Rake Appeal { Object Lust

When I moved into my apartment, I inherited the previous owner’s leftover futon and threw a tapestry over it. But at thirty-eight years of age, I felt I was beyond tapestries and futons. I wanted a new couch. I decided that the only way to get one would be to unload the grubby futon. Because my boyfriend and I were spending our weekends writing and drawing together, I wanted to make this as efficient as it could be. Rather than selling the thing, I posted a sign in my building one Saturday morning. Some neighbors took it away for free; and I was grinning all the while, thinking how time with my boyfriend was worth a lot more than the fifty bucks I might’ve gotten for that futon.

He broke up with me later that night. I was trembling so hard I could barely get the key into the lock when I returned home at 2:00 a.m. Once inside, I sank to the floor to sob amid the dust bunnies. A week later, I dragged in an uncomfortable rattan settee that I found on the street; a week after that, I dragged the settee back to the street and made a $350 purchase at Upholstery World. At least it was a foam loveseat—a supposed step up from a futon. On the other hand, its cheap black fabric was a magnet for lint and crumbs—so much so that my fastidious architect friend Rafael refused to sit on it. But what really motivated me to buy a new couch was a romantic interlude in which I and another party leaned into a kiss that would have been so much better had I not slid off the loveseat and onto the floor.

I went to make the rounds at Crate and Barrel, which allowed me the pleasure of turning my nose up at all manner of contemporary sofas. Then I turned a corner into the very last showroom and my life changed, quite suddenly. I beheld the Petrie.

The Petrie is named, of course, for Laura and Rob Petrie, the fictional early 1960s “It” couple of The Dick Van Dyke Show. While everything else was gooey with thick, brick-shaped cushions, this was a firm, tailored couch—a long, white ledge with mid-century-style tapered legs. Those of us who came of age in the 1980s, with its recycled preppy tastes, respond well to such constructed forms. College housing departments fled the scene of college dorms and lounges during the sexual revolution of the late 1960s through the seventies, and only ventured back during the era that saw the return of Lanz nightgowns and ties at cocktail hour. While they planned massive renovations, there were old iron-framed beds, World War II-style blackout shades, and mid-century chairs, couches, and tables that lingered for a few twilight years, which were our years. Because of that, I had a compelling connection to this era’s style: In college we’d come back from class in our boxy oxfords, flats, and cropped tapered pants, light up ciggies, and flop down on a version of the Petrie. This sofa embodied my definition of beauty and possessed every creature comfort I’d ever known. It was perfect love, at last.

I forwarded a web link to my friends and took people back to Crate and Barrel to visit the Petrie. My friend Carla indulged me by lounging on the Petrie in the showroom and gabbing as if we were in my apartment. I prolonged my visits with less-intrepid companions by showing them color swatches and mulling over Fern versus Hydra. I had discussions with two salespeople, talked delivery. And then I started avoiding salespeople, who pretended not to see me, either.

I never really broke up with the Petrie. My visits to the showroom and to the website just trailed off. Once I had resolved to live within the boundaries of my take-home pay, I realized the Petrie didn’t fit within the scale of my economy. I had started saving to buy my own home; and after meeting with a mortgage broker, I realized how drastically a $1,500 couch (two thousand dollars with taxes and delivery) would affect my situation. So I let it go. Naturally, there was no point in shopping for a less-expensive couch: As with romance, choosing a second-best only yields sorrow. My love, however, will be remembered: I told my friend Thomas that I was writing an elegy to the Petrie and he said, “You mean the one you took me to visit? Do you think that maybe someday you two … ” I closed my eyes, shook my head no, and he sighed wistfully for both of us. —Kirsten Major


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