Couch

by Benjamin Parzybok

  “You’re a bit lost, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. About that . . .” said Thom. “I-84 is up here somewhere, right?” They set the couch down a safe distance to the side of the tracks. Thom glanced at his watch, wondering if the trains ran on a schedule. “How’d you find us?”

  “Well, that’s a funny thing. You know I drove for several hours out on I-84 yesterday, and what do you know, there was no sign of you. I got home and just happened to ring up my father, and he said he gave a lift to some funny gentlemen carrying a couch.”

  “A lift?” Thom traced the day before and couldn’t remember being in a car, and then remembered. “Your father is Theo?”

  Jean smiled. “I know, I know all about him. You don’t have to give me that look.”

  “He was great,” Tree said.

  “Thanks. The comments I get about him are generally all over the place.”

  “So you talked to him and—”

  “He told me where he left you. We decided you’d probably camped right away, and I figured if I got an early start I could be up here in time. I’m pretty familiar with these tracks, as you can imagine.”

  “I can imagine,” Thom said.

  “So how’s the big journey coming, besides the, you know, compass issues. Where’s your friend?”

  “Erik is having sort of a hard time with us, as well as the couch, right now.” Thom studied her and wondered if they were really doing something that merited being followed by a journalist. He wanted privacy to figure out what was happening here for himself before anyone else was involved—but then he wanted her validation . . . And let’s be frank, brain said. You want her to admire you.

  “Yo!” Erik jogged toward them.

  “Ah, looks like he’s recovered,” Thom said. “There have been some issues around the couch.”

  “Issues?” Jean said and saw Thom and Tree exchange glances. “What sort of issues?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t even know where to start.”

  Erik jogged up. “Hey, guys, how’s it going? Jean,” he said and stuck out his hand, “good to see you.”

  “Hi, Erik. I heard you had some issues with the couch.”

  Erik glanced at Thom and Tree. “Nah,” he said. “I was just taking the morning off.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, I had one or two tiny issues with it.” He smiled and looked apologetically at Tree. “Tiny little ones. And maybe I . . . expressed my issues dramatically. And maybe I thought the couch was trying to kill me, us, for just a tiny, little moment, ha ha. But I’m over that. I’m shipshape now.” Erik did a couple of quick half-squats, balled his fists and waved them in the air like a cheer.

  “That doesn’t sound entirely sane, but I’m sure it is,” Jean said. She gave Thom a mock worried look.

  “It’s not a normal couch,” Tree said.

  “We have had a little bit of couch gossip. We’ve done some speculating,” Thom said. A pressure began to build on his lower intestine.

  “I’m not getting the story here,” Jean said.

  “Well,” said Thom, feeling his face redden. “This is pretty hard to explain, and it’s not going to be very believable. The reason we didn’t go out I-84 was because the couch was too heavy to carry that way.”

  Jean squinted.

  “What I’m saying is, we’ve noticed times that the couch is heavier going one way than the other. And we’ve tested it. I’m positive it’s not an attitudinal thing.”

  Jean shook her head. “I guess I’m having trouble believing you.”

  “I understand,” Thom said.

  “The other thing,” said Erik, “is the couch tries to kill you when you sleep in it.” Erik did his best to say this like a joke.

  “Ha ha,” said Jean. She took her keys from her pocket and fondled the ignition key.

  “Erik feels that the couch has put him in a deep sleep every time he’s slept on it.” Thom eyed the keys in her hand. “The best I can do is assure you that we’re not going crazy and that we’re approaching the couch in a scientific manner.” His stomach gurgled. A scientific manner, he thought. What the hell was he talking about?

  “Jean,” Tree said. “Try it.” Tree picked up one end of the couch and waited for her.

  “No. I probably shouldn’t.” She turned toward her car and then changed her mind. “Oh, what the hell,” she said. She walked to the couch. “Is there some kind of method?”

  “Just pick it up. I’ll show you about the weight,” Tree said.

  Thom tensed. Maybe they were all delusional. He willed the couch to be strange.

