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  The Hi-way Sofa index007.gif

 While returning from their last delivery, Bob & Hank came across what appeared to be a living-room sofa straddling two lanes of Route 101. The two of them stepped out of the cab to inspect this object which stretched at least a good twelve feet across the freeway. Something about the thing begged Hank to touch it and as he stroked the cool fabric, a little voice seemed to whisper, "Try me."

So, Hank dropped down onto the sofa, the sofa that straddled two lanes of interstate 101, and a kind of marvelous ease flowed through him, a kind of warm, pleasant, comfy, delightful feeling. It was the most comfortable sofa in which he had ever sat in his life. He curled his toes and stretched out his legs, sinking deeper as the sofa whispered to him of t.v. evenings, beer, football on late Sunday autumn afternoons with the cold wind outside and the sound of the pigskin and all the cares of the world far, far away.

This was no ordinary sofa; this was the Sofa of All Desire.

Once wrapped into this sofa, all wishes appear to be granted and comfort overtakes all other preoccupations. Once you settle into this sofa, you will find the idea of going anywhere else a foolish idea; you will gradually find it impossible to leave.

Bob, however, had not sat in the sofa. The sofa whispered, beckoned to Bob, but Bob had been married and divorced, losing a house, car, kids, his health and his dog, and he would have nothing of this sofa at all. Furthermore, he did not even own a t.v. and this is what saved him. For without a t.v., for what does one need a sofa?

The sofa suggested, promised, cajoled, weedled, mentioned overnight guests, lively bachelor activities, potential gratifications of the lower chakras, and . . . tremendous ease. For answer, Bob put on his moving gloves and attempted to shove the sofa containing the softly sighing Hank off of the Interstate. The thing shifted a couple inches, then settled down even heavier than before.

A strange luminosity shone from the sofa; it appeared to glow brighter and brighter with an otherworldly radiance as if radioactive until Bob thought the thing would fly up into space or perform incredible magic.

But the sofa was not really glowing at all; sofas do not glow or fly. Such a thing would be unrealistic. What Bob saw was the reflection off of the satin fabric of approaching trucks on the freeway behind him.

Bob implored Hank to get up, but Hank could not. Hank had entered the 2nd story house of his dreams on a winning lotto ticket and was being served tapas in front of a big screen 36-inch color sonitron by a brunette wearing little more than fishnet stockings.

The glow brightened quickly.

Bob grabbed Hank by the ears and pulled at his two-hundred pound partner, whose eyes remained closed, a contented half-smile upon his lips, as the radiant sofa threw back their shadows.

"God-damn, you'd think all them road taxes would keep stuff like this clear of the freeway," grunted Bob.

At this, Hank's eyes snapped open and he jumped up, his face turning purple with outrage. "Not one more penny!" he shouted.

The two of them hurried to the shoulder, just as an 18 wheel Roadway Express blasted through at sixty-five miles per hour. A flash as of nuclear fission blinded the two of them, and when they could see again, no trace of the sofa remained.

Although neither one of the two ever personally saw the sofa again, the airwaves cracked for a long time afterwards with warnings over the shortwave from different parts of the Bay Area. One week it would be Sunnyvale. Another week, someone claimed to have seen it approaching Pleasanton. Always there were these rumors of the sofa's appearance late at night after the last run to dog-weary men and women coming home after working the swing-shift, and the ominously named "graveyard."

 

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Copyright 1996 by owen Montana.  All rights reserved.  Conditional permission to download this material is granted provided this material is printed, copied and/or stored on electronic media for personal use only.  Additional information can be obtained by contacting the address listed below.

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ALL CHARACTERS DEPICTED HEREIN ARE ENTIRELY FICTIONAL.  ANY RESEMBLENCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS OR ALIENS, WHETHER LIVING OR DEAD IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.

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