, maybe younger, clutching the battered edge of a chest of drawers. Her hair was also piled in a messy knot on her head, perspiration causing the loose wisps of hair to curl at her neck. For a brief pause, as her companion stopped to adjust their grip, she looked at me. At a glance, we shared a mixed sentiment,
Good luck.
I can’t wait to begin.
I wish this were over.
Dear God, why did I choose today of all days to move?
As quickly as it happened, her hand shot out to close one of the cheap drawers that began to slip open, a sharp, desperate gesture that severed the connection of the moment. At the same time, my fingertips began to go numb, and my mom was walking behind me with a lamp and a tote bag of cleaning supplies, forcing me to resume my treacherous move.
But in that moment, I realized I wasn’t unique at all. There were hundreds of young women making the same transition into adulthood, punctuating the change with a fresh start in the city.
Had I been told I was in no way special in my early 20s, I would have agreed with the lighthearted affability required by women, but secretly would have felt devastated. I know that I’m a cliche. My life is the same story cranked out to TV pitch meetings across dozens of networks and offices in L.A. However, lying about it would seem more disingenuous.
I was 25 when I moved to downtown Chicago. Was I 26? Or was it right out of college? I don't remember. All I know is that at some point, I got a job at Red Door Publishing in the West Loop. I love Chicago. After growing up in the suburbs, every trip into the city felt like an adrenaline rush. Twice a month, my mom would take my sisters and me on museum days, starting with the Field Museum, then to the Shedd Aquarium, before ending at the Art Institute. I’d been so enamored that I spent a summer as an intern for the Institute’s library, shuttling myself every day into the sweltering city for a chance to spend my days in the cool enclave.
To this day, I can walk from Ogleville Station to The Art Institute of Chicago blindfolded. When I first got a job in the city, my parents were apprehensive. They didn’t like the idea of me living downtown; however, when it was calculated that the cost of commuting would have equaled one month's rent, they agreed it was the best decision. These were back in the days when a twenty-something could afford an apartment by herself at a full-time job. I remember my dad sitting beside me at the kitchen table, brow furrowed with his trademark intensity, breaking down my expenses and writing an outline of my monthly budget. His glasses kept sliding down his nose; glasses he had stolen from my mother years ago that he swore he didn’t need.
“Now tell me again what your salary will be? It’s a good starting point, but remember you’ll probably be advancing in three or four years, so keep that in mind.”
My father had the unshakable belief that his daughters could make CEO in less than a decade. I remember the summer my sister, Sasha, was a lifeguard at our park district pool. By the second week in June, he was convinced she could become director of the parks department or leverage her afternoon of CPR training into becoming an EMT.
As he wrote a potential budget in his chicken-scratched handwriting on the back of a CVS receipt, my mother was already searching for apartment listings.
“I don’t want you near bars or behind some factory.” She held up her hand in a gesture that read as “absolutely not,” as though somehow I had expressed a desire to live near bars or factories.
“So what about a crack den?” I offered.
With an exasperated look, her hand landed on the table with a dead thud. Any other time, she might have laughed, but she was terrified as it is at the idea of me living in a city. Downtown Chicago was a fabulous place to visit when on Lake Shore Drive or touring the Gold Coast, but once she considered her daughter living in the city itself, she saw visions of crime-riddled streets where I’d be held at gunpoint.
“I would love it if you could be somewhere like Oak Park or maybe Roscoe Village, but that’s probably too far, and the commute might kill you after a while.”
We huddled around the kitchen table, my mom’s beat-up laptop illuminating our faces, papers and documents cluttered amongst forgotten plates of lemon cake and a stale bag of Chili Cheese Fritos. At our feet was Bob, our aging Jack Russell terrier, who expressed his distaste for being ignored by huffing under the table.
At this memory, I wondered, did the other girl have that? Did she have parents who sat with her to scour apartment listings, or did she go through it alone, scrolling on the real estate sites in between shifts?
Did she have people who suffered endless trips into the city with her, flanking every step into the shoebox, mold-infested apartments within her price range like I had? Or did she face it alone?
My dad drilled landlords with questions about the neighborhood, the building, and the contracts, while my mom and I checked each room, pulling up loose carpets and wiggling doors, discussing how I would decorate and the length of my commute.
“I like it,” I whispered, looking at the old fireplace, wooden floors, and arched doorways.
“No.” Mom said, looking at the uneven kitchen tiles, loose faucets, and molding caulk around the bathtub.
