Kick back, prop up your feet and learn why you should think twice about accepting hand-me-down furniture from Halloween superheroes.
Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
It all started at a friend’s party a few Halloweens ago, in their palatial lakefront home. It had an entire level just for parties. After chatting it up with Spider-Man (the host), some French maids, several zombies and a unicorn—I was all peopled out and sought refuge upstairs with the dog. That’s where I met the beast of my dreams.
No, not the dog. This beast was an enormous sofa that consumed the entire living room. Plushier than anything I’d ever imagined, it beckoned me to come rest my weary personality on its billowy cushions, the kind you could sink into for days. I was under its spell even before my fingers reached the magic buttons below the armrest. Not only was this the most luxurious sofa in the universe, it was a recliner, too. An electric one. This was love at first sit.
Spider-Man returned about 2 a.m. to find me and the dog sprawled across the beast in all our snoring glory. The next morning, he told me to take it home “as a gift.” It was almost too good to be true.
The lucky movers I hired were sweating and swearing even before the beast got stuck in my doorway. “If I’d known this thing weighed 6 tons …” one groaned.
The honeymoon lasted three days before the beast’s footrest got stuck in the up position, refusing to budge. Who do you call for that? An electrician? I tried furniture stores, but they only service what they sell, so for the next few years, it stayed that way. A fitting monument to my escalating sloth.
Recliners have a proud history of tantalizing us that didn’t start with La-Z-Boy. Primitive reclining chairs have been discovered in Egyptian tombs. Dentists used them to coerce unsuspecting patients centuries ago. In the 1800s, Napoleon III had one that served as a chaise lounge, a bed and a chair. Even emperors need to chill after a full day of conquering.
Despite its disability, the beast kept me under its subversive spell. I gave up sleeping in bed to keep it company. Morning coffee tasted better when served on the beast. So did lunch and dinner. My To-Do lists were becoming To-Morrow lists as the beast fed on my energy and ambition. If we airdropped a few thousand recliners on our enemies, they’d surrender by noon tomorrow with their feet up. (Somebody call the Pentagon.)
It took a while, but I got tired of tripping over the footrest and came to my senses. I offered the creature to charities and thrift stores, but no one wanted it. Reluctantly, I hired professional movers to haul the evil thing away. Anywhere but my living room.
“Why is that doohickey up?” The question came from a mountainous mover, a dead ringer for The Incredible Hulk. Before I could answer, he flipped the beast on its back with one massive hand and shot me a look of disbelief, or possibly pity. “It was unplugged.”
The Hulk reclined on the beast to demonstrate the footrest working perfectly. Taunting me. As bad decisions go, this was one of my biggest, at least weight-wise. Only one thing could make me feel better.
“Where is it going?” he asked.
I wrote down the address of a palatial lakefront home. “Ask for Spider-Man,” I said. “Tell him it’s a gift.”
These days, Jan A. Igoe and her dogs only recline on manual sofas. Get comfy, put your feet up, grab some coffee and drop us a line at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.