When the Universe Calls, Pick Up the Phone

In December 1997, the Universe demolished a building to get my attention. While it’s true that I can be off in my own dream world a lot, I thought the building thing was kind of extreme. Here’s how it happened.

In November 1997, I moved into a new office in downtown Charleston. I’d spent the first three years publishing Skirt! from the island where I lived, moving from a tiny office barely big enough to hold a desk, chair and bookcase, to a slightly larger one that was too small to qualify as a garret, to another one on the same floor that I outgrew almost immediately. I knew I needed more room and that I should be in the city, but it took months for me to decide to move off the island and then more months looking for the right space in the right neighborhood at the right price.

I looked and looked and looked. I drove my friends crazy. But nothing suited. In one place the light came in at a funny slant. In another, the elevator gave me the creeps. Yet another I rejected without even a look because the building reminded me of a horrible time in my life when I was freelancing and had to go there to pick up jobs I hated. My friends were beginning to lose patience.

“You’re never going to find what you’re looking for at the price you can pay,” they explained, pronouncing their words slowly and clearly, as if they were dealing with a moron. “Lots of light, an old building with character, a funky neighborhood with vitality? Why don’t you throw in valet parking while you’re at it?”

“Don’t be silly,” I said, “ but I do need reasonably priced parking close by.”
I knew I was being ridiculous but I’d spent too many miserable years working in too many ugly offices, and I knew how something as trivial as a particular shade of liver-colored wood veneer could throw me into a funk for months. I didn’t want an office park, shared secretarial services, a high-rise, an atrium, a switchboard, an elevator.

I was too embarrassed to call realtors with my wish list. Instead, I put in a toll-free call to the Universe. That’s what some of my New Age friends recommended with a knowing, serious look. I thought it sounded pretty goofy. After all, I’d scoured the real estate section of the paper, and if I couldn’t find something at the right price, how would the Universe, which probably didn’t subscribe to the daily paper or know any realtors, come up with what I wanted or needed? And how would I know if it was the real Universe calling or the Universe’s evil twin who specializes in leading people into booby-trapped life decisions? It seemed about as logical as consulting the Magic Eight Ball, but what the hell? I was desperate. I put in my request and forgot about it.

Around that time, I began to notice two little buildings being renovated on upper King Street. The old facades had been completely restored, and the two-story structures had a charming European air. I called the developer, but he said the interiors had to be completely gutted and refinished and right now there wasn’t even a staircase to the upper floors, so he couldn’t even show them to me. He was vague about when any of that might happen and what they would rent for eventually. Probably too much money anyway, I reasoned. I called him back periodically to check on the progress and kept looking.    

Several months passed, but I couldn’t get those buildings out of my mind. Every time I called, the answer was the same—no change, not yet, not sure when. Finally, though, there was a rudimentary staircase built in two of the buildings and I went to look and fell totally in love. Both were great, either would do.

Could we really afford it? “Yes,” said the accountant. But should we afford it? “Yes, yes, yes...I’ll sell, sell, sell,” said our lone sales person. Is it the right thing to do? “What do you think,” murmured my therapist friend. Was I bringing needless chaos into my life? “Ah, chaos can be cleansing,” said my New Age neighbor.

I dithered. I dallied. I hesitated. I agonized. I obsessed. I made lists of pros and cons on yellow legal pads. I considered finding someone to share it with us. And in the meantime, someone else rented both spaces.

I was devastated and relieved at the same time. I thought I’d be able to go on sitting on the fence for a while longer, but as it turned out, the developer just happened to have one last building left for rent, just a few doors up the street. It wasn’t one I’d really noticed or especially liked, but we went for a visit anyway. Inside was a derelict shell with pigeons roosting in the rafters, but there were four tall windows looking down on the street and more square footage than my apartment. I found myself writing a deposit check as if in a trance. Hands were shaken, and I was the stunned tenant of an office that existed only in our collective imagination. A few days later, the panic set in. I had to get out of this. Had I lost my mind? I hadn’t gotten a second opinion or even consulted the Magic Eight Ball. I had just...done it.

The building wasn’t finished on time, of course, so instead of moving in August, we didn’t take possession until November. That gave me plenty of time to dream up escape clauses...maybe the building would collapse and I wouldn’t have to move. Maybe there would be a hurricane and we’d have to evacuate and we wouldn’t have to move. Maybe there would be another war and middle-aged women would be drafted and I wouldn’t have to move.

As it turned out, we had to move—twice. The building wasn’t ready for occupancy when it was time to move out of our old space, so I worked at home and lulled myself into thinking that it would never be finished and we’d never have to move. Even when the movers came, I couldn’t quite believe it was happening. My mother will show up any time, I thought, and tell me it’s time to quit playing and come in and do my homework. But no, there I was, buying furniture, talking to the electric company, getting a fire inspection, ordering phone lines, pretending to be a grown-up.

I finally gave up trying to figure out if I’d made the right decision. It was pretty clear that I was on a runaway train, and the engineer was drunk. Before I knew it, we had interns who required chairs to sit on. Suddenly, we were planning an office-warming party, which required wine and cocktail napkins and cheese balls. (What if nobody came!?) One day a live plant showed up, which required its own watering can and a bottle of fertilizer. We even had our own parking spaces with freshly painted numbers. We were in business...and I still wasn’t sure I’d made the right decision. Until the night of our party.

Amazingly enough, scores of people showed up. They drank all the wine, ate all the cheese balls, and required no fertilizer. The evening seemed magical and somehow meant to be.

The next morning, a Saturday, I came to the office to clean up and found that the building next to ours had been demolished in the middle of the night. There was now an empty lot, leaving the outside wall of our building exposed for the first time in years. And painted on that wall in old faded black letters were the words Skirt Factory.

According to a history the landlord dug out of his files after this happened, the building dates back to the 1800s, and in 1903 it housed a shirt factory. Now what I figure is this...either the person who typed up the history made a typo and it was actually a skirt factory, or the Universe knew we would be coming nearly a century later and caused the sign painter’s hand to slip and make a typo. All I can say is, either way, the Universe knows to how to send a hell of a message and I’d like to say that at last, at long last, I get it.

Nikki Hardin is the founder and publisher of skirt!.

~Nikki Hardin