it was a rather nice sofa--less than ten years old, i'd heard--but it had been ruined (*ahem* stuffed full of corn) during a production of Sam Shepard's Buried Child. A lack of space for it paired with the considerable number of "modifications" (rips, tears, and corn) it endured for the purposes of the play meant that it was not worth fixing or keeping. It made me sad, in a way--an otherwise fine and well-built piece of furniture was forced into early retirement (*ahem* pulverised with sledgehammers and put in a dumpster in small pieces) because it had outlived its usefulness. shame.
that's not to say the sofa just submitted to its end peacefully--that somebitch put up a fight. the number of skin-grabbing exposed staples and splinters of wood increased with every downward swing of the hammer. Its simple wooden frame was springy and resistant to breaking even when angled and jumped upon by a fairly sizeable man. It may have known its doom, but it was determined to go out in a blaze of glory.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment