The Pastel-Paisley Loveseat

Dolly’s cane puckered along the gummy linoleum floor as the bells on the door behind her jingled back to rest. Her feet, wrapped in spandex diabetic socks and Velcro-fastened tennis shoes, shuffled behind.

“I need a loveseat, by yesterday…WILLIS,” she croaked at the dusty sofas and aching grandfather clocks. When they didn’t respond, Dolly yelled out once more, this time casting her voice through the doorway behind the vacant counter.

Dolly hated the Porcelain Doll Super Mall for three reasons: the name, the thick must that clung to her for hours after leaving and most prominently, the pencil-necked owner named Willis who once sold Dolly a candle that made her trailer smell like a skunk for a week. She didn't return for two years, until now.

“WILLIS!” Again, no response. Dolly eyed the bell on the counter before raising her cane and swatting down at the silver chime repeatedly as if it were an insect. Fortunately for Dolly, the county’s unreasonable level of petty crime led to Willis securing the bell to the counter, making it an easy target. Unfortunately for Willis, the unwavering nature of the bell only angered Dolly further and escalated her walloping from that of a flyswatter to a lumberjack. The clamoring subsided only when a middle-aged, string bean of a man emerged from the doorway behind the counter, nearly banging his head on the top of the doorframe as he passed through.

“Dolly?! What the HELL are you doing?!”

Dolly tried to ascertain where exactly the words leaked from his greasy beard. Her gaze unsettled him, and he shifted around in his varnish-stained jumpsuit.

“Been waitin’ here ‘bout a damn hour now. Boy, you look more like a cheese grater every time you show your face ‘round here… What you got in the way of loveseats?” Dolly burped.

Six years prior, Dolly’s foot was run over by a bus, reducing her toes to the type of extra-thick fettuccine one finds at a first-generation, homemade pasta shop that doesn't take reservations. She filed a personal injury lawsuit shortly thereafter, which was quite contentious seeing as it was the third time in a decade Dolly was either hit or run over by a commercial vehicle. Spectacularly, the outcome was again favorable for Dolly. This time was slightly different, however. Rather than accept the lump-sum, she opted for the pay-out to be broken down into seventy-two payments made over the course of six years, delivered to her each month by mailed check. It was not an extraordinary amount of money, but the total amount of the checks equated to more than the lump-sum and the deal offered protection against the “lavish” mistakes Dolly boasted she was prone to making. Unfortunately, the monthly stipend — along with her creaky lower appendages — prevented Dolly from seeking any means of further financial gain. Only two more checks were coming and she hadn’t saved a dime. Worse even, Dolly was terribly upset with the status of her trailer’s decor and was desperate to refurnish the space entirely.

Dolly paid $300 a month for her trailer in the Glades County Mobile-Home Park, so her interest in interior design was unusual to say the least. In fact, it was less interest and more neurotic obsession, according to her neighbors and the trash collectors and anyone at all who was aware of her routine. See, every month when Dolly’s check arrived, she would streak down to the bank, cash her check, set aside money for rent, food, and gin (the lion’s share these days), and then run the circuit. Running the circuit, as Dolly called it, was the practice of visiting any number of the dozen antique and second-hand furniture shops in the area. She teetered around the stores, rapping her cane on the legs of chairs, flatulating into couches and flickering weaker-looking lamps on and off until their bulbs surrendered, at which point she would cry chicanery and demand store credit. Though her behavior was curious, she was always welcomed back on account of her eventual spending. It was almost a law of nature: a new month, a new living room set for Dolly. Her checklist consisted of:

1. 1 sofa
2. 1 armchair
3. 1 loveseat
4. 1 coffee table
5. 2 side tables
6. 1 cuckoo clock

By the end of the special day, two things were to be certain: Dolly would be drunk, and all her old furnishings would be strewn outside, never more than ten feet from her trailer door. Only her bed remained, where she would sleep in her otherwise empty home and prepare for the deliveries that came in the following days.

On this day, however, Dolly was in trouble. She was in dire need of a loveseat, and a free loveseat at that. She had spent her month’s money accumulating the rest of her living room set and did not dare negotiate with her budget when it came to gin (already purchased for the month) or her homogenous diet of fish sticks.

Naturally, Willis was the last of the vendors Dolly would reach out to for help, but she had already exhausted all other options. So, after downing an irresponsibly stiff mix of gin and water in the parking lot, Dolly convinced herself to set foot in the Porcelain Doll Super Mall one last time. It would only be for a few minutes, and she knew she could bend the feeble-minded Willis to her will.

“Get the hell out, you crazy old bat! No free rides!” Dolly was impressed at the grit he was showing in the face of her intimidation. She decided to change her approach.

“Listen, Willy, now we’re both people of the good Lor--”

“--Willy?! Out, you lunatic! You don’t think I hear about you from Jackson? Or what you did to that poor neighbor of yours in Simply Shabby last year?! OUT OR IM CALLING THE POLICE!”

