TIME TO PACK – PART 16

 

TIME TO PACK – PART 16

It’s 6 a.m., and I’m up, as usual, obsessively packing, repacking, and double-checking everything. I’ve become so anal retentive with my packing, it’s almost laughable. I need to make sure everything is set for a smooth, quick check-out from the Bahamas. I sing and dance around my room in a burst of energy, grabbing a sweatshirt and stretching the sleeves down far too long, then twirling an invisible partner.

I rush downstairs, toss the contents of my fridge into a garbage bag—food I bought but never ate, left behind like forgotten promises—and start stripping beds, creating piles of towels, tossing the company-issued letters straight into the trash. I’m on autopilot now, determined to get out of here.

I drag gallon-sized water bottles back to the office. The bill I get totals $100, charges I can’t make sense of. But I don’t care—I just pay it because we’re leaving, leaving, leaving.

I knock on doors, helping people clean out their condos, everyone brimming with that sweet relief of the end. I help haul luggage over to one of the condos where we’re storing bags and volunteer to drive the van to the airport since everyone has different flights. The vans are packed, luggage wedged into every corner, each piece fighting for space as we make a hasty exit.

We talk about our plans when we get home, speaking of simple joys that sound so foreign now. “I’m going to Ray’s Pizza,” one person says. “I’m finding another job,” says another. “I’m gonna eat eggs,” says a third. It’s an inside joke that comes from a time when the island ran out of eggs. We’ve latched onto that absurdity, and it’s become a staple of our conversation.

I hug everyone goodbye, piling out of the van as they head off to the airport. I drive back to get the next group an hour later.

At the airport, we’re handed envelopes containing $15—our departure fee from the island. I would pay anything to get out of here.

Finally, it’s my turn to leave. I’m on a tiny double-seater plane with five others. The stewardess, whom we’ve named Helga, has frosted blue eyeshadow and an attitude that could cut glass. “Take one and pass the basket,” she barks at me. I grab a bag of pretzels, pass it along, and one of the cast members picks up a magazine. He’s reading an article in The National Enquirer, but suddenly, Helga snaps at him, “Do you always take something that doesn’t belong to you?” as though losing her page in the tabloid was a personal affront.

The tiny plane dips and spins every time we hit an air pocket. I clutch the seat, my hands searching for the flotation device under my seat.

We’re getting closer to Florida, where we’ll transfer to another flight. The plane shudders as we land, the wheels rumbling on the tarmac, shaking everything not bolted down. Helga kicks open the door and leaves us behind in a bewildered silence.

We step off the plane, and I drop to the pavement, kissing American soil like it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt. We race through the airport to catch our next flights. We all board different planes, and I’m finally able to grab a quick nap.

When I open my eyes, the plane is descending toward the Emerald City, the skyline of Manhattan creeping closer and closer. We land, get off the plane, and collect our luggage. I split a cab with a fellow cast member, heading straight to Manhattan.

"I’m home. I’m fucking home,” I scream out loud, the relief washing over me.

I sprint up the five flights of stairs to my apartment, bursting through the door—and immediately stop in my tracks. The stench of decaying cat litter hits me like a freight train. The slow drip of water from the sink echoes through the apartment, bouncing off a heap of unwashed dishes. My dog limps over to me, unbrushed and matted, the cats howling for food.

"Am I home?" I whisper to myself, unsure.

There are piles of unpaid bills scattered around the apartment, final notices and disconnection letters shoved between books on the shelves. A shelf has collapsed in my room, and the cats have turned my clothes into a nest. The apartment feels like a disaster zone.

I begin cleaning. I dig through the mess, trying to find some semblance of order in the chaos. Cat hair swirls around me, blown by the air that’s somehow still moving in the apartment. Tears of frustration fall down my face as I try to make sense of everything, feeling overwhelmed by the mess and the realization that my life has been put on hold for far too long.

Then, the front door creaks open. In stumble my subletters, the smell of beer preceding them. “I’m home,” slurs one of them, their voice thick with whatever they’ve been drinking.

I stand there for a moment, frozen, as the weight of everything crashes down on me.