  She picked up the couch, and Tree took her through the back-and-forth routine. The expression of skepticism turned to surprise and then wonder on the next back and forth. “Okay,” said Jean. “That is very, very odd. Did you tell my father about this?” She ran her hands over the couch, inspecting it.

  “No. Theo is Jean’s father,” Thom said to Erik.

  “Wow, I love that guy!” Erik reached out and shook her hand again, and she smiled. “You believe us now, right?”

  “I have to believe you about the weight.” She shook her head. “Really that is just very strange. I can’t imagine what kind of mechanism could do that.”

  “Only a gyroscope,” said Thom. “That I know of. But you’ve got to spin it, and nobody has spun this one. The bottom is impossible to get open—you can’t cut into it with a knife. Unless, unless it’s some kind of perpetual-motion gyroscoping . . .” Thom’s voice trailed off.

  Jean nodded. “You must understand, for one, I’m a journalist, and objectivity and truth are hypothetically sort of high on my list, so you shouldn’t take it personally when I doubt you.”

  Thom nodded. “I know.”

  “And secondly, if I go writing stories about a couch that’s a different weight when you carry it a different direction, I might not have a job after a while.”

  “I know. I put up a bulletin board on my site for people to talk about the couch. Mostly it’s weird, but interesting nevertheless. I’m a programmer, and this sort of stuff doesn’t work into my belief system very well either.” Thom borrowed her pen and wrote down the address for his website.

  “Sanchopanchez.net? That’s your site?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re Thom Bakker?”

  “Geez. Your father recognized my name too. I’ve never met so many people who knew who I was. It’s really, really rare,” he said more to Erik and Tree than to Jean.

  “Don’t take this wrong, but you’re a hero of mine.”

  “Hero.” Thom belched and put his giant hands over his face, feeling like a polar bear. “Just a moment,” he said, and then added, “I think I’m taking it wrong.”

  “What’s all this about?” Erik said. “Some kind of computer thing?”

  Jean nodded. “You guys don’t know?”

  Tree and Erik shook their heads.

  “You’re traveling with a famous criminal,” she said, and Thom blushed again.

  “Wow,” said, Erik looking impressed. “What’d he do? What’d you do, Thom?”

  She eyed Thom and then after a minute said, “I’ll let him tell you.”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Thom mumbled, feeling like a fool with his hands over his face. Just be normal, he counseled himself, take the compliment, say thank you, change the subject, say that’s a nice jacket. He breathed deeply, removed his hands. “That’s a nice jacket,” he said.

  Jean looked down at her jacket. “But anyway,” she said, “that is interesting. It adds a whole new angle to the possibility of a story, though then again, I’m not sure if I’ve got a story here.”

  “Why not? It’s more of a story now, right?” Erik said.

  “Well, when I left you last it was a human-interest-type story. You were carrying this couch across America to fight hunger or something.”

  Erik smiled. “That’s right! That is what we’re doing.” He nodded twice sharply, then worked a couple of e
xpressions with waning confidence. “Actually, no, you’re right, that’s not what we’re doing.” He looked at Thom for help.

  “We don’t know what we’re doing.”

  “Thom!” said Erik.

  “Right,” Jean said. “There’s no story yet, partially because the couch is . . . whatever the couch is, and that makes it a lot more complicated for me. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe you have something going though. You do. You’ve just got to figure it out.”

  “I think we’re going somewhere far away,” Tree said.

  “Okay.” She smiled. “Here’s my card so that you can get a hold of me.” She handed them each a card. “That still doesn’t help me much. Have you got any ideas on what you’re doing?”

  “Sure, sure,” Thom smiled. “We’re an absurd quests movement.”

  “Yeah, that’s how I feel coming out here to interview you. But really, that I could write an article on. But I don’t think you can be doing that with a couch like this.”

  “I know,” Thom said. “I’ve been thinking about what Theo said, that this could be more of a symbolic protest against modern American culture. We’re taking the symbol of sedentary life, and we’re making it an action.”

  “Hmm, an anti-apathy protest?”

  “Yes, something like that.”

  “I like it. That would be fine, except, again, the couch issue. If it were a normal couch, yes. Go get yourselves a normal couch and I’m set and the article is written.”

