Been approximately three weeks since I’ve been on here. Been extremely busy. Now it’s time to get down to things once more, but thought I’d do a bit of wool-gathering to get all my scraps in order.
(image courtesy of sealightllc.com)
When last I wrote, hubby and I were facing into a move from our home of 14 years to a new place in a more rural area. We had signed with a terrific realtor named Sandra Thompson who — no joke — took us from hopeful home-sellers to knee-quaking home-buyers in something like ten weeks. The entire process was relatively painless. Sandy was patient with us (well, she has a five-year-old son, so she has the patience of a saint) and we were patient with her. She and I spent a lot of time together and she worked hard to understand what we wanted/needed when we often didn’t know for ourselves. She drove me all over God’s green acres, endured hardship and turmoil (remind me some day to tell you the chicken-poop story) and helped us negotiate deals (both as buyers and sellers) that worked for everyone involved.
Then came moving day, which was also the same as closing day on the house we were buying AND the house we were selling. We had agreed to be out of our old house by 6:00 pm so the new owners could start to move in, but we couldn’t pick up our truck until 1:00 pm. It was going to be tight, but we were positive we could do it. We had a great crew lined up (daughter Theresa and her boyfriend Zack; Jason and Seth from Ed’s workplace; our neighbor Dana), plenty of people to get the job done.
We went to the closing, signed our way through a mountain of paperwork, went to lunch, and drove to pick up the truck. About the truck: a week and a half before the move, I had confirmed a Budget truck rental through a local agency. When we arrived at 1 to pick it up (on moving day, remember; we HAVE to be out of the house), the slack-jawed idiot behind the counter said, “I don’t have a truck for you.”
I blinked at him. “What do you mean, you don’t have a truck?”
He actually had the nerve to shrug like it didn’t matter (meanwhile without meeting my eyes). “I don’t have a truck.”
“Well, find us one! I made this reservation over a week ago and you promised us a 24-foot truck! If you found out you couldn’t get a truck, why didn’t you call to let us know? We have to move today!”
The bastard shrugged again. “Blame it on Budget,” he said. “They don’t have enough trucks.”
“Then why take a reservation?”
He shrugged again. The only thing that stopped me and Ed from reaching across the counter and removing his shoulder blades was the big, nasty Doberman sitting next to him.
And that was that. He wouldn’t even help us locate another truck.
I called Sandy The Saint at once. “We have a crisis!” She started making phone calls. Meanwhile, Ed was doing the same. Theresa got wind of the problem and located a truck in Gales Ferry. “Got a verbal hold on it,” she said over the phone. “Call them and confirm with a credit card.” Ed called. The woman on the other end of the line says, “Well, a young girl called a few hours ago,” (LIAR) “But we don’t have any trucks.”
Sandy finally found us a Penske truck in Groton. We snatched it up and drove home to start loading…two hours late and with a deadline looming. (Turns out the same thing happened to our buyers that very day when they went to pick up their truck from a different distributor. In checking various truck rental website comment sections, promising a truck one can’t deliver seems to be a trend nowadays.
Used to be that folks who did business that way were tarred, feathered, and run out on a rail.
Not a bad idea.