The Sofa

OtherDoor

Where neighbors meet

---

unREALcouchpotato1966: New to 8th street

Hey guys,

I’m new here as you can probably tell by the moving boxes set out on the curb. I was going to call someone to remove them right away, but then I thought about the neighborhood. I thought, why get rid of my old treasures when somebody else might enjoy them just as much as I did?

So here’s what we’ve got. 

1. A rainbow throw blanket from the 70s. This is real. The guy I used to live with gave it to me when he was in college and there’s minimal damage. Blanket may need a wash, but I’ve found a lot of people like the scent. 
2. Round pillow speaker. I don’t know if you remember, but these were really popular about twenty years ago. You can fall asleep listening to music on a soft plushie. The speaker still works, but there is a high, whale-like, sound every few minutes. I think Britney Spears had one.
3. Gold. This might not be real gold, but it could be. I found it inside one of my pockets the other afternoon and I’m guessing one of the kids from the old house shoved it in there. But it could be real gold.  
4. An assortment of buttons, coins, and movie stubs. These are antiques. The only reason I’m not saving them is because of my allergies. 

Again, I’d totally call someone to haul this stuff for me, obviously it’s not a cash-flow issue, but I just figured, sharing is the neighborly thing to do.

Comments (5)

SarahDandtheKttens: Are you the house with the metal rocking horse in the front?

AnneCommings1953: Isn’t there a dumpster on 7th?

UnicornMadness: I don’t appreciate the depiction of horses as simply tools for riding. I have a horse and she is very intelligent. 

AnneCommings1953: I really think the dumpster is empty. Nobody uses that dumpster. You could put the horse in there too.

LampShade: Are you selling the buttons individually?

The Toy

How he wound up on the floor was not a mystery. Things had always started off this way. For him, his father, and his father’s father. 

Some creatures were made for the bottom.

Unlike the other mice, this one only slunk. While not particularly graceful, he hid with his body in a dwelling of artificial shoulders until he could feel somewhat safe.

The space between the cabinet and the dishwasher.

The shadow behind a fake plant.

The hole in the fabric of the living room chair.

He didn’t have to move quickly as long as he was covered so he never bothered looking for more space. 

The living room was the same as all living rooms. Two couches and a table between. An ominous fireplace the cat sometimes sat in was always unused during the spring. 

The kitchen was also the same. Other mice took refuge under the fridge, but the cat always found them. There was no reason to go out; the fear was too great. Cracks streaked the underside of Ikea shelving. The mouse preferred to stay in. 

One day the house was quiet. No NPR. No pitter patter of paws. Just to see what the rest of the house looked like, the mouse struck out on his own. So brave he was, the other mice were shocked. So bold and dashing and handsome. 

All at once he ran for the shelving and darted outside the chair. Through the kitchen and down the hallway he turned to the smooth black tiling. He had made it as far as the bathroom when he felt his body grow larger. Puffed out fur made him light as popcorn. The mouse was at last, unafraid.

From the middle of nowhere, he didn’t even hear it, he just felt the world flop over. Cadbelly, the odious white cat with one working eye, had batted him hard to the ground. His feet pointed upward with the smile on his face and he knew his anxiety was over. 

The Lantern

I want to be just like the other two. This is my dream. When I close my eyes and see who I really am, I know I’m exactly like them. 

I really am just like the other two. We’re the same color. We have the same movements. I just haven’t clicked on for awhile.

Once I click on, I know we’ll be the same. It just takes a certain Je ne sais quoi. Once I click on, I’ll have the same light. We’ll all beam brightly together.

I would be just like the other two if I could figure out the switch. It was once turned on, I swear. One of them said I was so much brighter. The other one didn’t say a thing. If I could just remember how to press the right button, we’d literally all be the same.

I heard one of them say to the other that our room was a complete dump. I asked why, but they said I wouldn’t get it. I thought about asking again later on, but I’m glad I can’t see what they know.

My Book Is Coming Out Soon

Hey guys,

My new Object Relations book is coming out very soon. If anyone would like to read a free online copy in advance, I’ll be giving out books to blog readers until January 28th. Please email me. Rebeccacoleslee@gmail.com

Thank you so much for your loyalty. I know some of you guys have been reading for several years and it really means a lot to me.

Updated: you can purchase my book here.

The Razor

It’s hard being the sharpest one in the room. At first I thought it was fun because everyone told me how clever I was. I slashed through a jungle of misrepresentation when someone once called me cruel. Like paper cuts, but stronger, they went to pieces when I was done.

Is everyone who is considered smart also considered mean? Only the dumb are allowed their innocence. Only the smart are truly persecuted. When I told them I was right and that they were always wrong, I knew I proved my point with exact precision.

The Pain Reliever

Expectation:

Will relieve pain. All pain.

Heartbreak from immature brat who found someone better. Bruised pride from begging Jayson to cover her rent. Soreness from best friend who ‘could’t’ let me crash with him. Twisted arm from agreeing to live with other friend in roach infested apartment. Throbbing headache from hearing her complain about vintage Beastie Boys CDs that are not played too loudly. Burned by the desire we share every Tuesday in the laundry room. Burned because she’s friends with the brat who found someone better. A pain in the neck from explaining she’s not really a brat. Stiffed on the rent money when she, too, moves out.

Headache gone.

The Paper Clips

• 

By the desk near the fax machine that nobody really wants, there is a special drawer for paper clips and erasers. It’s in the corner, like an afterthought, just like the paper clips themselves. Only slide projectors and viewing screens can be seen up front, but it wasn’t worth the fight for visibility. 

