Julie Rodriguez-Walker
3450
12/14/16
The Wrong Couch
Sitting down, it takes a moment
before the first whiff hits but when it does, it rises quickly, creating a
suffocating fog that fills your nostrils with its vapors and seeps into your
clothing and your very skin. Sour, putrid, and immediately recognizable, the
pungency will likely stay with you, lurking in the dark, stinky spaces of your
memory, to be hopefully long- suppressed.
Still, the cushion is comfortable
enough when one is worn down and looking forward to a late night bowl of
cookies and cream; and for sure, even surrounded by the offending odor that
comes with faulty Pull-Ups or just plain distraction, it is better than the
hard living room floor or sitting at the kitchen table after nine hours of
college classrooms and four hours of homework. Maybe. . .
************
We bought the couch before our
son—our middle child—was born. It was the wrong couch. My husband and I had
prospected through several furniture and big box stores, planting our behinds
on a never-ending stream of cushions; a variety of colors, styles, fabrics, and
prices, for three weeks. We tried out the latest designer creations with big
ticket prices, and the discount floor models with their scuffs and defects. Weeks
of dedicated effort had brought us to a final decision; we picked a chocolate
brown microfiber sectional with convenient movable ottomans that doubled as
side tables. The cushions were stiff but their support structure was well-designed
and would be perfect for afternoon naps, movie nights, and general relaxation.
The basement family room was prepared in almost gleeful anticipation of
delivery day. Other than our queen size bed—a floor model—this couch was our
first brand new piece of furniture and we looked forward to the many benefits
of our investment.
I was not home when the couch was
delivered. The guys from the furniture store, and my husband, were together
unable to get the individual pieces down our steep, narrow stairs to the
basement. No amount of heaving and hoeing could overcome the sharp turn in the
stairway. The job was impossible. In our naivety, we had neglected to measure
both the stairs and the sofa parts. My husband—we had been married for almost
three years—had to make a quick decision on his own that would affect our
family for years to come. Returning to the furniture store, he settled on a
similarly priced three-seated mocha-colored behemoth that boasted recliners on
both side seats. It could be disassembled and maneuvered down the awkward
staircase with the cooperation of three men, and by the time I got home, it was
set up and the delivery guys were gone.
******************
With your legs folded beneath you, to
avoid catching your foot on the metal support that has been poking through the
foot rest for a few years now, you are assaulted as the scent from the sofa
cushions finds its way to your taste buds, just as the ice-creamy goodness is
melting on your tongue, your hand freezing in mid-air, spoon quivering. It seems
desperately futile, trying to find comfort, enjoyment, or rest in such a place.
What to do? The problem is that the perpetrators of this offense are sleeping
snugly downstairs, angelic faces resting peaceful and serene, unaffected. Two
little girls in their pink bunk beds with dolls clutched tightly against the
soft rise and fall of their flannel nightdresses. Next door, in the newly
walled-in family room, a little boy sleeps in what is now his own bedroom. Toothless,
a weathered, but still dark blue dragon, once plush with soft stuffing, rests
contorted and ragged in the skinny eight-year-old’s arms. The children won’t be
roused or made to disinfect the family sofa. They will sleep and snore and the
youngest will grind her teeth in the soft glow of a Disney princess night
light. Consequences will come, but not until tomorrow. The only reasonable choice
when the ticking wall clock—the one with Elvis Presley’s hips swaying
enthusiastically—reads 1:00 am, is for you to make a half-hearted attempt with
a few sprays of fabric freshener, which of course only makes the problem worse.
Truly Lilac mixing with this stench, marinating in the couch cushions, will
waft up and blow about the house, especially with the fan going in the entryway.
You will be suffocating . . . and Elvis
will just keep dancing.