I discovered more about housing contracts, utilities, and early signs of water damage in those few months than I would have learned in years. Without them, I probably would have overpaid for a microscopic apartment with duct tape for a lock. When we found my apartment in University Village, they were there. They helped me negotiate my lease, get renters insurance, and a U-Haul to tow my meager belongings into a 500 square foot apartment on Whitman Avenue.
It was a blazing summer. Despite its reputation for bitter winters, Chicago’s summers could be just as brutal. All the windows in my apartment were open, fighting to cut through the stagnant heat. If I could, I would have caught any breeze and put it on a leash to keep it with me.
Dropping the boxes, with a thud, I pushed them with my foot to the living room area.
“Okay,” Mom slid into the narrow kitchen, placing the tote of cleaning supplies on the counter, “We can place all the boxes in their respective rooms, unpack what we can, and clean as we go.” She was using the level voice she always used for organization, her palms massaging the air as if to dispel chaos.
I only nodded, still huffing with the effort of walking up three stories. Mentally, I was adding my choice of an apartment with no elevator to my list of regrets.
By now, Mom had turned, looking around the galley kitchen. “This little window here is such a saving grace,” she pointed, ”and praise God it’s looking at a tree, not someone else’s apartment.”
“Nope,” my breath was finally coming back in whisps. “That’s the bathroom window.”
Mom made a comical face of horrified disgust. “We need to get you some drapes for that. Or one of those little sheets to frost the glass so no one can look in.”
“Maybe I should leave it open, after all, I want to know my neighbors.”
“You don’t need to know them that well. Oh God, could you imagine?” She raised an arm, pantomiming a scrub as she smiled at imaginary neighbors. “Speaking of windows,” She continued, once we finish installing the air conditioner, you need to close these windows, okay? You can’t sleep with them open like you do at home.”
I smiled. It wasn’t lost on me that she still used the present tense.
“I won’t, don’t worry.”
We heard a grunt, then the noise of dropped boxes. “Where do these go?”
Mom and I shuffled out of the kitchen to see my father in a wide stance, hands on his hips, face red and panting with boxes at his feet.
Climbing over lamps, stray tote bags, and trash bags bulging with clothes, I crouched to inspect the boxes.
“This is for the bedroom. It’s got my bedside clock, pictures, and some other knick-knacks.”
“Why’d you have to choose somewhere with no elevator?” My dad’s brow furrowed in mock agitation as though he wasn’t present for both apartment tours, photographing every corner of the space.
“To make you suffer.” I quipped back, looking up from my crouched position, elbows on my knees.
“This is disrespectful.” His lips pursed, as though reflecting on the inconvenience.
By late afternoon, all the boxes and furniture had been hauled into the apartment. Mom and I were on our hands and knees scrubbing every inch.
“Ugh, this is going to be so nice, baby,” Mom exclaimed from the living room, gazing at the freshly cleaned fireplace that hadn’t worked since Reagan was in office. This was the fifth or so time she’d said something to that effect. It was affirming to know that I’d made the right choice.
“I know, I love that the light makes it feel so spacious,” I responded, wrestling the fitted sheet onto my mattress. “Although I don’t know how spacious it’s going to be if I keep filling it.”
I waited for a response. I had expected her to warn me about being intentional about what I brought into the space, avoiding the lure of thrift store finds that would clutter the apartment. But instead, I was met with silence.
I joined her in the living room and saw her looking out the window with rapt attention.
Kids were having a water fight further down the street, screeching with excitement at a pitch that only exists in young lungs. Mom looked at them wistfully. As I grew closer, I saw that her eyes were misting. My arm went out to circle her shoulders.
“Mama?”
Her gaze turned to me, and her brow furrowed as a watery smile lifted her lips. Her hands rose to cup my face. I didn’t have to ask why.
Under my mother’s eyes, I was still a child. Within her mind’s eye, I should have been playing outside with the other kids, devoid of worry or responsibility. The realization that her last daughter was moving away, even by 30 minutes, was beginning to settle. Illuminated by the late afternoon light, mother and daughter looked at each other, holding these fragile moments as long as we could. She was seeing a little girl. And in that moment, I felt like one. I felt like I should be in my pink gingham playsuit, with a grosgrain ribbon slipping out of my hair and mud on my shoes. As the children continued to scream, punctuated by the sound of splashing water, my mother heard the past. For me, it was the sound of my new life, the sound of neighbors I would come to know and observe that would trickle into the narrative of my life. More accurately, I would be a footnote in theirs.
“My baby,” Mama whispered, stroking my face.
“I know Mama.” Even though that was the sorrow.
