Escape

Oddly, as I walked through the light tinkling rain, I was overwhelmed by one of those brain nagging tunes that repeat itself to near madness. I have never been an adamant fan of the Beatles work, I just grew up with parents who listened to them and so by default I know all the words to all their songs. “Dear Prudence” kept rolling over and over without even the courtesy of including any more words than those two. The tune flickered in from some unknown place in my psyche and dug its heels in for the remaining five blocks to my front door.

Only damp from the precipitation, I slithered out of my parka before it had time to soak into my sweater beneath. My canvas jogging shoes didn’t fare as well and they, along with my soggy socks, were left to dry by the entry to my cozy home. I had burned incense and sprayed copious amounts of concentrated pineapple orchid spray around the living room before I lit out on my daily walk; it’s one of those self-serving pleasures that go a very long way in enhancing my day. Barely scanning the living room and adjacent kitchen area everything seemed in a relaxing order- then I noticed the pale yellow piece of stationery on the kitchen table.

The front door was securely locked behind me as it always is, so the probability of someone coming in and leaving a note was out of the question. None the less, there it was, and as I approached it I could see that it had some type of odd scrawling on the front of the first page and that whomever had left it had needed part of the reverse to get their message across. It was a letter penned in a hand writing I was not familiar with. For the most part, a letter lying on your kitchen table is usually recognizable after only a quick glance, but not this one.

It started out with an odd introduction and got weirder from there. As I read what appeared to be shaping up to be some strange form of a dear-john letter, I found it almost impossible to finish the note seeing that I was being distracted by a repetitive thud, thud, thud against my garage door. It may possibly be a neighborhood kid messing around near the door. The noise sounded steady and persistent, yet in no hurry, whatever it was. I continued to read as the letter held my attention much stronger than the low pounding on the rolled down metal flap.

The letter read:

To the Family That Has Held Me Hostage,

After living a somewhat dull little life in the living room of an elderly woman, I have given up at trying to transition to the “next chapter in my life”. I was a child of the 60’s and most of do not live on to see too many decades. I was in impeccable shape until recently-- your family has changed me forever.

Once, my curves were smooth and velvety; now I’m literally worn bald in places! The amount of abuse I’ve withstood at your children’s hands is nothing short of a miracle. If I am jumped upon anymore I’m afraid I will just give out. I’ve been pushed and pulled all over the place, and right when I think you will leave me alone, you move me again.

I have been scalded by your hot coffee for the last time, Madame, and for the record I’m allergic to dogs!

Sincerely,

The “Oh, That’s a Cool Crazy Green Couch”

p.s. I have always detested leopard print and thought that it was a very tacky thing to pair me with.

Then my head jerked back in the direction of the garage door—thud…thud…thud...