It was a rainy Sunday afternoon. My partner and I decided to see an early movie at the Imax theatre, but the movie was sold out except for a couple of stray seats in the front row. We decided to leave; sitting in the front row of the Imax theatre guarantees instant nausea and a daylong headache.
Aimlessly, we headed home, debating what to do. As we drove, I saw a huge sign in front of furniture store on Federal Highway: “Recession-Buster Clearance Sale!” it said. I tried to divert my partner’s attention, but it was too late: he is genetically unable to pass by a clearance sale. “Let’s look for a new sofa,” he said.
He had a point: We have a truly disgraceful sofa that we got second-hand from my brother 15 years ago. It is threadbare and the exact color of a hairball, which is quite efficient since it is the preferred place for our three cats to vomit. This sofa is so bad that if we ever replace it I’ll be embarrassed to put it in the yard on bulk garbage day.
We went into the furniture store and were immediately accosted by one of those pushy salesmen who wear too much cologne, the kind who follows you closely for fear you might steal a dining room set if left unsupervised. His name was Morty.
Unfortunately, even the clearance sofas were beyond our meager budget, and we prepared to go. Then, as we turned a corner, I tripped over a leather ottoman; it was a color that could most charitably be called “orange” and a size that could most accurately be called “huge.” I was about to make a snide remark about the kind of people who would have a huge, orange ottoman in their house but then I looked at my partner and I knew I was in trouble: His eyes were shining.
“It’s only $100,” he said. I began to get nervous.
“It was originally $1200,” said Morty, and my partner nodded dreamily.
I took a deep breath and began my objections. “We don’t have room for it,” I said.
“Use it as a coffee table,” said Morty. I took Morty’s tape measure: The ottoman was 48 inches square, which is a larger than our refrigerator. “We could use it as the dining table,” I said. Morty rolled his eyes.
“It’s also orange!” I pointed out. “”It’s ‘pumpkin’,” said Morty; “very stylish!”
I was getting frantic. “It won’t fit in the car,” I said, and Morty countered with: “We deliver!” as though he had closed the sale. Uncharacteristically, my partner was silent, so I breathed a sigh of relief and we high-tailed it out of the store.
I left for a business trip the next day. When I returned three days later I was stunned to walk into the house and see the ottoman in the middle of the living room. It sat there, conspicuous and slightly embarrassed, as though it knew it was not welcome. I turned to my partner.
He was defensive. “I couldn’t resist,” he said; “it was such a good bargain I had to go back. Morty marked it down to $50 and threw in free delivery.” He paused: “I think he wanted to get rid of it.”
“I understand the feeling,” I said, horrified. “Is it returnable?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.
The ottoman sits in the middle of the room, an obvious focal point and enduring conversation piece. The cats were so appalled at this colossal lapse of taste that they would not even venture into the living room for several days and started to throw up on the bed instead. At least they now have an excuse. I understand the feeling.