Susan Isla Tepper is an award-winning poet, fiction writer, essayist, and playwright.

The author of ten published books, her current projects are two plays in production and a novel due out late this year.

Tepper’s work has been published worldwide for over twenty years, nominated nineteen times for the Pushcart Prize, and received a Pulitzer Prize Nomination for a Novel that was adapted into her stage play The Crooked Heart’ plus other awards and honors.

Couch

By Susan Isla Tepper

– For Elmore

A couple of thugs put me on my side against the wall then left. This is a very unwieldy position. I have six solid hard-wood legs and a very attractive covering. Midnight blue, very cushy. People who’ve sat on me for a while are always reluctant to leave. Once they sink into my plush it’s awfully hard to get up, unless something more interesting dangles: such as food or sex. Those two will take precedence every time.

But now I’m up against the wall and it’s downright criminal! Those thugs were supposed to carry me into the new apartment. They had one hell of a time getting me out of the old digs— I mean, geez, I was brought in years ago— quite easily then so why all this hub-bub getting me out?

The boss man (my owner Elmore who I’m fond of, who uses the dust buster regularly on my cushions) was worried about me. I could see it in his eyes. He worried they wouldn’t get me into his new digs; and fair enough, I’d say. He was concerned they’d damage me. In the end it was decided I’d spend a few days against this wall near the elevator until things get sorted. I’m less than thrilled.

The elevator chimes and two guys about mid-thirties and a blonde girl come out.

“Wow! Will ya take a look at that couch!” says the shorter burly one with the beard. “Who’d leave a couch like this behind?”

The girl starts to giggle. “Oh, I know that sofa, it belongs to the guy in 4D.”

Here they go— just tossing me and my reputation around like I’m some kind of used furniture. I am not a sofa. A sofa has curved lines and often those Louis-type legs. This is humiliating, to say the least.

The other guy, light-haired and gangly, says, “Let’s put it down.”

“You can’t just man-handle this sofa,” the girl says. She’s wearing a tartan plaid kilt like a little girl in a school uniform. Her knees are chubby.

The two guys disagree. “C’mon,” says El Beardo. “Take a side, Jim, and we’ll flip it.”

Despite her pleas, they each take hold of me and BANG! My six sturdy wooden feet hit the black and white floor squares. Once I’m over the shock, I actually start feeling a bit normal again in my normal position.

“We could get in a lot of trouble,” the girl is saying.

Ignoring her, both guys sit down on me. Even though I don’t really care for their style, it’s sort of nice to be wanted again. Finally with a lot of coaxing the girl sits in between them. Then, without warning, El Beardo lights up.

“There’s no smoking in the halls of this building,” she says. “If anyone reports you smoking, I will get tossed out. Then what? Are one of you going to share your less than nice apartment with me?” Her voice is rising and she bangs one of my cushions for emphasis.

“Chill,” says El Beardo, “it will be fine.” And he offers the pack to Jim, the other guy.

So now both guys are smoking and frankly I don’t like smoke getting into my fibers.

The girl has given up and sort of slumps on me while the two guys smoke and talk sports. A few people getting out of the elevator give us a strange look. Then some time passes and a lone guy steps out. He has on dark, thick frames and reminds me of Clark Kent.

“There’s no smoking in this building,” he says.

“I told them!” shrieks the girl.

“Do any of you live here?” Kent wants to know.

The girl hesitates then admits to renting an apartment in the building.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing with these two surly… people?” says Kent. He’s coughing, but I think it’s fake to make his point.

“It’s a long story,” says the girl.

Kent is waiting. His awful belted trench coat is depressing me. I’d almost rather have the smokers than this tight ass nosey Nellie. Stranger still is the Burberry wool scarf hanging loose around his neck. I want to say That plaid is so passé but I’m a couch and couches don’t speak. At least not their language.

The guys continue to ignore Kent then one of them grinds his finished cigarette out on the floor!

Kent goes ballistic yelling, “Enough is enough.” He also says he’s going to phone the Super.

Fat chance, I’m thinking. The Super is spending the weekend at Rockaway Beach getting laid. I’ve seen his girlfriend and she’s hot. Kent is so fucked. He should just go home and get under the covers.

The girl stands up. “C’mon,” she says. “The Super will go ballistic.”

The two guys take their time getting off me.

I watch as all of them, including Kent, depart.

What will happen next? Like this, I’m open to all takers. Even a mangy dog could spend the night biting his fleas.

Wait! Wait! I’m screaming. Somebody, please put me back up against the wall!