TWO FOR ONE

When I first moved into my apartment two years ago I needed a dining-room table and chairs. I scoured all the local new- and used-furniture stores in hopes of finding something both appealing and affordable, but had no luck for months. (Actually, it wasn't "months." In reality, this period was most likely about 36 hours. But you know, when you've got your heart set on enjoying some cucumber sandwiches and Earl Grey, the experience is easily ruined by having to place a tea saucer on a collapsing, upside-down whiskey box that you found outside the liquor store the other morning.)

Anyway, bottom line: I was in despair. Then I happened upon Chuck's Used Furniture.

Now, the truth is that I had actually seen this store before but had opted to avoid it for a few reasons: First of all, I dislike the idea of doing business with anyone whose name is also the verb that most appropriately describes my preferred technique for shooting a basketball. Second--and most importantly--Chuck's Used Furniture wasn't just one store; it was two: Allegedly housed within the same space was also the Academy of Billiard Sciences--presumably a location at which one could learn to play pool, or at least master the necessary geometry. The combination of these two establishments--while generally sketchy in its own right--reminded me of the TJ Maxx/discount liquor store in Boston that was the origin of oh so many 9-11 calls back during college.

So I held out as long as I could, but, having spent an unacceptable amount of time without a proper resting place for my abstract expressionist placemats (i.e. placemats with a few colored rectangles on them), I finally relented and went to see what Chuck had in stock.

When I entered the store there was no sign of any billiard-based academia; there was, however, a spectacular table and chair set. I say "spectacular" because it was everything I wanted: lacking in significant cigarette burns, and unlike anything having spent decades in the captain's quarters of a pirate ship.

Chuck, however, didn't seem to have as much going for him as the table did.

We haggled a bit, and he agreed to sell me the table and chairs for $125, provided that I translate some minor correspondence into Spanish for him: a short note to someone selling a sofa, and a longer note to his estranged, 35 year-old son--a man who lived in Texas, had learned Spanish, and wouldn't respond to the father's English-language letters. It was the creepiest deal I ever made.

Again, that was two years ago. Fast-forward to last Wednesday. I was trying to sell my excess furniture on my own, but wasn't having much luck (see previous entry). Faced with a rapidly approaching moving day, I decided to offer Chuck the table and chairs, as well as my loveseat, for as close to a fair price* as I could get.

(*In this sentence, "fair price" means $50 per item.)

When I went to the store to present Chuck with my furniture, I realized that the store's sign had been changed, presumably to drum up more business: the academically formidable Academy of Billiard Sciences had become the distinctly less-egghead-sounding Pool School, where, according to the sign, one could "learn to beat people with a stick!"

Yeah.

There was still no sign of any pool-playing area. Also, this time Chuck had an assistant--a plump, slightly mustachioed, grunting (but otherwise quiet) man of about 60 who ran around doing whatever Chuck ordered as fast as he could: polishing lamps, moving sofas, stacking tables--all while constantly craning his neck to see if Chuck approved, or, seemingly, if Chuck was about to beat him with a stick.

Bottom line: it creeped me the fuck out.

So Chuck looked at my stuff, scratched himself, and said he'd give me $80. I asked if he could make it $100. He said no. Here is a rough transcription of what happened next:

Me: Look, do you know where I got this table?
Chuck: I have no idea. [closes eyes, waves hand dismissively]
Me: I bought it from you.
Chuck: Really?
Me: Yeah.
Chuck: Huh.
Me: Do you know how much I paid for it?
Chuck: I have no idea. [closes eyes, waves hand dismissively]
Me: $125.
Chuck: No you didn't.
Me: Yes, I did.
Chuck: Huh.
Me: And that was with a discount for translating a letter into Spanish for your son.

[pause]

Chuck: I don't have a son.

[pause while we stare at each other, narrowing our eyes]

Me: Yes, you do.

[pause while we continue to stare at each other, our eyes narrowed]

Chuck: Fine, $100.

So I got my money. Perhaps irrationally, I feel a little bitter about the experience--having to haggle and endure weirdness and such--and, as I tend to be slightly obsessive about cleanliness, Chuck's Used Furniture/Pool School now bears a unique place in my mind: the only pool area where I would even consider urinating all over the premisis.