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. 

*****

“Dude, check it out. Jackpot!”

“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. He was already seated on his find when Grafton got out and walked around the tailgate.

“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......