The Overstuffed Chair
The overstuffed chair sat on the curb like indignant royalty. Its floral pattern of bright red blooms and swirling greens refused to go quietly, even after a long life—several long lives—of service.
So, its classic padded shape had seen better days...So, that tear on the left arm leaked a puff of white tufting. Was that any reason to discard something so magnificent with so much yet to offer?
In a final insult the previous owner, who shall go unnamed, unceremoniously tossed its seat cushion to lean cavalierly against the chair back. Not bothering even the barest dignity of seating it in place.
The nerve. The shame.
To occupy a spot on the street like so much common refuse.
To bake in the sun like some lawn toy for squirrels to chase and scamper over.
To sit idly by while scruffy neighborhood curs sidled up to sniff and lift their—
But, hey? What is this—?
*****
“Dude, check it out.”
“What?” Grafton, lost in the thump and crump of Jay Z’s latest, drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. He thought for like the tenth time today how awesome his new Alpine with Kicker amp and speakers sounded, filling his little Toyota truck with righteous sound.
“STOP, MAN!” Pearly, his roommate and all around best friend punched him on the shoulder. “YOU DEAF OR WHAT?”
Grafton glanced over at his passenger, saw him swiveled backward in his seat. “What’d I miss? A chick? I didn’t see her.” He hit his brakes. “She hot?”
Pearly—some kid back in high school gave him the nickname because of the boy’s shockingly bad teeth—turned around and smiled. Grafton didn’t even see the gnarly browns and yellows anymore.
“Jackpot,” was all Pearly said.
Grafton looked in his rearview, scanning the street on Pearly’s side for a babe. He saw nothing. Nothing hot on two legs anyway. He grabbed the rearview and swiveled it around to be sure. “Nobody there, man. Unless, you got a hard-on for dog all of a sudden. There’s a mangy mutt with a nice ass sniffing at some poor evicted fucker’s stuff on the curb.”
“One man’s garbage...” Pearly said.
“Is another man’s garbage. Come on. We just washed Bumblebee.” Grafton had named his yellow short-bed the day he drove her home. “No way I’m piling a bunch of crap back there.”
Pearly didn’t hear it. Impatient fuck had already bailed and was running back toward the discard pile on the curb, waving his arms and yelling at the dog to go piss on someone else’s furniture.
Grafton cranked the wheel and spun the tires as he backed up, narrowly avoiding Pearly who jumped nimbly out of the way at the last second. His friend kept running and yelling while Grafton followed in reverse. The dog tucked its tail and skulked off as Grafton screeched to a halt by the curb.
Pearly was already seated on his find when Grafton got out and walked around the tailgate.
His friend bounced a few times in place before sitting back and resting both skinny arms on the stuffed chair’s much fatter ones. Grafton remembered a story from when he was a kid about some vagabond king re-claiming his throne.
“I like it,” Pearly pronounced.
“That is one double-ugly piece of furniture,” Grafted countered. “Tell me you don’t smell that.” He sniffed once. Long and loud, like hitting a line of coke.
Urine, gym locker stink, old lady’s perfume—and a faint whiff of something rotten......