Suddenly, the intimate bubble was shattered by the crash of the door swinging open. My dad lumbered in carrying fistfuls of grocery bags, and huffing behind him was Mr. Costello, my landlord. Small and beefy, I’d only met him three or four times, seeing him in the apartment again was jarring. It was even more alarming to see him carry his own collection of grocery bags.
My brows furrowed as I waited for an explanation.
“So I was looking for grocery stores, you know, just to be aware of what’s near you.” My dad’s voice was bursting from the kitchen. Whenever he was excited or explaining something, his volume rose a few degrees.
“And I told him he has to go to Moretti’s.” Mr. Costello lumbered out from the kitchen, still huffing. “You gotta Jewel over there,” he waved in a general direction with one pudgy hand, carrying a large gold ring on it, “But the deli’s awful and they’re produce is crap. Plus, their olive oil doesn’t even make sense. It feels like a con.”
“So Marco Costello took me to Moretti’s and we got you some stuff for the fridge,” My dad emerged from the kitchen. He always said people’s full names, even when they were right next to him. “We still had to get you some basics, paper towels, toilet paper, detergent, all that from the bodega, but that’s a good spot. I even picked us up some nice olives and some biscotti.” This last statement was directed towards my mom, who looked skeptical as he raised the bag of biscotti, which had clearly been opened.
My mind reeled. I had budgeted to stock my cabinets with the basics, my crumpled list of items drifting somewhere among the mess, but my dad had not only taken the initiative of slipping out while we’d been cleaning and unpacking, but had befriended my landlord in the process.
“Their coffee is good, but their cappuccinos are…” Mr. Costello made a cutting motion with his hand, his face scrunching with distaste. “You want a good cappuccino, you come to me and Barb downstairs, and we’ll take care of you.”
“Thank you,” I said, still dazed. “I appreciate it.”
My landlord, now caretaker, came closer. “It’s a good thing you got your parents here to help,” His voice lowered conspiratorially. “I’ve had young people here, always kicking off their parents, never letting them near 'em. Of course, if you got bad parents, you got bad parents, but when I helped my daughter move in with her roommates…” Mr. Costello broke off again, allowing his hands to finish the sentence, lifting them in the air. As my eyes tracked the motion, I wondered how his arm hair wasn’t getting caught in the gold chain on his wrist.
There it was. Mr. Costello and my dad had bonded over food and fatherhood. No wonder they had become friends.
“Thank you so much, I really appreciate the recommendation.” Mom was using her smooth voice, the one she used towards strangers.
The landlord opened his arms wide. “Hey, I remember what it was like when Barb and I were helping Cosima move. It was hell, but we wanted to make sure she was okay and wasn’t gonna get grifted, ya know?”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Mom nodded in agreement.
Mr. Costello clapped his hands together. “I’ll let you all finish up here,” he turned to me, “You need anything, me and Barb are in 1A downstairs, okay?”
My dad walked him out, asking for his contact information, no doubt continuing their conversation.
My mom and I looked at each other in amazement.
“What just happened?” I asked.
“The power of friendship, baby.” Mom said, shaking her head.
Hours later, the air conditioner had been installed in the front window, the sheets had been washed in the basement laundry, the apartment had been cleaned, and we had assembled my bed and assembled my new life in adulthood.
In the evening hours, I took them for pizza at Moretti’s, though when considering all they’d done for me, it wasn’t nearly enough. As we walked back, the golden hour beamed through the trees, dappling the sidewalk like arbored lace.
When it was time for goodbyes, I clutched my parents in a hug, my fingers curling into their shoulders. I knew that this was what the months of planning, organizing, and moving were leading up to. Every moment they had spent ushering me into my new apartment, every grocery item, cc’d email, and paper towel roll had been a plain-clothes benediction into my new life. Despite the reassurance that they were just 35 minutes away, 40 with traffic, we were parting ways, both of us moving towards homes the other could not claim. I walked beside their car as they drove down Whitman Avenue, my arm not dropping from its languid wave until they’d turned the corner, heading towards Mannheim.
Turning into the courtyard of my apartment complex, I caught sight of the girl from earlier. She sat on the front stoop alone, with a glass bottle of Coke and a hot dog. Her body hunched over her food with a satisfied exhaustion I recognized. Once again, our eyes met, mustard caught in the corner of her smile as she raised her bottle at me. I smiled back, nodding in soft acknowledgement.
It’s finally over.
Now we can begin.
During my five years on Whitman Ave., it rarely felt as though I was meeting people, but encountering small universes. That night, surrounded by crushed boxes and bags of trash, I slept with the windows open, even though I promised my mother I wouldn’t.