The Bottle Opener

So. I'm moving tomorrow. Yes, it's the old New York story of "I love my place, but I also like YOU and the commute is killing us and neither place is big enough and Christ, look at the deal we can get if we split rent so...we're ready to move in together, right?"
And we spent ALL of last weekend cleaning.
And I've spent MOST of this week packing. And packing. And packing.

And it's my last night, alone, in my first New York apartment.
The books and brilliant storage solutions and clothes for every kind of weather are packed.
My mattress is back on the floor the way it was my first month in the city.
The windows are open and the temperature's bumping up against ninety.
I still haven't caved to air conditioning. I *have* found all the best take-out places in my neighborhood, AND learned that it's still cheaper to cook at home.
I never have to be a first year teacher again.
It will never be my first year in New York again.
Plenty of reasons to celebrate.

So I buy a beer
(okay, actually a hard cider, but that makes me sound like a wuss, so for the purposes of this story, a beer).
And I take it home. And put it in the fridge.
And I take an ice-cold shower to bring down my body temperature.
And I sigh, grab my beer and...if you're a playwright, and you know about the importance of titles (see: Death of a Salesman, The Glass Menagerie), you may see where this is going...
and realize I've packed my bottle opener.
In one of my twenty heavy, taped boxes. Not only that (and believe me, I tested this) -- I've packed every object in my apartment that has any remote potential to open a bottle. Save, perhaps, my teeth. And friend, I can't afford that kind of dental work. So it's 90 degrees and I'm naked in an apartment with nothing but a mattress, taped boxes, and a laptop.

And God, do I want that beer.
And I'm thinking: This Is Its Own Special Place in Hell.

But I rally. And I write (dragon play, five pages, yippee!). And I eat bread with mustard on it (because that, friends, is what's left in the fridge at this point).

And I still want the fucking beer.

And then, I do the thing I should have done two hours prior. The thing that you, perhaps, dear reader, have been exhorting me to do for the last several sentences:

I throw on a dress.
I slip on my flip-flops.
And I march into the bar around the corner and say "I'm moving tomorrow. I have no bottle opener. Will you please open this?"
And the bartender laughs.
And she does.
And I stroll out.
And sip my beer (okay, cider) in triumph.
And I go back to my empty apartment.

"What on earth," you ask, "does this have to do with theater?"
Well, Dear Reader, it has something to do with overcoming your own myopia to truly assess your potential resources. It has something to do with the kindness of strangers and remembering, always, that there is a third solution in any situation. Beyond that, I'll sleep on it.
And tell you more from our new apartment.