Couch

by Benjamin Parzybok

  The fact that every several years or so Erik lost everything he owned kept his possessions to a minimum. He had extensive personal hygiene equipment, a few shirts, and several hats, one of which was straw. He took off his shirt and put his straw hat on and did some maneuvers in front of a mirror. He had a fake beard, which he’d never used but always liked the idea of using. He threw it all in a pillowcase and busied himself with eating whatever was left in the refrigerator and cupboards, which included a Jell-O mix that he ate by the spoonful. The sickness that followed he tried to chase away by eating half a block of cheese.

  Thom spent the first thirty minutes inventorying his computer gadgetry, packing it, taking it out, and putting it in the Goodwill pile, feeling heartbroken, and then packing it again. It was a nice laptop, if a bit old, he admitted, going over its curves. All of his projects were uploaded to a server, so he could access them from anywhere. But still, the laptop was a connection to a whole people, to a different people, his people. Most of his friends he’d never met in the flesh, though he would never admit this publicly, especially not to Erik or Tree. His virtual, fleshless relationships were the domain of the ultranerdy, the hopelessly introverted and socially maladjusted, especially in the absence of real relationships. If his mother knew the level to which he had sunk, she would weep. A Brazilian expert on TCP/IP protocols, a German and an Israeli working on PHP stuff, a Taiwanese and Chinese guy who were working on rival open-source databases, a Japanese Objective-C guy, a girl in Vermont who specialized in information design, several South American Apache-server people, a scattering of Americans and Canadians. They weren’t friend friends. He knew little to nothing about their lives. But they were friends, and he loved them deeply. They didn’t talk about much but their area of specialty, and they all seemed to utilize a wry banter that acknowledged that they knew where they stood in their own societies, which team they were on. A few of them had become filthy rich, but mostly they were people with unmatchable attention spans, people who could spend fifteen hours a day for weeks in front of a computer working on a murky, obscure problem that would most likely never be appreciated except by a tiny handful of people in their world. Most of them had shitty jobs working for companies that didn’t understand them. They were close to the machine. They thought with steadfast logical minds and occasional explosive bouts of creativity that, at times, would reengineer the way machines interacted with humans or the way machines interacted with other machines.

  The phone rang, and Thom heard Erik say: “Stop calling. We’re leaving, you molester-bastard-pervert-cocksucker.”

  “Don’t tell them we’re leaving,” Tree said belatedly from down the hall.

  Thom shut his door. He decided to take the laptop. With it he threw in his cheap digital camera, a radio modem, and a couple of changes of clothes that he carefully folded and packed around the equipment in a backpack. He decided to send his pots and pans, desk, and whatever else to the Goodwill. He thought his life was changing; it must be changing. Fate had certainly cleared out any holds he’d had on life here.

  Then in the living room he ran into his books. With an ache in his throat, Thom went through his entire sodden collection, water still an inch deep at the bottom of the box. Bloated and falling apart, their glues melted, covers warped. He pulled out a reprint of Independent People by Halldór Laxness, and the sheep on the cover came off, stuck to his thumb. The pages of Haruki Murakami’s Dance Dance Dance were oatmeal, indistinguishable from each other. And a book apiece by Rick Moody, E. Annie Proulx, and Richard Powers respectively had become like Siamese triplets, the whole inseparable without fatally damaging each of its parts. All of them doomed to the Dumpster.

  The couch was surprisingly light. Erik and Thom each carried an end and Tree ran around opening doors, making sure they angled it down the stairs properly. Thom wished he had a place to store it. He briefly thought of his ex-girlfriend’s basement and then wished he hadn’t.

  Both Erik and Thom were aware of being out in daylight, in public view for the first time in a while. Here they were, announcing they were leaving. They were taking the symbol of sedentary life and getting rid of it. They were off. They felt exultant.

  They carried the couch the two blocks down Burnside and realized they were something to look at. Three men and a couch at a stoplight. Several people waved and they smiled in return.