********************
I was disappointed when I found an
unfamiliar couch in the basement after school that first night. I was attending
two distance-education classes held at the local high school and did not get
home from a study group until my husband and our only child, a daughter, were
both sound asleep. Planning to catch a late-night talk show, I made my way
downstairs with a small bowl of cold cereal. I was met with an imposing new
couch that seemed to take up the entire living area of the basement. Still, it
was softer than the classroom seat I had recently vacated, and the newly-assembled
cushions were full. My knees were in rough shape after several years of
long-distance running and three knee surgeries, so I found the recliners with
their ample foot rests to be a suitable replacement for the movable ottomans of
the couch my husband and I had picked out together. Two servings of cornflakes
and three hours of TV later, I fell asleep and experienced my first fitful,
restless night on that couch; there would be many more throughout the years and
the discomfort would only grow worse.
******************
Opening windows to air out the room will
do no good. You try anyway. The problem is that the offending juices have
seeped down into the sofa frame, through the layers of fabric and stuffing. The
wood and metal construction are permanently soiled and any efforts to
completely fix this rancid problem will be wasted. What should you do? You can throw
a blanket over your seat and hold super still so that nothing escapes from
beneath the thin barrier. You try it—for only a few minutes. The blanket is now
also soiled and it has done nothing to help your situation; the only options,
at least immediately, are to either give up on the couch entirely and sit
instead in the red wingback chair across the room, or else you can just call it
a night.
Going to bed is ruled out by the fact that one
of your favorite TV shows is underway and a nearly full bowl of dessert still
waits to please you. So instead you move to the red chair, far enough away to avoid
the sickly sweet notes wafting from the couch that was never meant to be. With
the ceiling fan now turned off, you enjoy the only vaguely smelly solitude until
the show wraps up, the ice cream is mostly gone, and what’s left is too melty
to be enjoyable. Leaving the smelly couch behind, you make your way down the
narrow, steep stairs to bed.
***********************
The wrong sofa sat in our basement
family room for almost six years, witnessing the growth of our little family,
and providing only minimal relaxation in its aging cushions. It was never ideal,
or even marginally good, for sleeping on. The drawback to side recliners, is that
horrible metal and wooden supports across the horizontal surface are necessary;
so when we tried taking naps or would begin to doze during television reruns,
the bars would dig into soft flesh and make comfortable rest impossible.
There were the dark nights when James,
my husband, and I had been fighting; the couch was only slightly better than the
battle ground of the marriage bed, and one or the other of us would invariably
seek temporary refuge amidst its beckoning, and lumpy, cushions; to be joined
eventually by the offending spouse, who would stumble in the dark, searching for
the sofa. There we would sleep, silently entwined, until unified again in the
morning, by mutual hatred of the couch that left us with cricks in our necks
when the sun rose.
The couch was there as I nursed my babies and cuddled
my kids; it enveloped, if awkwardly, my mother and I as we mourned the tiny
human that left my womb too soon. That poorly designed piece of furniture
soaked up my tears and kept equally silent whether I was cursing God or speaking
in a squeaky voice to a cooing infant. The wrong couch stood shabbily firm
while I cozied up to my dad who would soon join my angel baby somewhere far,
far away. His titanium knee replacements were no match for the impossible recliner
foot rests that, once extended, refused to close back into the couch when he or
anyone else wanted to get up. He sat there anyway, and I sat on the metal bar
to be closer to him.
**************************
You quietly tip toe into your bedroom
and remove the clothes you’ve been wearing for two days, dropping them silently
into the hamper. A deep, rumbling snore startles you as you climb into bed next
to your husband. He nearly wakes up from his own sound—or from you reclaiming
half of the bedcovers. Settling into the eleven-year-old mattress, your mind
cues up a conga line of upcoming homework assignments, commitments to the kids’
school, the money you still need to pay the babysitter—the money that has been
sitting on your bedside table for almost a week—emails that need to be
answered, lightbulbs that still haven’t been replaced, bed sheets that
desperately need to be washed; all of this as you try to fall asleep.
