Moving Sucks
It was good to be back in New York. Teller loved it there. After living in England, he wanted to settle down someplace that defined America, and New York was it. Everything a person could possibly need to survive could be found within five blocks of that person’s apartment. Anything that wasn’t found within five blocks of that person’s apartment was a simple - albeit, sometimes strange - subway ride to get there. Teller could have probably been easily forgiven for assuming that, aside from the occasional trip to San Francisco, he could have lived the rest of his life without ever leaving his neighbourhood.
And aside from that frankly terrifying man two floors up, he didn’t want to.
Which is exactly why he wasn't at all surprised to find himself standing in his front room, trying to figure out what the hell to do with everything that he’d manage to pack away over the last nine years. Because ever since Penn waltzed into his life like some sort of sword-swallowing pied piper, every ounce of predictability had flown right out the window.
He did not want to go on tour. Going on tour meant changing everything. AGAIN. FUCK.
He couldn’t get rid of his books. Some of them were far too rare and valuable, and going back through them always netted some sort new idea that could be warped and twisted into something brand new that no one had ever done before.
The props he’s collected are in the same boat. He’d spent quite a bit of money on most of them, and those he didn’t spend quite a bit of money on, he’d built, either by himself, or paid someone else to do it. And those ones were for one specific bit that he’d written, so they’d be worthless to anyone else.
The piano... well, he’d inherited that with the apartment, and even he couldn’t figure out how the hell they’d managed to squeeze it in there. Far as he was concerned, the only way to get it out would be with a chainsaw.
Which did sound sort of fun, and would probably relieve a lot of stress right now.
Out of ideas, Teller gave up with trying to figure everything out for now. Maybe he’d just call it an early night. It wouldn’t be productive, but at least he could put on a record or something and read for a little bit.
He opened his bedroom door, and gazing at the sight before him, was struck by a sudden bolt of lightning.
Problem solved?