  They came to the Goodwill parking lot and carried the couch to the garage-style entrance, the weight of it beginning to pull on them.

  The man in charge of donations was in his late sixties and dressed in blue jeans and a blue sweatshirt. His face was lined and grim, and his nose projected from his face like a geometry problem gone awry. He came and stood over the couch, fingered the back of it for a while.

  “I can’t take this,” he said. He tapped it with his shoe and inspected the stitching, picked up one end and measured the heft. “No, sir, I can’t take it.” He adjusted his baseball cap, revealing well-groomed gray and black hair.

  “Can’t take it?” Thom looked over at the wall of donations and saw a mound of couches in far rattier condition than theirs.

  “Can’t take it.”

  “Why on earth not?” Thom said.

  “It’s not a brand-name couch.”

  “It’s a handmade couch,” Thom said. “Don’t they sell?”

  “Yes, but this one won’t.”

  Tree nodded. “There’s something about this couch.”

  The older man nodded with him. “Yes, there is,” he said.

  “What are you guys talking about? It’s a perfectly nice couch.” Thom waved one arm up and down and tried to tamp down the confusion. “If we weren’t leaving, I’d keep it. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Do I know you from somewhere?” Erik said.

  The man squinted his eyes at Erik and then shook his head decisively.

  “Hmm,” Erik said. He rubbed his middle finger over the scrub of a newly shaved mustache. “Okay, okay.” He looked at Thom and Tree. “Well, this is no setback, guys. We’ll just dump it in your dumpster there.” He pointed to a giant Dumpster on the edge of the parking lot.

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “What? Come on. The hell are we going to do with it?”

  “You could try William Temple. It’s another secondhand store down Twenty-third, on Glisan, about six, seven blocks from here.”

  “Seven blocks from here.” Erik’s voice climbed an octave. “We’ve brought the damn thing far enough.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you,” the man said and walked away.

  Erik hauled back and kicked the base of the couch.

  “Come on,” said Thom. “It’s our last Portland task. It’s the last trial.”

  “What’s he going to do if we just leave it,” Erik mouthed and jerked his thumb at the old man.

  “Come on,” said Thom.

  “I’ve got it.” Tree stood at Erik’s end, placed his hands under the couch, and squatted, waiting for Thom.

  Thom picked up his end, and they backed out of the loading bay. Erik followed.

  “What if they don’t take it at this Willard place?” Erik said. “There are buses leaving right now!”

  “William,” Thom said. “I suspect they’ll take it. That guy was nutty. There’s nothing wrong with this couch.” With Thom walking backward holding the front end of the couch, they returned to Burnside and Twenty-third.

  Twenty-third was the most fashionable and ritziest of Portland’s streets. Full of posh, expensive shops and fancy restaurants. Only Erik had felt at home on the street, but now he continually looked over his shoulder, making sure none of his past marks were about. It was the kind of street that made Thom feel larger, more stooped, fleshier, more clumsy. Beautiful women were everywhere.

  At the first block, a woman in her forties pulled up in a Mercedes.

  “Looking good, boys. After this, I’ve got a couple at my house you can move around.”

  “You’ll have to wait in
line, ma’am. We’re wanted from coast to coast for this work,” Erik said, finding his voice.

  “I can imagine, I can imagine. What’s your job then?” She winked at Erik.

  “I’m in charge of precision.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Oh my.” She winked again and drove off.

  “This isn’t so bad,” Erik mused. He rolled his shoulders, cased the street.

  Halfway to Davis Street, a group of four young women parted to let them through, smiling and waving them on. A small, lithe brunette with a frightening number of freckles smiled directly at Thom. Thom couldn’t remember the last time a woman had smiled at him. He chuckled to himself, a pleasant tickle along his spine. I’m fine. How are you? His brain carried on conversations with her for the next block. We don’t look like workmen, he thought. We just look like some guys carrying a couch. We’re just a couple of guys carrying a couch on the poshest street in Portland. The couch felt light and comfortable in his hands.

