Scene One: We decide to move, with three strict criteria: 1) We want to remain in our neighborhood. 2) We want to be able to afford our new place. 3) We do not want to live in a place where the fireplace is built into the refrigerator. After touring countless open houses with the-living-room-is-also-the-dining-room-is-also-the-kitchen-is-also-the-neighbor’s-bedroom floor plans and seeing some lovely fridge/fireplace combos, we opt to leave the neighborhood.

Scene Two: We put a For Sale By Owner ad in the paper for our current home. The next day, a mail truck arrives with bagfuls of thoughtful letters from well-wishing real estate agents, all a variation on: “Dear Bazer Family: I am thrilled to pieces you are selling your home on your own. I can’t tell you how invigorating it is to see ordinary homeowners try their hands in the real estate market. But when you fail, here’s my number.” A couple of weeks later, we sell our home — on our own.

Scene Three: My wife loves certain places I can’t stand, and I love certain places she can’t stand. We compromise and decide to buy a place toward which neither of us feels any emotion whatsoever. It’s in a kinder, gentler neighborhood, and it means we’ll have to become accustomed to a different Best Buy, but we believe we’re up to the challenge.

Scene Four: Closing day. We spend two hours signing our names over and over again on pieces of paper covered with fine print. If, five years from now, a 7-foot-tall bald man in a pink tutu and a bolo tie drives up in a go-kart and tells me I’ve signed over my firstborn to someone matching his description, he’ll probably be right.

Scene Five: I go get coffee for the movers. A man about to pull out of a parking spot at Dunkin’ Donuts tosses his empty soda can underneath his car. Witnessing acts of littering turns me into part Minuteman border patrol vigilante, part dean in “Old School.” I honk. I see the man fidget. I honk again. The man turns around. I hold my hand down on the horn. The man jumps out of the car and comes roaring toward me. Test-of-manhood time. If he sends me to the hospital, no big deal — I’ll get to spend the move in bed. But then my survival instinct kicks in. I say, “Sir, I believe you dropped your soda can, and I didn’t want you to lose it.” The man grunts, picks up the can and drives off.

Scene Six: After the movers leave, I, thanks to poor packing skills, spend the next several hours in a small Nissan racing to and from the new place, each time with 15 pairs of my wife’s shoes in my lap and a lamp in my ear. The two times I pass the neighborhood high school while students are outside en masse, my windows are open and the radio’s blasting. First time: “Ice Ice Baby.” Second time: “Let’s Hear It for the Boy.” So, this is what destined-never-to-be-cool feels like.

Scene Seven: As far as clichés go, they don’t get much more fun than the “You Will Discover Something Major Is Broken in Your New Home” one. In our case, it’s the water heater, which is leaking gas! We buy a new one, but our days of innocence, of carefree hayrides with water heaters, are forever gone.

Scene Eight: The cable guy comes. As he’s setting our cable up, he’s also fighting with his girlfriend on his cell phone. The entire time. Me: Um, excuse me. Him: Baby, I was there the whole night. Baby, hold on a sec. Yeah? Me: Um, sorry to bother you, but I also need cable in the bedroom. Him: OK, fine. Baby, let me call you back from the bedroom . . .”

Scene Nine: We try the neighborhood Indian restaurant. It’s terrific. With joy, we soak up the intense, unique flavors. So do our sweaters. Of course, the odor, however pleasant, will never leave them. We contemplate jamming them into a seal-tight plastic bag and labeling it: “Indian-Restaurant Sweaters.”

Scene Ten: Walking down the strip of stores and restaurants, I notice a sign announcing the upcoming “Neighborhood Cleanup Day.” I knew we should have closed a month later. Having just moved into the area, should I feel guilty about not participating in this, or should I wait until not participating in next year’s cleanup day to feel guilty? I shouldn’t complain. The best we could hope for in our old neighborhood was “Don’t Toss Your Soda Can Underneath Your Car Day.”

(Mark Bazer can be reached at mebazer@yahoo.com.)
(C) 2005 MARK BAZER, DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.