Sometimes it’s the order that inspires.

Sometimes it’s the mess.

Sometimes you get to choose your future.

At other times, you just have to do your best.

As luck would have it, I am moving again. Not to a different country. Not cross-country. Just to another part of Brooklyn, to save money and downsize a bit. I’ve decided on it months ago and now the decision suddenly feels more right than ever. I found the two roommates with a dog on Craigslist. We bonded, the place is right by my favorite yoga studio and McCarren Park, near friends in Williamsburg, still driving/biking distance to Prospect Park, and I’m excited to be closer to the river again. To make it official, I sign my month-to-month sublease, and Venmo a few thousand dollars to essentially complete strangers.

I ask friends for mover recommendations. I get a variety, ranging from “paid my friend in beer and pizza” to “2 men with a van” to “expensive, but great experience.” I investigate all options. I like hiring experts, so the first one is out. The men with the van don’t know how to disassemble my standing desk. After two slightly traumatic moves with the cheapest russian mafia, I decide this is my YOLO/treat yourself moment. I feel lucky I got to do the cross-country moves first. Splurging on local movers is very cheap in comparison.

The move is scheduled for March 30th. Which seemed like a great date. Before the declaration of state emergency.

“Will you be able to move me even if Corona hits? Is it possible to move a week early?” I call Diane from the moving company frantically.

“Yes” she comforts me. “We are prepared. You just let me know when you want to move and we’ll get you out of there.”

I know these might be famous last words. But for now I choose to believe her.

We start our company-wide remote work on Friday the 13th. Working from home full-time in isolation is something I have two years of experience in. I catch up with a friend over FaceTime in the evening as I eat my dinner. I call my parents the next morning during breakfast. I’m back to my old routines.

I remember the sunny weekend like this a little over a year ago. I showed the apartment I’d pay for and live in by myself for the first time in my life to two of my best friends before signing my lease. We had brunch and went to the MoMa after. Now all museums are closed. Restaurants are still open, but with 50% reduced seating. Most shops, yoga studios, indoor places are closed.

I realize it’s St Patrick’s Day weekend and feel grateful for the lack of green drunk crowds. I’ve never seen this many people walking, biking, hanging out in the park, on the streets. I call more friends, and we all echo the same sentiment: we needed this in a way. We need to slow down and pay attention to where we are right now. Some enjoy reading more. Others garden. Run or hike. Cook nourishing meals. Spend time with their immediate family. Cherish alone time. Write music. Play music. Meditate.  I meet one of my best friends for a walk around Prospect Park. We get some food sitting outside, frantically washing our hands. We make plans to go biking. We exchange

I’m present, in movement. Finding excitement in inconvenience. Making the best of it right now means speed-packing, selling, donating. Not panicking, but understanding the reality: life is shutting down. I was planning on comfortably selling furniture over 2-3 weeks. I realize early that this is not the time for people to buy furniture. And the hours when strangers are willing to go into other strangers’ homes are numbered. I wipe and sanitize and wash my hands and hopefully not touch my face. But I’m a risk. They are a risk. Today we’re still willing to take it. That will likely change by next week. Getting rid of furniture and enjoying the process becomes my main focus for 48 hours.

I put up the first three items for free on Craigslist Friday morning: two dressers and a coffee table. I’ve had them for over 6 years. Replies for same-day pick up flood my inbox immediately. I’m trying to limit the amount of people coming over, so the guy who is willing to take all three at once wins. Chris looks like he’s around my age. He brings his friend to help him. They both work in film production. All production work is halted. I feel guilty admitting I can work from home.

They leave and I get back to work. It’s not until 9PM I start looking for a headband. I keep them in the same drawer as my scarves. I can’t find them. I quickly realize I don’t have them. I think back and remember removing my clothes from every single drawer. Except for the top one. 10 out of 11. I don’t have a lot of expensive objects. Other than my laptop and a few designer bags I’ve “inherited” from my mother, the scarves and jewelry I got from my ex-husband are the only objects of value I own. I stumble. I rarely forget about things. I’m trying to practice forgiving myself for not being perfect. But this is a major blow. Will this stranger realize what they are and keep them? Take and sell them? Did I just turn someone into a thief? I feel genuinely bad for the guy. I frantically call and text him. He gets back immediately. He has them. He can give them back tomorrow afternoon. I thank him. I’m still anxious he’ll change his mind. 12 hours is a long time. Schools, businesses, borders, governments can be completely shut down in that timespan these days.

Why do my scarves even matter to me? My neck does get cold, and I do wear scarves often. I also lose scarves sometimes. They make me anxious. I promise myself to sell them at the next possible opportunity and use the funds to help Corona victims. That’s the least I can do.

I meet him in front of his apartment the next day.

“I’m glad I could give them back to you. They look like nice scarves” he says.

I thank him profusely. “Yes. I got them from my ex-husband. It’s more like… sentimental…” I give him the unopened bottle of gin I got from one of my best friends in a gift bag. “I don’t drink and I’m moving. I hope you like it. Thank you. Good luck with everything.”

He texts me an hour later: “Thank you Fanni for the gift and your generosity.”

Not sure which one of us was more generous.