  “How about letting me ride on the couch?” Erik said. “We might as well give these people a nice show.”

  Thom rolled his neck. “We’ve got a trip. I don’t think your riding on the couch is going to help our progress much. Let’s just get it there.”

  At Everett they set the couch down on the corner and waited for the light to change. Tree instinctively sat on it to rest, and the two roommates followed, which brought a drove of honking, waving, and laughter from cars driving by.

  “This is really the oddest experience,” said Erik. “If I’d known about this phenomenon earlier, I’d have been out here every day with this couch.”

  Thom nodded. It suddenly felt like he was part of something. They were somehow making headway in the world. They’d received a social upgrade, just for carrying a couch.

  A car pulled up to the curb, and a man leaned out the window. “Performance art?”

  Thom chuckled. “No—”

  “Yes, sir,” said Erik. “What do you think?”

  “I love it, I love it.” He reached his arm out the window toward Erik. “Where’s your hat? Here’s a fiver.”

  Erik’s jaw could be heard snapping open. He leapt up, shook the man’s hand, and took the fiver. “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit,” he said when the man had driven off.

  “So will I,” said Thom.

  Erik did a jig and sunk the fiver deep in a pocket. “Let’s stay here. We’re artists!”

  Thom shook his head. “Ah geez. We’re going on a trip. Let’s keep moving.”

  The light turned green, and Erik took up Tree’s end of the couch. A group of people from the opposite corner called out and waved, and they smiled. Thom tried to gauge if these reactions were condescending or the type of reaction a crowd had to a freak-circus act and reassured himself they weren’t. They turned right at Glisan, following the directions, and Thom thought he felt something shift within the couch.

  “I’ve got to rest for a second.” Erik dropped his end of the couch about twenty steps down the street, and Thom lurched to a stop and swore.

  “I don’t think this is the right turn,” Tree said.

  Erik sat on the couch. They were down the street slightly and shaded by trees, out of sight of traffic and pedestrians.

  Thom stepped out in the street and looked for the William Temple sign. “It’s right there,” said Thom. Tree nodded, but to Thom he looked bafflingly unconvinced. “It’s right there,” he said again. “Half a block away. Let’s do this.”

  They picked up the couch again, this time with a great effort.

  “What in the hell?” Erik’s face was turning red.

  “We’ve come a pretty good distance.” Thom backed down the street. He felt tired, and his arms ached. They made it to the loading door of William Temple and rang the bell.

  “Finally,” Thom said.

  “I agree, gets damn heavy after a while. But that was fun.” Erik shook his arms out. “Going to have to remember that.” He pulled the five dollar bill from his pocket and waved it at them, and then wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. It began to rain lightly.

  The door of the loading bay slowly rolled up, revealing a small dingy area crammed with what appeared to be rejected donations stacked in great disarray. A man in tan overalls with a prominent nose stepped into the doorway, and they all gawked.

  “You work at the Goodwill!” Thom said.

  “Vhat?” said the man with a faint Eastern European accent. He raised his eyebrows.

  Erik glanced uncomfortably at his roommates. “Listen, we know you work at the Goodwill. Don’t jerk us around.”

  “I do no such think.” The man backed up a step.

  “We just saw you, buddy,” Erik said. Thom nodded his head, and Tree stared at the ground.

  “I do not tolerate rudeness,” the man said calmly. “Thees is not part of my job.” He shrugged his shoulders and pressed a button, and the loading-bay door started to roll down.

  “Wait!” Thom threw his arms up. “Our mistake, our mistake!” He leaned down to appeal to the man and caught him with an amused smile. “Listen, we’re sorry, we’ve just got this couch, great couch.”

  Erik jumped forward and reached his arms under the door to stop it. The man delivered two quick whacks with a cane, and Erik jumped back again. When the door was at the man’s ankles, Erik gave it a swift kick and then held his toe.