  A large Ford truck drove up and came to a stop next to Jean’s car. A man leaned out with sunglasses and well-groomed hair. “Is that an abandoned couch there?”

  “No, sir,” Erik said. “It’s ours.”

  The man slowly removed his sunglasses. “I see. How much do you want for it?”

  “It’s not for sale.” Tree put his hands on his hips.

  “It’s a nice couch. Are you sure you wouldn’t consider an offer?”

  Tree repeated that it wasn’t for sale. Erik asked the man what his offer was.

  “Seems to be a little dissent among the crew.” The man smiled. “I’ll give you two hundred bucks. Good price for an old couch.”

  Erik pointed at Tree. “He’s right. It’s not for sale.”

  “Five hundred then.”

  “Sorry,” Thom said.

  “A thousand.”

  “It’s just an old couch,” Jean said. “Is it really worth a thousand dollars to you?”

  “Sure. I’ve been looking for a couch just like that. It would please the missus to no end. I think a thousand dollars to please a lady is a reasonable amount.”

  “Is the couch for sale, boys?” Jean said.

  Thom shook his head. “I hate to disappoint your wife, but I think we’re going to hold on to the couch.”

  The man drew his lips tight over his teeth. “What if I were to offer you two thousand?”

  “It’s not for sale!” yelled Tree, his voice wandering across octaves. “Go away!”

  “No sense in being rude about it. Have it your way.” He did a slow U-turn and drove off in the direction he’d come.

  “Uh, two. Thousand. Dollars, Tree! I think we need to huddle here pretty soon and talk about some things. Two thousand dollars!” Erik yelled. “Idiots!”

  Thom nodded. “We sure do. I wish I’d thought to ask him what his email address was.”

  “Well, that was extraordinary,” Jean said. She pulled a pad from her back pocket and thumped it against her thigh. “This is definitely a story. I just don’t know what the hell it is.”

  “You alright, Tree?” Thom said. Tree stood with his hands clenched. “Tree?” Tree looked at them blankly for a moment and then relaxed.

  “Hi,” Jean said. “Remember us?”

  “Sorry,” Tree said. “I’m just nervous. Other people want the couch.”

  “Nervous! You’re more than that.” Erik threw up his hands. “You’re insane. It’s an effking couch!”

  “He would have offered more than that,” Jean said. “He was doubling the price without much hesitation. That man wanted your couch. Anyway, that reminds me, I brought you things. You seem a lot more prepared than the last time I ran into you, but I brought food and water. You probably won’t be needing the map of I-84.”

  They rifled through the things Jean had brought them.

  “Even a bottle of wine,” said Jean and smiled, pulling a two-liter bottle of red wine out of a paper bag.

  “You’re a goddess,” Erik said and grabbed the bottle.

  Jean smiled at Thom. “Don’t be telling anybody. I don’t want to be seen bribing my story. I’m supposed to be the neutral observer, not the . . . ah . . . goddess.”

  Thom risked a friendly wink. Perhaps he could mean it as the neutral observer, semi-neutral.

  Erik uncorked the wine. “Why don’t you come with us?” He took several gulps off the bottle, and they passed it around.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, “though I’m not going to say you don’t make carrying a couch look fun.”

  She’d brought picnic fare: bread, cheese, olives, grapes, and the wine, and they feasted on the hood of her car, the couch just to the side of the tracks.

  A train roared by, and they collectively cheered in relief and then had to tell Jean about the mishap of the day before.

  They left Jean waving good-bye and promising to meet them in Astoria in two days. They carried the couch around a bend in the tracks, and the journey took on the feel of an occupation. The forest loomed on one side, the river coursed deep on the other, and they traversed the thin trail between, where they felt the loneliness of a journey with an unknown destination, the melancholy of a quarter of a two-liter bottle of wine each, the anxiety of leaving civilization.

  They trudged on. Erik took turns again on the carrying. The tracks twisted close to the river, putting them in view of the freighters and fishermen, and then away again, through industrial areas. They went under grain silos and passed concrete and gravel plants. They had a run-in with a dog—Erik threw rocks and growled back while Thom and Tree hurried the couch by.

