The Cynic Express(ed) 2.21: The Cynic, Moved to Tears

     Sorry that I have been inattentive recently, but I have been in the process of moving from a small, one bedroom apartment to a large, three bedroom house in anticipation of my impending nuptials this spring. Of course, such a transition is not without its cost. As I prepared for the security deposit, moving truck, and cleaning supplies to remove those unseemly and unsmellable pet odors from my old apartment, I came into contact with some of that cost from unexpected and often unexplained directions.

     For starters, I paid a pet deposit when I got my old apartment. I didn't even have a pet, but I anticipated Machiavelli, the black cat I would acquire soon after I moved in. Little did I know that the local Cat Recycling Facility (or, as it is more commonly known, the Humane Society) would be bereft of young black male cats-as it stands, I have Dominique, a female. To provide a secure future for Dominique, I dropped two hundred dollars, non-refundable, for the damage my yet-unknown cat would wreak upon the dumpy little apartment that looked little like the demo apartment in the leasing center. As I stood in the empty apartment with the maintenance supervisor during my walk-through, he delivered a fifteen minute lecture on pet waste and the chemical signatures pets leave behind and the amount that would be deducted from my regular deposit. I wondered what two hundred dollars worth of damage my kitty had done so that the waste disposal would run into the regular security deposit. Ah, with a rather dull twang of cynical insight, I realized that it had not. The two hundred dollars was delivered into the in absentia hands of my corporate landlords for my privilege of having a cat. The reasons given, that it was for the damage the cat would cause, were all so that I and the rest of my pet-owning brethren would not revolt and head for other apartment complexes or arrangements without ludicrous pet deposits. Almost makes me wish Dominique and I had left a real pet deposit on their six year-old carpeting.

     I rented a truck from a corporation that I won't name--but let's just say that its first initial might stand for Unscrupulous. I was charged the original From price of $19.95 for a local move, but the unstated includes a forty-nine cents a mile charge and fourteen dollars insurance. Also, tacked onto my bill, I found a five dollar deposit for dolly rental and five dollars for pad rental. You see, this particular truck rental company has invaded the actual truck space with a dolly and pad storage cage. If I broke the plastic seals, I was informed, the company would charge me the five dollars for each, but if I did not use them, they would refund the amount from my credit card. When I opened the truck at my pick-up point, I could not find the plastic seals I was to break. When I returned the truck, I mentioned the fact that there were no plastic seals along with the other safety hazards I encountered with their truck. "Oh, I know, I noted that," the greasy young man behind the counter said. Of course he did. He was going to charge me the ten dollars anyway, unless I raised a ruckus. Remember, Unscrupulous Haul, from $19.95, if you don't drive the truck off the lot.

     So now that I am in my house, the next steps to happiness and productivity include changing the important utilities to the new house. I noticed on my phone bill, which I paid not too many days before I left the old bachelor pad for this marital (insert the responsible equivalent of the slang word "pad" here), that:

Okay, I misread it. I thought I was paying the extra forty-eight cents a month for the ability to keep my number when I moved. I asked the customer service rep, when I was told that I could do just what I wanted for only three and a half extra dollars a month, what the forty-eight cents a month was for. She told me it was a tax.

     Oh, but pardon me if I sound cynical, but the thumbnail definition of tax that I had been going by involved my money going to the government. Somehow, I think we need to tax ourselves to come up with a common meaning of "tax." Somehow, I do not think paying a private monopoly an extra bit of cash that the government has allowed constitutes a tax. Especially since I only have one local service provider and no chance to change my local service provider to someone less gouging.

     Maybe I am just cynical, but now that my ten minute hate is over, I might be a little bit more in touch with my negative emotions. And on the positive side, I am positive I am out two hundred and seventy some dollars and forty eight cents a month.