Chapter 8: The Suburban Mule
In 1998 North Brunswick was a place you navigated with a paper map, a sturdy pair of shoes, and a healthy dose of stubbornness. If you needed a ride, you didn't summon a car with a thumb-tap; you either walked, waited for a bus that operated on its own mysterious schedule, or—if you were lucky—you managed to get the number of a local, weathered taxi dispatch service from a neighbor. My house was a cavernous, beige monument to my own optimism. Furnishing it in 1998 was not a matter of "doorstep delivery"; it was a military-grade logistical operation. I would walk to the local bus stop, a folded-up Thomas Guide map tucked into my back pocket like a holy relic. I’d spend hours at the shopping plazas, hunting for deals on lamps and chairs. When I found something—a used dining set, a sturdy bookshelf—I would have to negotiate not just the price, but the transport. "How are you going to get this home, pal?" the seller would ask, eyeing my lack of a vehicle. ...