C. Max Magee     Couch Critic Sitting in my room, right next to me as I write these very words, sits my brand new couch. Up until this weekend my room lacked adequate seating, so my narcoleptic roommate, Matt, and I finally put into action our often-discussed plan of hitting the road and finding ourselves a couch. Before long we were beyond the familiar confines of Charlottesville and with each passing mile found ourselves venturing deeper and deeper into the wilds of Albemarle County. In an effort not to lend any more suspense than the telling requires, let's just say that we soon found ourselves at a more or less respectable-looking establishment on 250 called Sumner's Furnature (sic) Hut or something; I can't remember the exact name, but you get the idea. I nudged Matt awake, and we walked toward the store. An old woman, brimming with that Southern sass that's charming on TV but can be fairly grating in person, greeted us, calling Matt and me "honey" and "baby" respectively, and showed us to the couches. Some were tacky, others were uncomfortable, but most were both. They were all brand-new, and most were selling for upwards of $ 350, about $300 more than we planned to spend. So we left, and Ethel or Mabel or whatever her name was went back to "sassin'" the other customers. Dejected but steadfast in our desire to locate a suitable couch, Matt and I hit the road once more, and soon found that there was a similar, albeit even more rustic-looking, furniture-venue right next door. The parking lot and porch out front of the building were littered with copious amounts of junk. Full suits of armor stood guard by the doors. Enough road signs to start a small town were strewn about. We saw shelf after shelf filled with inkstands and piesafes and home distillery kits. When we inquired about couches, the owner of the place, a rosy, stout old man with too-short pants and a drawl thicker than the red clay mud under our feet, led us to the cavernous shed out back. The dusty building was home to all the junk that wouldn't fit inside. Most of the stuff was covered in old bedsheets and tarps, and I could barely make out the forms hidden beneath. Amidst the rubble several couches could be seen. Matt and I approached them, and the old man looked on. We looked at pricetag after pricetag: $115, $135, $160. Each price was written in the old man's barely legible scrawl. We began to think that maybe we would go home empty-handed. But then we came upon a couch, and a very respectable looking couch at that, which bore the price of $32. We searched for imperfections, stains, and smells, looking for the fatal flaw that had led the old man to price this couch so low. When we asked why it was so cheap he only grinned and winked before returning to his cash register. We shrugged, shelled out the cash, and headed home, victorious. Soon we were back, and the couch was nestled in against the wall, looking handsome and inviting to the weary traveler. The couch is off-white and patterned with flowers and vines that creep across its surface. It's big enough and soft enough to sleep on comfortably. It's simply a great couch. Still, the inexplicably low price nagged at our minds, especially Matt's, whose paranoia occasionally gets the best of him. "There's something evil about this couch," he said. I told him he was being silly, but when I looked at the couch, it seemed to be grinning at me. Over the course of the day people came to visit and to admire the couch; they had only good things to say about it, but Matt was becoming steadily convinced that the couch was sinister and even vengeful. I rolled my eyes and went to bed. That night, between wakefulness and sleep, I thought I heard noises coming from the couch, but I couldn't be sure; Matt sleeps loudly and often. I awoke with what felt like a cactus in my throat. I hacked and coughed myself awake, sure that the evil couch was responsible for my allergies. As I was getting dressed, I noticed that Matt was gone and that his glasses were lodged between two of the couch cushions. The couch sneered at me as I left, wondering what the hell Matt was doing without his glasses. There was no sign of him well into the late afternoon, and as the day went on it became more apparent that Matt was missing; I had nothing to point to but the couch. Frantically, I tried to explain to whoever would listen that Matt had been eaten, devoured, ponytail and all, by the malignant davenport. I was all set to march back to the furniture store, when who should appear but Matt, myopically stumbling into the house. The night before a bout of somnambulance had taken my narcoleptic roomie for an excursion, and he had awakened covered in patchouli amongst a group of hippie drifters on the Downtown Mall. And so the couch remains, though we are still wary of it, and put a sheet over it so that I wouldn't be so allergic. We try not to turn our backs to it, and we only speak of it when were out of the room, for fear that it will hear us. If you want to see the couch, I invite you to come by and have a look, but when you do, try not to be too anxious. It can smell your fear.

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