  “I never, ever thought it would be so hard to get rid of a couch,” Thom said.

  “What an asshole!”

  “Maybe the couch doesn’t want us to get rid of it,” Tree said.

  Erik lunged for Tree, got him by his collar, and shook. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  Thom grabbed Erik and pulled him off of Tree. “You alright, Tree?” Tree nodded and smiled.

  Erik pranced around energetically on the curb. “Maybe the couch doesn’t want us to get rid of it,” he mimicked in falsetto.

  “Erik, stop it!” Thom said.

  “Sorry, dude, I’m really sorry, but ARRRGH!” He balled his fists. “How hard can this fucking be?! Let’s leave it here. That old bastard.”

  “Leave it here, I wilt call cops.” The old man’s voice came from a speaker next to the loading bay.

  Erik jabbed the Talk button on the speaker. “You bastard!”

  “Ha ha ha,” said the speaker.

  Erik grabbed the speaker and tried to yank it off the wall.

  “Erik! That’s enough.” Thom grabbed Erik’s arm and pulled him back.

  Erik was frothing mad and wheeled around in several directions until he came back to the couch, which he flailed at until he had exhausted himself. “Alright,” he whispered angrily. “We’ll take it to the corner and leave it. They’ll never be able to find us.”

  Thom looked skeptical.

  Erik gestured at Tree with his chin. “Your turn.”

  Tree nodded and handily picked up his end of the couch.

  “That is the same guy though, right?” Erik pulled on his upper lip.

  Thom wasn’t good with faces, but the two did seem similar, even identical. Then he realized it made absolutely no sense. “No,” he said at last. “They have to be different people.”

  Thom took his end and noticed that the rest had relieved the ache. They walked about thirty steps toward Twenty-third when the man leaned out of another door. “Don’t leave it at zee corner,” he shouted after them.

  Erik turned and ran back, but the door quickly shut.

  “Thom?” Tree said, the quality of squint on his face that of a child before he asks why whales don’t have fingers.

  “Yes?”

  “I want to try an experiment.”

  “Okay,” Thom looked back to make sure Erik was coming. He felt mildly alarmed at being alone with Tree.

  “Walk the other way.”

  “Back toward William Temple?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I just want to see what happens.”

  “Ok
ay . . . ,” Thom repressed a sigh. The boy was odd, but it was a harmless request. He looked over his shoulder and backed toward William Temple, keeping his eye on where the old man might come out.

  “What are you doing!?” Erik’s voice had notched to a higher pitch.

  Thom’s muscles burned with tiredness. What in the hell were they doing?

  “See?” said Tree.

  Thom turned back to Tree, who wore a smile of wonderment.

  “See what?”

  “It’s heavier.”

  “What?”

  “It’s heavier this way. Watch. Walk back toward Twenty-third.”

  They changed directions, and Thom noticed he didn’t feel as tired, like someone had taken over a share of his burden.

  “See?”

  “I don’t know, Tree.”

  “Walk back the other way again.”

  “Stop it! Stop it! Are you idiots!?”

  But Thom was curious now, and indeed the couch took on a whole new weight.

  Thom looked up at Tree, his eyes wide with surprise. “It’s not possible.”

  Tree nodded. “Heavier.” He pushed toward William Temple and then pulled Thom back the other way. “Lighter!”

  “You guys!” Erik hopped twice in frustration.

  “You try.” Thom offered Erik his side.

  “I don’t want to carry it. I want to get on a bus.”

  “I’ll carry it, I’ll carry it. Just pick it up for a second.”

  “I don’t want to, Thom.”

  “Do it,” Thom growled.

  Erik gave Thom a hurt look and reluctantly took his end of the couch.

  Tree backed Erik toward William Temple and after six feet stopped and changed direction. They took two steps, and Erik shrieked and dropped his end of the couch. Tree fell heavily on the armrest.