Monday, January 9, 2012

The Radford Couch

A relative of mine went to Radford University in the mountains of Virginia and my wife volunteered us to help move her into her dorm room one year. Actually, it was every year, but one year in particular she had a couch to move. But it wasn’t just a regular, run-of-the-mill couch – it was an enormous hide-a-bed. This thing must have weighed three thousand pounds and I had to carry both ends, uphill, both ways, 20 miles from the car to the dorm room, which was on the sixty-third floor with no elevator. It was five hundred degrees outside that day with fifteen feet of snow and there were oil slicks, smoke bombs and mine fields. Hyenas were attacking from the rear and hundreds of zombies in front not to mention the giant pterodactyls circling above.
Well, that’s the way I remember it.
Oddly, each time I tell that story, I seem to remember more and more of the horrific details. For instance, I just now remembered the lava. For some reason, I was barefoot and had to carry that couch over the lava streams oozing from a volcano that apparently was dormant for a hundred million years before that day and has been since and it was both oozing the molten rock and spewing it into the air. Fiery trails of smoke following the balls of bright orange up, up, up then back down on me as if aimed by NORAD.
I’m really very surprised that it didn’t make the news.

No comments:

Post a Comment