  They walked through a town, looking like some medieval band on a supernatural crusade, a grand parcel in tow, bruised and dirtied and limping. A young farmhand driving a battered pickup pulled up and offered a ride, and Tree declined.

  “We don’t always have to carry it,” Erik grumbled. “I don’t know what the difference is. Back of a truck sounds pretty nice.”

  “We won’t know which way it wants to go if we don’t carry it,” Tree said.

  Erik looked at Thom, who shrugged, and they left it at that. Thom traded Erik positions on the couch, and Erik ran up to a gas station and brought them back candy bars, cigarettes, and sunflower seeds.

  “Oral fixations!” he announced, arriving back at the couch caravan. He passed out the candy bars, and Thom realized he was having fun. You don’t know how depressed you are, he thought, until you utterly change your situation. He remembered how he’d been spending his time, sitting at his computer sending out résumés, being beaten over the head by a wet umbrella. They were on an adventure. They set the couch down next to the tracks across from the town’s main street, sat on it, and ate their candy bars. Cars honked or people stared. Erik looked uncomfortable sitting on the couch for the first thirty seconds, and then relaxed back.

  “I hope we’re saving the world,” Thom said.

  “That’d be cool,” Erik said. “We could be stars, meet girls.”

  Thom tried to think of someone who had saved the world and felt suddenly the world was short on world-saving heroes. Perhaps saving the world was impossible unless you were the fellow who refused to push the big red button when the time came. There were millions of heroes, each saving a very small part of the world. When Thoreau had been jailed for civil disobedience, Emerson had come to visit him in jail and asked, “What are you doing in here?” And Thoreau had answered, “What are you doing out there?”

  Jean had called him a he
ro of hers, but could he really be a hero for such a silly thing? She had aroused in him a desire to do good, or a desire to do something, to make something matter, to be a real hero. Rosa Parks and Akira Kurosawa. Ansel Adams and Denise Levertov. Did they get all the sex they wanted?

  “Okay, so this is what I did.”

  “Oh, Mr. Hero is going to educate us finally,” Erik said.

  “It’s not really a big deal. I got into a little bit of computer trouble a couple of years ago. Mostly it’s made it hard to find a job, for one, and mostly it was because I was immature and a bit proud.” Thom faded off, wondered if perhaps that was all he needed to tell them.

  “Annnnd?”

  “Alright. I had a bet going with some friends. You know that saying about a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters could write all the literary works if they had eternity to work in? I said it was impossible, and friends were telling me it was statistically possible. I won’t go into the argument, but anyway, I knew where I could get a thousand monkeys and a thousand typewriters; I just needed to come up with eternity.” Thom noticed he was getting baffled looks from his audience. He forged on. “What I did was write a program that installed itself on computers, a virus, more or less, and that virus then downloaded and installed another program. The second program was a lot more substantial. Its job was to link computers together to work on a particular problem, or in this case to output random characters. To make a long story short, I took a bunch of computers and made it one big computer. And I set that big computer to writing all the world’s literary works. I never did resolve that bet. . . .” Thom looked off into the sky.

  “That doesn’t sound bad,” Tree said.

  “Well, I did it to a rather well-known company in Redmond, Washington, and basically used the processing power of about sixteen hundred of their computers to try to do it. Had them going for a full five and a half hours . . . each of those computers typing letters at random, with a dictionary filter to flag pronounceable words, some grammatical filters in there too. All of those ‘monkeys’ were generating a massive amount of random keystroke data. There were other little details, like I weighted the space bar; because of its size, a monkey would likely hit it more often. That’s a hell of a lot of processing time, and a hell of a lot of data leaving through the pipeline. Just over a year of processing power in a little over five hours. If you think about it in terms of monkeys, those computers each could churn out thousands of characters per second. I estimated a monkey churns out one to two characters per second, and we’re taking it for granted these monkeys are on some kind of hyperstimulant and thus never need to sleep for all eternity. So if you do the math . . .”