couch potato

When I got the call, I was ecstatic. I'd been without a position entirely too long and my landlord had been breathing down my neck for the rent. It's only been 10 months...or 17. One can't pay much attention to such depressing trivialities. Still it would be nice to be a little less appreciated; the landlord was completely odious. I sniffed in the proper way and made my way quietly past the landlord's door and out into the street.

I wondered what sort of work I would really be doing as I walked into the elevator. I pressed an Art Nouveau 17 and stood back from the door. The elevator cage jerked into motion but I did not move, having long ago perfected the art of being still in moving vehicles. The job descriptions are posted, but are rarely the truth--there is a kind of code for these things, and if you haven't learned the code you haven't got anything anyone wants. You may as well go beg in the street. That's a different sort of code of course, but simpler. Harsher.

The hissing of the elevator interrupted my reverie and I got out, heading for the checkered door. I knocked and was let in by a perfectly made up hunchback in a cerulean coat and silver-buckled shoes. He indicated that I should wait in the pristine foyer until called and I stood there some minutes, further contemplating my uses, and deciding upon the best form of address for this particular employer. Several things came to mind, and were rejected, in their turn for one thing or another. The man's name was Tern, for crying out loud. It's ridiculous to address someone with an honorific longer than the surname. I'll simply have to take this as it comes, I sighed inwardly, and hope I don't mess it up. Again. The hunchback returned shortly and beckoned me through a yellow door into a formal meeting room, seeing that I was a comfortable as could be, he walked out and the snick of the lock was the last thing I heard.

Tern, whoever he was, had insisted on the plum-colored couches. Was he mad? I wondered, until I sat down on one. So comfortable! I suppose I would have gotten them, too; color be damned. At least the room's other colors suited the purple beasts--greens and creams and dark wood floors, very complimentary.

Then the couch growled at me.

Ah, I thought, and immediately stood back up.









 For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Carrie challenged me with "He insisted on the plum colored couches. Was he mad?" and I challenged Kameko Murakami with "I figured out what I am, and it's not good...I'm all right with that. "