Sage, Mitch, Bill and I have worked together for so long that we can,and frequently do, read each other’s minds, so when we heard that our flight out of Atlanta would be extremely delayed, we rose without speaking and headed for the bar.
When we settled in, Bill, bored, decided we should create our “bucket lists,” the list of things we would like to do before we kick the bucket. Sage did not even pause. “I would like to attend my mother’s funeral,” she said darkly, “but it will never happen. That woman is going to bury me first.”
We’ve been down this road with Sage many times, and it’s not pretty, so wisely, no one responded. “I would like to have a marriage that lasts more than 7 years, “ said Mitch hastily, knowing full well that we all knew that none of his first four marriages had lasted that long. Bill’s desire was to climb Mount Rainer with his three kids. Then they all looked expectantly at me.
“I want a new sofa,” I said without hesitation, and my three co-workers nodded indifferently. “Do you want to know why?” I asked, and they all vehemently shook their heads. “Well, I’ll tell you,” I continued. Bill ordered another round.
I am in my mid-50’s and every sofa I have ever had was a hand-me-down from someone else. To furnish my first apartment after grad school my mother gave me a huge, floral sofa that she bought in 1969. This sofa was the size of a Buick and so ugly that when it was delivered she took one look at it, burst into tears and covered it with a sheet. Since she refused to ever remove the sheet, the couch was still in great shape when I got it. The sofa looked no better 15 years later, but I kept this horror, with the sheet firmly in place, until my brother and his first wife divorced when he took it for his new apartment.
After the floral number, my elderly neighbors gave me a velvet sleeper sofa (which they called a “davenport”) which was done in a busy East Indian print that featured plenty of hummingbirds. The davenport was so poorly cushioned that if you sat on it your feet flew up in the air and your butt sagged down to the floor. I kept this sofa for way longer than I should have until my older sister took it and gave it to her son.
At around this time my middle sister and her second husband were redecorating so I took custody of their enormous sectional sofa that would have filled up an entire corner of an airport terminal. The sofa was way too big for my apartment and I’ve never liked sectionals and it was filthy, but I figured for a free sofa I could not be too choosy. This sofa was covered in some kind of white canvas fabric that would remove a layer of skin if you were foolish enough to actually sit on it. Since, at that time, my sister and husband kept a couple of Doberman Pinschers, the sofa came complete with a whole colony of fleas. After my sister’s husband and I placed the sofa in my living room and I watched, appalled, as the fleas came out to play, my brother-in-law said, “I think $150 is a fair price; can you swing that?”
The sectional stayed with me until my partner and I moved in together; getting rid of the sofa was the only condition he established prior to our co-habitation, and the sectional went to my cousin upstate who kept it on his front porch next to the washing machine.
When my partner and I finally moved in together I was stunned that he brought his hand-me-down sofa, a red leather number that his cats, who thought it was a scratching post, had reduced to ribbons. I’m not sure this sofa was a step up from the sectional but we kept it until we moved into our new house, at which point I was ready, finally, to get a sofa I actually liked.
I told this to my middle sister, and she shook her head, “Nonsense,” she said. Her third mother-in-law had just passed away, leaving behind a leather sofa with a built in chaise. “It’s like new,” said my sister.
“What color is it?” I asked nervously. Her third mother-in-law’s taste ran to what I call “Staten Island Grande” with lots of brocade and flocked wallpaper.
“It’s like a neutral butterscotch,” said my sister after a pause. I was about to decline but my partner, who hates to spend money, spoke first. “We’ll take it,” he said
Several days later my nephews hauled this monstrosity into our house and I stood, mouth agape, for a long moment. The sofa was enormous and the attached chaise jutted halfway across the living room. The color, charitably, was best described as “orange.” Tropicana orange. My sister refused to look at me. My partner left the room and came back with a sheet.
“Can I pay you for it?” I asked my sister snarkily after I regained the ability to speak. This perked her right up.
“I told you it was like new,” she said happily. “How about $150?” she said.
