Tuesday night. We decided we needed another couch in the living room. Mom found one online for $40, but I didn’t feel like driving up to Russian Hill, picking it up, driving back, bringing it up, etc. There happened to be a love seat without owner sitting on 18th street, less than a block away. ‘Why not just check it out?’ we thought. So we walked down to the couch, examined it, and were pleased to find it not only clean but wide and sturdy. Too sturdy, and much too wide, as it turned out. I lay down to give it a test and was very comfortable. A couple walking their dog stopped to share a laugh, telling us they thought at first that I was homeless and that Mom was trying to wake me up. “Let’s just see how heavy it is” we thought. And it wasn’t too heavy.

Off we went up 18th street to our apartment. We struggled a bit to keep the front gate open, eventually sacrificing my keys’ lanyard for the job, and finally upwards, me first, backwards, pulling, mom behind pushing. It was a tight fit, but we managed to make it up the first flight of stairs, and with some pushing and pulling and tugging an turning, around the landing and up the next flight. Around the last landing we went, this one open to the street, and up the few steps to our apartment door, we sort of jammed it in. It got stuck – half-way through the doorway, the legs would go no further. We lifted and turned and shimmied but we couldn’t get it inwards, and upon careful examination we realized the couch was really much too big. Reluctantly, we accepted the fact that it just wouldn’t fit. The neighbor, Todd, came up the stairs behind, smiling and remarking that he’d had a similar couch, but that his just did fit into the apartment.

“I guess this means it just isn’t our couch” I said.

So out we went, struggling mightily to extricate the piece from the doorway, then down the stairs to the first landing, where, making the turn, we very nearly lost the couch over the edge, where a couple of passers-by may have been squashed. It teetered on the balcony until we managed to muscle it back inside and began the downward spiral of the next stairway. Reaching the bottom, we couldn’t make the turn, and found ourselves struggling with the couch again, this time nearly breaking the glass doorway of our downstairs neighbor. We were an uncoordinated duo – alternately struggling with all of our strength, grunting and tugging in no particular direction, alternately pausing and saying “Stop stop stop”, standing back, examining the couch, seeing no plausible way forward, then grabbing hold anew and wrenching away. Despite our efforts, the couch gradually settled into the stairway, coming to rest with its two feet wedged in the railing, and refusing to budge in any direction whatsoever. We were defeated. We could not lift it up nor budge it sideways. We stood back, exhausted.

“It’s not going anywhere” I said, “we have to just break the fucking thing”.

Mom agreed: “go get a hammer Gabe”.

I left her trapped below the couch and went upstairs into the depths of our apartment for a hammer, came back with the toolkit, opened it, realized the hammer wasn’t inside, muttered “oh my god the fucking hammer isn’t even in here”, called “where’s the hammer?” down to Mom as I walked away, knowing where it was and hearing her call out “in the blue toolkit…” as I went back into the apartment and came back out with the hammer. But I didn’t really know what we would do with the hammer, because the couch was a sturdy piece of work, and the correct tool for the job was a handheld circular saw that could lop off the legs. That or a stick of dynamite. We took turns whacking ineffectually at the rock-solid couch legs. I took a screwdriver and stabbed vehemently at the meaty underbelly of the couch, hoping to tear away the upholstery and attack the skeletal framework of the couch, but I was defeated here as well by the strength of the fabric. I put down the tools, stood up, and we stared again. Here an angel intervened, I believe, because we both, seemingly on some unspoken queue, bent down and lifted the couch in some magically perfect manner so as to ease it out of it’s confines and upwards to freedom. Down was no longer an option, so we went up, preparing to toss the couch to earth from the second landing. We balanced it on the edge, agreed this really wasn’t such a good idea, thought about the possible repercussions – smashed sidewalk, some strange rebound that would send the couch careening into the parked car out front…

“we need some rope” said Mom, “so we could just lower it down slowly”.

“I don’t have any rope, do you have rope?”

“I do have some rope in my car”

I knew the car was parked a steep four blocks uphill. “hm”

Mom went down to look in the garage for something helpful – maybe some rope, and I clung to the couch hoping the neighbors stayed inside and that somehow, this whole thing could just be over and forgotten.

Mom got downstairs and called up “there’s nobody down here right now Gabriel – just dump it”

“are you sure?”

“yes just do it there’s nobody coming”

I began to maneuver the couch into position “are you clear?”

“Yes I’m clear just dump it!”

There was a slender tree branch reaching our way and offering perhaps a softened fall.

“I’m going to try to throw it through the tree – are you ready?”

“yes go now!”

“one… two…. three!” I pushed it out and away and watched it fall quickly and suddenly down, thud, and stop.  It felt so good. I ran downstairs and out front and together Mom and I righted the fallen couch, and seeing it unscathed and intact I felt sorry for having stabbed it and torn its apholstery – what a beautiful piece of furniture.  Mom seemed similarly impressed:

“It really is a nice couch – look it didn’t even get hurt.”

“shall we set it over here?”

“yes. Maybe the church will want it”

A pair of bums enjoyed a few subsequent evenings on the couch, and I watched from my window the next night as they laughed, smoked, and reclined comfortably. By Friday, the couch was gone.