************************
Every few months my husband and I
would take turns lamenting the couch that neither of us wanted and cursing its
poor construction and want of comfort. We passionately discussed the feasibility
of buying a new one, but with a growing family we would soon need another
bedroom. Choices had to be made. New couch money was instead spent framing an
additional bedroom out of our one-time family room, the only place that another
room could be created. The old new couch would have to do, but our only son got
to have a little space all his own. His excitement as he lined up action
figures and Matchbox cars on his very own shelves overcame the inconvenience of
having to dismantle the clumpy couch, and the bruises that came from James and
I tag-teaming—a shove here, a twist there, and a few rough turns--the
cumbersome pieces to get them up the narrow stairway. That beautiful little boy’s
happiness made softer the fact that the very wrong, very awful couch, with its
multitude of stains and its sagging cushions and foot rests, sat jimmy-rigged
back together in my formal front room.
*******************
Blaring Saturday morning cartoons are
interrupted by tiny neighbors pounding incessantly on your front door upstairs.
They will want to play with your kids and they won’t mind the smell that has
now likely taken over the entire first floor of your house. For hours, you hide in your bedroom
downstairs, ignoring—no, avoiding—the necessary confrontation with your
children, where they will be made to take responsibility for the nasty family
couch and the post-hurricane condition of the living areas of your home. Waiting
upstairs, the stench of the living room sofa will have mixed with the
respective odors of a sink full of dirty dishes and a half-eaten chicken and
broccoli casserole that has sat on the kitchen counter for three days. Endless
homework and hours of school, trying to make life better and easier for your
husband and children, have torn your attention away from the need to keep a
house and family up and running.
So here you are, cowering under musty
covers, exhausted and desperate to avoid responsibility, with your head of
matted greasy hair buried in a flat pillow. Somewhere in the quest to earn a
degree and realize all those old dreams, things got turned upside down. The
wrong couch became part of your life and unleashed a negative force that has
been wreaking havoc ever since.
҉
Hunger and the need for daylight pulled
me from my bed that day, somewhere around lunch time. After a few feeble
stretches and a necessary shower, I managed to slowly pull each leg, one foot
at a time, up the ridiculously narrow stairs, dreading the smell that I knew I
was climbing into, and cursing the previous owners of this house, who in their
inexperience had built this 19th century-style stair case when
digging out the basement and remodeling the home. It was all their fault. Them
and the measuring tape we never used.
My musings on the issue of blame were
unexpectedly cut short by the combined smells of rubbing alcohol, floor
cleaner, and, faintly, a burning cinnamon-scented candle. At the top of the
stairs, to the left, the sounds of a football game were coming from the family
TV that I remember swearing would never be a front room fixture. To the right,
the kitchen was gleaming, floor to ceiling, reflecting the glow of a cinnamon candle
in a glass jar, sitting where the rotting casserole had been. I recovered from
the momentary shock, crossed the landing, and noticed that the entry way had
been swept, it’s shelves and knick-knacks dusted, and fresh flowers now filled
a vase, perched precariously on a narrow buffet table under the north-facing
window.
Astonished and encouraged, I filled a
bowl with cornflakes and milk and followed the muffled sounds of excited
whispers into the front room. The wrong sofa sat in its regular place, clumpy
and clunky and adorned with three children and my husband of eleven years, who
somehow had grown twice as handsome overnight. The smell of the rubbing alcohol,
used to scrub the sofa cushions, wafted up to greet me along with the delighted,
giggling, and exhausted faces of my little family. Returning their smiles, I
just stood there, listening, as they excitedly told me, all at once, what each
of them had done, while I “slept all day.”
*****************
Tonight, you will probably notice
that your bed is not nearly as comfortable as it once was. You might wonder if it’s
a good time to talk your husband into a new mattress. Your answer, before you
even ask, will be him rolling away from you, taking your share of the blankets
with him. For a fleeting moment, you might consider going upstairs to sleep on
the couch—or the floor—with a blanket all to yourself. Instead, you’ll probably
turn onto your stomach, yank the covers back over you, and remember that you promised
the kids a trip to Disneyland when you finally graduate, and should probably
start saving your money. . .
**********************
My corn flakes went soggy, and a pile
of homework stayed in my backpack in the hallway. The cinnamon candle
eventually burned itself out. And me? I just sat, serenely; my body crammed
between my husband and kids for the next several hours. And somehow, I found myself
perfectly content . . . on the wrong couch.
♔♕
