Last year, I moved from Los Angeles to New York. I had been a Californian for more than 30 years, and it seemed like time for a change.
There are many differences, we all know, between those two cities, but the biggest one for me is this: In Los Angeles, you almost never look at a thing and think, “Where on Earth am I going to put that in my house?”
In L.A., there’s plenty of light and space. If you see a thing you want to buy, you can be pretty sure it’ll fit somewhere. In New York, this is not the case. I live in what locals assure me is a “roomy and spacious” two-bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village, but the second bedroom is a little smaller than my old Venice Beach hall closet. And one of my New York bathrooms would fit easily into the nook where I used to keep my yoga mat.
I’m not complaining. I knew what I was getting into. And, even in its lockdown state, I love New York. Maybe especially in its lockdown state, because there’s nothing quite as lovely as walking around New York City without other New Yorkers around.
But every move, big or small, starts the same way. You throw things out. And I had a lot of stuff to get rid of.
It was the usual kind of stuff. Things that had accumulated over the years — scuba equipment, software manuals, old tax forms — none of which I had thrown away, because, well, why? I live in Los Angeles; I’ve got a garage, went the thinking. Just keep it all.
So, I found somebody in the trash-hauling business, gave them a call, and, the next day, an old, rattling truck creaked up my alley, and a bunch of vaguely seedy characters hopped off and started piling my stuff into the back of the truck.
The seediest guy, the one in the filthiest clothes, turned out to be the owner of the enterprise, a guy named Terry. (Makes you wonder about that old rule, “Dress for the job you want, not for the job you have.”) He looked at me and at my mountain of junk the way the art experts on Antiques Roadshow look at the rubes with their family treasures: with curiosity and a splash of judgmental disdain.
“What business are you in?” he asked, as one of his guys carried a fistful of my old phone chargers to the truck.
“I’m a writer,” I said.
He nodded sagely.
“I’m an actor,” he said. “But I also produce.”
This, as his rattling truck was being loaded up with 10 years’ worth of my garage junk, reminded me why I was eager to leave Los Angeles. Everyone, even the guy driving the junk truck, is in show business.
When they were done, I wrote him a check, and he gave me a few of his business cards to hand out to my friends. The card said, “Trash Hauling, Junk and Toxic Waste Removal.” And then, at the bottom, in loopy italics, it said, “Presented by Terry.”
Not “Owner Operator.” Or even “CEO.” But “Presented by Terry.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Presented by Terry?” I asked.
“Anyone can haul trash,” he said. “I like to think that I’m presenting a trash-hauling event. People like a little sizzle. Helps them remember me.”
Which sounded dumb, of course, until a week ago, when two people asked me if I knew anyone who could come and take away the pile of junk they’d each just dragged out of their respective garages. They, too, have decided to get out of Los Angeles and try somewhere else.
“I know just the guy,” I said. And so, Terry earned two more customers because he was right: People may forget the guy who hauled their trash, but they’ll never forget the guy who presented the trash-hauling experience. Everyone in Los Angeles thinks they’re in the entertainment business, and they may be right. Maybe we all are, but we just don’t know it.
Rob Long is a television writer, producer, and the co-founder of Ricochet.com.
