Ian and I exit the L-Train before rising up into the city’s floor past a fog of steam and against the soundtrack of traffic’s crunch with my luggage in tow. Our limbs burdened with layers of clothing as we shuffle our feet deeper into the Hispanic portion of Brooklyn towards Ian’s apartment.
“I am here,” I say out loud, wherever here is. “Yes,” Ian replies as we take hurried steps atop frozen pavement. We pass a red and black sofa wedged between piles of garbage and I an stops to inspect the find. He lifts an edge just to get a feel for the sofa’s weight. Probably 200 pounds I suspect.
We continue back towards his flat and drop off my luggage, which was temporarily lost by American Airlines. Kandice, Ian’s girlfriend, is waiting for us but the luggage delay had us arriving hours later than was planned. Dinner was cold but would not get any colder so we left the flat to check out the sofa.
Kandice agreed the sofa was a keeper so Ian and I set about carrying the piece of furniture back to his place. We made slow time and had to stop every block for one reason or another; our muscles were ill-equipped to extended lifting for city blocks.
After what seemed like hours we were lugging the sofa-that-converts-into-a-bed up two flights of stairs. Finding a place in the spare room we set the sofa down and had a belated Thanksgiving Dinner, afterwhich we drank 75-cent beers and watched silent Buster Keaton movies until late. This year I had a second helping of Thanksgiving for which I am very thankful.
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