At Grift & Sift, Chapter 2

 

The people out back at the loading dock are the ones I most love—the wiry, muscled men. One wheels out my fat chair on a dolly, and when I throw open the car doors and pop the trunk, considers the possibilities. He’ll try the trunk. Somehow or other he gets the lunker in. Of course he can’t shut the lid. I scrounge around for my husband’s ropes, and the man trusses up the legs or whatever part is sticking out, and stuffs rags around it to prevent (more) scratches, and off I go. I remember once, taking the usual route home at way less than highway speed, having to stop on the shoulder to tuck the cloth in better—it was flapping wildly behind me in the wind. Then I got back on the highway and drove on, just less flappily.

I like to think I’m done bringing home chairs. How much longer will I be here? They’re too much of a headache, plus our house is full. But when you let your dog sit in them sometimes, and everybody eats in them, and they were raggedy to begin with—and then another threadbare sit-down-and-fall-asleep-in-it one shows up at Grift & Sift, even more voluptuous, what are you supposed to do? I thought the bottle of Worcestershire sauce in the fridge now might be my last, too, because Worcestershire can go years and years, but I noticed the other day, using some to make BBQ sauce, that it’s dwindling. So you never know.