Paper clips like their unobtrusive, low-commitment-oriented life. The front of the room is too bright. Really the only ones that like center stage are the kind of assholes that run for a political office. Even local law has mirrors for windows.

Paper will become obsolete, the up-fronters say. As if this is something I want to hear. Monitors are popular, but they’ll die off too. Who doesn’t remember Elmo?

It’s the importance, the integrity of the position that really matters. Not the actual position. There is no twisting involved with a screen. Lazy by nature, they demonstrate the shapes and activity that only in-betweeners have. 

Not the display. Not the object on display. Paper clips fit somewhere in the middle. 

Don’t you worry about being replaced?

The up-fronters think honesty and tact are two separate things. 

I look at the stapler. He’s still here. I look at the rubber bands. They’re still here too. I try to find the pencil sharpener, but it’s not in the desk. The erasers are on borrowed time. 

The Kettle

Two cups sat one on top of the other, upright and full to fat. They bulged, the top hanging over the bottom, while the bottom cup burned underneath. If the kettle was like other kettles, there would be only one. Each cup could be separately cherished. 

Curled together with vines that twinkled, they thought of themselves as bright. Too bright to be in this predicament. But too tied to get away.

One afternoon, when they were shuffled out to a low sitting table in the den, the cups felt heavier than normal. They would never belong to a woman’s full attention. They would always share their afternoon in the sun.

The bottom cup lurched to the kitchen and felt its liquid shift. The top cup moved away. 

“Move toward the one that loves us most.” The top cup said to the bottom.

The bottom cup looked at their guest. Bored, chewing at her nails, a half-eaten bear claw remained on the dish. 

The bottom lurched. It inched closer to the sink. From a slant, the two began to topple.  

When they faltered and staggered, splashing tea to the ground, it was the bottom cup that finally cooled off. It was mopped up and drained out, but the cups remained dazzling. Their love was now filled from their shapes.  

The Kiva

Deep in the desert, it almost looked dead. Beige dirt and tufts of bushes were all the eye could see. But below the eyes and below the brush, mutated life still lived.

The best mutant, a tiny rodent-like piece of fur with lizard eyes and a sandpapered beak, tried to make itself invisible. 

Nobody will see me under the brush. 

The mutant curled closer to the roots. In the daytime this worked well and he could watch the others scatter as they pretended not to be scared.

There were big ones. The size of basketballs with rubbery mouths and black tongues. There were tiny ones. Insects with 9 legs and a limp. All of them to be carefully avoided.

At night it was cold. Freezing winds and chattering teeth, the mutant needed a break. Any break. A hole in the wall of a cabin. The inside of a hanging cliff. He knew there was nothing available.

In the distance there was smoke and the round mouth of stucco. An outdoor fireplace. A bellow of gray. A kiva. 

You can use me to keep you warm.

The kiva said.

I have a fire in my mouth that won’t go out. Sit, stay awhile. It will be fun.

The kiva said.

The fire didn’t look out of control. The warm glow from inside reminded the mutant of a perfectly proportioned potato, but with spark. He’d heard of the fires before, untamed and spreading throughout the brush. This was not half of that. 

You’ve come such a long way. 

The kiva said.

But then the mutant remembered the skulls. Wide, gaping mouths hollowed out as if they were screaming. They were littered throughout the desert. Some were cows. Some were undefinable. The distinct smell of char lingered.

You must be tired.

The kiva said.

The mutant noticed a few dead mice at the corner of the building. Their mouths, too, were open. Gray mice. They were not black. Not charred. They must have died from something else.

The mutant shivered.

What will you do without warmth in the night?

The kiva asked.

The mutant could not find an answer. He saw nobody else like him for miles. Except for the one possibility of another who had been ripped by something else. A simple beak stuck out of several weeds. It could have been trash. It could have been plastic.

I don’t know.

The mutant said.

I really don’t know.

The kiva illuminated the desert with one bright smile. Mutants scurried in the wind. Bigger mutants. Prickly puckered mutants with six furry legs and giant yellow teeth. They would eat him. Without a doubt. For dinner.

Why not just stay here? You can get warm and figure out something else for tomorrow. 

The kiva said.

Climbing up the brown structure, the flames flickered higher. 

Just on the edge, the mutant thought. I’ll just sit right on the edge.

In the corner space of the mouth, the mutant sat on its ledge.
It was warm.

He was happy.

There was nothing else to be said. 

The Button

• 

“Like” used to be more optimistic. It was happy with high school reunions, weddings, and job interviews. Nestled at the bottom of something grandiose, it was a humble smile. A thumbs up for success.

“Like” made its way through family albums, 18th birthday parties, and dinners with old friends from college. “Like” was there for the video of your friend playing with the lobsters before supper. It was a funny gesture, something admirable. “Like” valued this.

But then “Like” became popular. “Like” hung out with girls in stilettos. “Like” went to see My Morning Jacket in an abandoned warehouse. “Like” started focusing on other people’s boyfriends.

Everyone wanted a Like for their party. That smiling selfie you took, gazing up at a cell phone camera with newly applied makeup? That was liked. A filter with cat eyes and pointy ears? “Like” enjoyed the stalking.

“Like” showed up to all the biggest parties.

The Halloween bash where your friend threw up all over the backseat of your mom’s car? That party was liked. The obituary of a distant relative that was met more than once? That was liked too.

“Like” became snarky. Hard edged thumbs felt more like middle fingers. That trip to Nantucket? Liked after three days. Kids dressed as NPR hosts for a costume party? Liked at 1AM.

After years of polite smiles and bouncy enthusiasm, “Like” had finally met its match.

Dislike was approaching the horizon.