Dolly attempted an innocent laugh to de-escalate the situation, but it came out as a string of expletives and derogatory remarks on Willis’ shy weight. She felt the anxiety of reality bourgeoning from her gastrointestinal tract, and she stumbled from the store seconds before painting the sidewalk in juniper-flavored bile.

Dolly spun into her trailer and saw the empty space where her loveseat should be, which ignited a cataclysmic collapse. First went the bag full of bottles of gin, crashing to the floor like a set of bowling pins. Her cane followed with a snap and, finally, Dolly herself. Her head resting on the floor, she kept her eyes glued shut – she did not dare look at the room. A black abyss had formed where the loveseat was supposed to sit, and it began crooning to her. But as much as the hideous void called to her, she resisted. It was an impressive display of might, and Dolly rewarded herself with continuous swigs from the bottle that lay next to her. Hours passed, and the only noises that came from the dilapidated trailer were the whispers from the void, goading Dolly to peek, and the sound of aluminum twisting off glass followed by Dolly’s gulping of her poisonous medicine. As the cuckoo emerged to announce midnight, Dolly retched a pool of gin and unconsciousness consumed her.

She awoke in a stew of sweat and sick. Every inch of her body tremored, and the trailer shook violently as Dolly somehow managed to gain her feet. Sweat poured down her legs, diving against the current of the varicose veins that climbed her legs like ivy. It pooled in her spandex socks, which became so saturated they shriveled down around her engorged ankles.

Dolly was thinking clearly, so she knew the first step to survival was finding clean socks. She also knew she would not find them; she only did laundry a few times a year. Dolly whirled around her trailer, digging through mounds of moldy clothes while crying to the heavens for a divine blessing of clean hosiery. She whimpered as tears and sweat mingled in the flaps of her turkey neck. It was 4:37 a.m. and Dolly had no chance of finding an open laundromat or clothing store. She trembled downward, accepting her demise at the hands of her wet feet and searing nervous system.

“Mildred! Oh, MILDRED!” Dolly cried. Mildred was also a full-time resident of the mobile-home park and, more importantly, a fellow diabetic. She would have a fresh pair of socks for her struggling friend, even if the garden gnome sale at Simply Shabby had driven a nail between them the previous year. Dolly sprung to her feet and out the door, leaving her loyal cane to drown in alcoholic-spew. Her feet, still smothered in drenched spandex, plopped across the pavement like a newborn duckling’s. Plop, plop... Plop, plop. It was the first time in thirteen years Dolly moved without the limp she perfected at the direction of her personal injury attorney.

A small wave of relief washed over Dolly as she reached Mildred’s trailer – the exterior of which was in much worse condition than her own, thank God. There was no time for knocking; Dolly snatched the doorknob and twisted, throwing her substantial weight against the door.

Shock and panic once more toppled Dolly as her eyes adjusted to the stiff darkness of the empty trailer. Empty. Mildred had moved, or more likely died, and Dolly consigned herself to the same fate. With sopping feet and an incomplete living room set, Dolly acquiesced. This was the end.

She had no idea how long she laid there in Mildred’s empty trailer, waiting for anxiety to constrict her, or sweat to drown her. The sun began to rise, peeking through the window and casting a cruel ray of cheer on the wilting old woman. It rose and rose, filling the trailer with laughter and wicking the last of the moisture from Dolly’s dehydrated shape. Eventually, the sun lit the entire room, except for a distant corner, which housed the only object in the trailer. An object Dolly somehow missed.

The pastel-paisley loveseat struck Dolly with a thousand volts. She drooled and spasmed in bliss as her eyes pored over the perfect stitching and luxurious design. It reeked of status and class. Tears of joy sprung to her eyes, and she doubled over in laughter at the irony of finding such an opulent piece in the trailer of tacky, old, dead Mildred. Dolly danced over to the sofa, renewed with youth, and fell to her knees. But it was too good to be true. As she fell forward, she noticed the small black notebook that lay open atop the cushions.

“Exposed to toxins. DO NOT TOUCH! DO NOT MOVE!” was scribbled across the milky-white pages.

Dolly’s mind swirled: Could it be? She could not just leave the masterpiece in such a hellhole. Surely it could be cleaned. But if the moving company had not touched it, and the mobile-home park’s management failed to discard it, it could be serious. Dolly leaned in and sniffed the lethal cushion. Fresh, very fresh. She patted the seat, half-expecting a shroud of venom to engulf her. Nothing. She kicked the foot of the lounge, punched the backing, then dropped her rumpus down on the cushions.

Perhaps, the danger lied within the sofa! She picked up a cushion and unzippered the shell to reveal clean fluffy cotton. Dolly hissed and moved to the next one. She peeled back the zipper of the second cushion and choked. Stuffed against the cotton filling were two bundles of hundred-dollar bills, each bound in currency straps labelled $10,000.

Moments later, Dolly emerged from Mildred’s empty trailer and limped back across the property, shedding her socks along the journey. She retrieved her cane and her shoes, stumbled out into her car, and puttered down the road, wondering if the first store on her circuit would be open when she arrived.