It’s Saturday evening. I’m exhausted, but feel good that most of my life is given away or lays in boxes. I cancel a date and a friend’s dinner in favor of social isolation. Or packing. Whichever I choose to believe. I list my mirror and daybed on Craigslist as well. By Sunday 8AM I have close to a hundred emails. It’s the recruiter’s dream to sift through these cover letters.

The mirror is the most popular item. “When can I pick it up?” “Is it still available?” “Text me address” messages are out. I’m torn between two touching stories. One is it being a hallway signature piece, and the other comes with a cute balloon emoji: “my girlfriend and I LOVE your mirror and it would fit perfectly in our new apartment.” I go with the latter, Michael, an actor whose major productions are - you guessed it, canceled.

He notices the box of free stuff I put on the street with the sign ‘Free of charge + Coronavirus.’

“Perfectly played!” he says.

He comes upstairs. We have a hard time taking the mirror off the wall. Ronnie, the only handyman my wonderful landlord JoAnn trusted enough to hang the heavy piece, clearly did a good job. I desperately try to call him, but he’s busy. JoAnn and Ronnie grew up together on this block. Ronnie now handles reparations work for most apartment complexes in the neighborhood. Him being in high demand and extremely busy is an understatement.

Suddenly as we’re gently pulling it, the mirror starts to move. Michael and I rejoice as he manages to also screw the supporting wood chunk off the fragile wall.

“I have some extra pillows too, would you want to take them?” I point to the giant trash bag next to me.

I’m keeping a handful of pillows, but these are an extra 6 I took back from my old living room’s gigantic L-shaped couch and patio’s U-shaped couch. I went from five to two couches last year and now I’m finally down to zero.

“Actually, I was going to go to Ikea to get some today, but maybe that’s not a great idea given everything” he says.

 “Oh yes, please take them” - I plead.

We chat for another 15 minutes. About the world slowing down. People being outside. Op Eds and statements and our own opinions on how soon the systems are going to crumble.

I suddenly look at the two grocery bags full of cans and bottles that my fridge could no longer hold with my two-week supply of fresh groceries.

“I’ve had these since my birthday party in January, but I don’t drink alcohol. Do you like hard seltzer and beer? I know it’s not the healthiest, and please don’t drink them now, but why don’t you take them? Ironically, the beers are Corona.”

He laughs. “Their sales are down. It’s crazy.”

He gratefully takes the mirror, a piece of wood, two bags full of booze, and one full of pillows and leaves.

He later texts me a picture of my mirror hanging above a fireplace. It looks beautiful. “Great to meet you and thank you again. Our apartment is still a work in progress, but your mirror is now an amazing centerpiece! Please let us know if I can help with your move in any way. Imagine it’s a crazy time.” I smile. I thank the universe for the kindness of strangers and the moments that are while tragic or unfortunate, allow them to showcase that.

The last piece to go is my IKEA Hemnes Daybed. I go with Karter. As she calls me from outside, I check my own biases for assuming Karter in a van dissembling furniture would be a man. She comes up the stairs. Her back hurts and she looks extremely tired. She takes the drawers out and bends down. Her screwdriver is not working. I get worried for a moment. We try mine. The screws are not moving. Her eyes can barely stay open, but she doesn’t look like this is where she’s going to give up. She changes the screwdriver’s head, and slowly, the little pieces are finally turning. The perfectly cut wooden panels fall one by one on the carpet.

“You can start taking those down” she instructs me pointing at the large drawers.

I’m glad to finally be useful.

“What do you do for work?” I ask.

“Corrections.”

“What’s that?”

“Jail. Rikers.”

“Oh wow. Like, a security guard?”

“Yes.”

“How is Corona affecting you?” I ask the obvious.

“It is. All visitations are closed.” 

I run a few rounds back and forth with small to large wooden pieces and a twin mattress. 

“How long are your shifts?”

“10 hours. But I just did a double.”

I pause. That’s almost a full day.

“Where are you moving?” she asks.

“Greenpoint. This was my first apartment alone. I’m moving in with roommates. I got divorced last year.”

She softens for the first time. “I’m going through a separation now” she says.

“I don’t know about your circumstances. It’s very hard. But I feel so much better now.”

She looks at me, her eyes are in pain, but hopeful.

“I know” I try to comfort her, but not overstep. “We were together for a decade. The person is such a huge part of your life.”

“Oh. We were together for 5” she detracts.

“Time doesn’t matter that much after a while.” 

The furniture is apart enough. I take the front, she takes the back of the largest piece. I feel like I’m carrying 14 years of memories down the brownstone’s narrow staircase.

“Who is the bed for?” I ask while she pushes the pieces into the large black SUV.

“My daughter. She’s 14.”

I smile. “I had the same bed in Hungary in my parents house when I was in high school.”

“This bed came all the way from Hungary?” I can’t tell if she’s more concerned or surprised.

“Oh no. I bought the same piece here. Well, in Colorado. Thanks to globalization.”

Our time is up. We are lucky she didn’t get a fine for double-parking for twenty minutes. I guess the police might have more empathy in times like this too?  I’m reluctant to tell her that everything will be okay. I’ve never been in the future-telling business, and I certainly don’t plan on starting now.

“Thank you so much again. Good luck with the move” she says.

“Good luck to you too. Make the best of it.”

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