The Curse of the White Sofa

When Dino moved in to his ski-cabinesque loft apartment next door on Allerton Street, he had this five-month-old white sofa that had us all placing bets.

Dino had just rented the top floor of Abby and Charles’ house, and in so doing gained a Staircase from Hell. Its 80-percent grade hooked over your left shoulder like half a “z”. The sofa was long and overstuffed. Perfect for napping.

It would be a gruesome twosome situation. Alex didn’t think it could be done. My housemate’s mind was one for computing spatial variables, so I sided silently with him. But Danny, from across the street, had professional moving experience. Danny had a plan.

The men all put their backs into it, and made it halfway when Landlord Lou arrived and said, “You boys need to watch that stair rail.”

Abby and I took in the scene from Dino’s second-floor landing. The banister in question was attached to balusters attached to the stairs, impossible to remove. We shrugged our shoulders and Lou left, muttering Slavicly.

“Be careful about that stair rail, now,” Abby mocked, causing the guys to grit their teeth and try it again. They reached the second-floor landing but were unable to cantilever the long, overstuffed piece into his den.

They loaded the sofa back into Dino’s moving truck. Alex whispered, “knew it wasn’t going to work. Watch that stair rail.”

A precise impersonation of Abby’s impersonation of Lou. I shrugged, waving at the truck’s shrinking taillights.

And I think about that now because I remember how sad I felt for Dino, and how much it would suck, to have a new white sofa and have to take it away.

And I think about how it did suck, this week, to watch my own five-month-old, perfect-for-napping, overstuffed white sofa drive away to Jeff the furniture refinisher who works down the street, after attempts were made to get it up two different stairways and a second-floor window.

And I think of the curse of the white sofa, and its procession from Dino to me.

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