I took the subway with my lightweight dolly (the one I bought at Canadian Tire some years ago and that is usually a clothes stand for the stuff I wear every day). I got off, checked for elevators, and found my way to the YMCA.
There was a lone receptionist, who was likely long finished working and was browsing the NET. I took my yellow nylon rope out of my purse and it was too short. Half an hour later, my coat, scarf and sweater off, sweating, I had tied it to the dolly after a fashion. This included using my nylon shopping bag as a rope joiner. The lone receptionist, who was a glamourous young blonde, leggy like a model, sat at her computer. The YMCA is moving, and thus giving away office furniture.
Don't ask. That's not it. Nothing to do with price, or lack of it. Some things just pick you. And I was picked by this filing cabinet. It fell once on the street, and I righted it. With a couple of trips in the elevator that supposedly went to the subway, a gentleman in a suit decided to help me and went on the elevator and found the right floor and showed me the way to the subway turnstiles.
My token didn't work, of course. But on second try, it did. On with the show.
Down to the Yonge line on an elevator I knew existed. The ticket taker in the little booth box had told me indeed there was an elevator to the Bloor line.
I got there, it was a challenge since the filing cabinet that had attached itself to me kept sliding to one side. Then a young teenager offered his help. He was like a tiny elf in a long striped grey and green hat. I thought he was about 13. He thought the escalator was do-able. I've done baby strollers and carried my dog down those, oh, and many different types of bundle buggies over the years full of heavy groceries, so I thought, hmmn, shouldn't, but the ticket counter guy lied. There's no elevator on this side. So down we go.
The nice young teenager, a musician, he was carrying a long, thin case, not a guitar, I'm not sure what, went in front.
The wheels of the dolly got stuck at the bottom of the escalator, and I started crashing into the filing cabinet (you know, the one that owns me). I fell and the metal moving staircase would have, well, it could have been quite bad. It was pretty scary. People behind me moved backwards and other people watched me crashing helplessly into the cabinet quite horrified. I yelled to the kid, "PULL the filing cabinet!"
He did, the ANGEL, by the big rubber wheels, and I was off the automatic staircase and on the platform. The sweet young man was pale and almost shaking. Clearly, he had not foreseen the difficulty I sort of had but dismissed. A couple of people asked if I was alright. Yes!
Behind us some people had travelled down the escalator with their dog. I told the young man that that was really dangerous. That if the dog doesn't move fast enough to jump off the bottom, the escalator can shave the bottom of their paws off. I actually met a couple at a park years ago with their dog's paws in bandages who said they hadn't listened to the warnings and it was terrible. Meaning, I sent this dear young boy, who I had thanked profusely, and said glowing things about, off with a little horror story about escalators.
I jammed the contraption onto the subway - no way I was going to get wheels caught between the platform and the train - chatted with some people and said I was glad no-one knew me on the train, 'cause it was embarrassing. They laughed. There was a label stuck on the filing cabinet that said, 'Toastmasters,' and it was, well, funny. At my stop I got off and yanked the entire rickety contraption hard, making a small racket, but no way I was going to let it get stuck in the gap between the train and the platform (didn't I just say that?).
My station is full of elevators, on every platform. I would not have attempted this feat without those elevators. Up I went, reached street level, exited, and the whole thing fell when I tried to round a corner. A nice young woman helped me right it.
That's three beautiful people who went out of their way to give me a hand. Blessings to all of them. What treasures they are.
At home, my son carried it upstairs. If you knew me, you'd know how independent I am. It was such a ludicrous quest, this filing cabinet that called to me, that I didn't want to involve anyone else, even if Wally, the man who sent the note, said I really should bring someone to help.
With the hair dryer on hot, and a dental tool, I scraped off all the labels, and the tape, got the remaining sticky stuff off with oil, and it looks great. It's going to be my bedside table, and I will fill it with my manuscripts.
Crazy woman that I am. :)
Next time something says 'I own you, buy me, or get me,' I'm gonna say, 'no way.' :) Ha! As if I have a hope.
(iPhone pic with a flash just now)
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