High End

By Casey Alexander

“I don’t think this footrest is going to meet my needs,” Alexander was saying. “None of them are at the right angle.” He raised himself from the sofa and gave it a dirty look.

The salesman kept his composure.

“How about something completely different?” Josh said, steering him toward a paisley couch with visible feet on the bottom.

Alexander frowned in the sofa’s direction. It would gladly collapse beneath the weight of a person, especially a strapping fellow like him.

“I don’t like those,” he said to the salesman. “They seem so flimsy.”

Josh explained that the couch wasn’t meant to be used in the traditional sense. It was an accent piece: the focal point of a vast and opulent room, never used, that visitors could walk through and gasp.

He wanted it for the living room, he said. The rest of his home was furnished already. (He lived in a two-room apartment full of dirty clothes and out-of-date books about Guam).

“Don’t worry,” Josh said, quoting the associate’s handbook. “We’re committed to helping you find the sofa of your dreams.”

(Alexander didn’t recall having dreamt of a sofa, but it must have occurred.)

His enthusiasm was waning; Alexander could tell. Possibly the man was starting to doubt him. Was he shopping in good faith, or monopolizing the salesman for a couple of laughs? Did he have any business in a place like High End Furnishings—he, the rider of buses, the owner of secondhand suits? Had this Josh identified him as an aspirational shopper, a deadbeat trying affluence on for size?

Happily, he’d had the foresight to put on his dress shoes.

Alexander took a deep breath. Admittedly, he wasn’t in a lucrative field, but he was where he belonged: by virtue of his intellect, he was worthy of hardwood floors. He sought to convey this to the simpler man.

“I want something that’s firm but soft at the same time,” he said. “Like the one we have in the department.” He paused for inquiries regarding this statement.

“Okay, sure,” Josh said. “What size is it?”

“It’s big enough for three faculty members,” Alexander persisted.

Josh led him to a beige sofa with three cushions.

“How about this one?” he asked.

By way of response, he stated his occupation: he taught International Relations at the local college.

In this capacity, Alexander read the newspaper more fervently than anyone else; he spoke about suffering in well-heated rooms. He’d been reviewed by his peers; his work was at the bottom of drawers all over the country. Of particular note was his thesis, “A Base and a Hard Place: Reimagining Guam”.

This fall, he’d been promoted to Lecturer: the senior Pacific Island observer had retired to Vanuatu, aged 103. The position came with a desk and a mail slot; his picture would appear on the faculty website.

Now that he was established, he felt, the sofa he had wouldn’t do. In places, the cloth was worn through; the springs announced themselves painfully whenever he sat down. The object must be retired: there was no need to tolerate eyesores at this stage of the game. Moreover, the new one had to be worthy of him; the time for placeholders had ended. The sofa, like its owner, had to be something to keep: the real thing, now and forever.

Josh received the news with good humor. He was used to this sort of thing: a lot of them wanted to talk about their ascent to the top, or at least name the mountain in question. He also heard quite a bit about sailing, second homes by the sea, and big gambles that had paid off. It was best to let him get it out of his system.

He drew Alexander’s attention to a tiny blue dot on a cushion—the hallmark of a brand.

“Stultus is really the top of the line,” he declared. This particular model had won an award at the Hoosier State Furniture Expo. And no wonder: what style, what grace, what timeless charm in every detail! Josh threw himself into the tribute, knowing that if he carried on long enough, the customer might join in.

But it looked like all of the others. Alexander sighed. None of them stood out. He was startled by their resemblance to the furnishings of his past, claimed from the curb or bought for a dollar at yard sales. Surely something this costly would provide a delight he could die from. It would feel like a round of applause, or an embrace to mark his arrival in a new and superior world. But the feeling eluded him.

Lost in these reflections, he didn’t notice the stranger’s approach. A rival had come out of the woodwork and was brooding nearby: a second man with fine shoes and a subtle but elegant beard. He had a cashmere scarf and a haughty expression; he seemed poised to inject himself into the conversation.

Michael had passed the sofa twice without thinking anything of it, but was intrigued now that a crowd had collected. Suddenly, this was the place to sit, the must-have item on show. Occupied by a suitor, the sofa took on a new shine: it was desired, and thus desirable to him.

“How’re you doing?” he said to Josh with a touch of annoyance. He was aggravated already: he’d been left to wander the showroom, not given the welcome a prominent figure deserved. Without waiting for a response, he planted himself on the sofa (there was some nonentity in the corner, but plenty of room for him).

“I like this,” he said, hitting the back cushion in order to test its resistance. “What are the specs on it?”

Alexander was rattled by the vibration and by the nerve of this man. Couldn’t he complete his evaluation in peace? Who did he think he was, trying to brush him off of the sofa? He was an educator, not a potato chip crumb. Alexander considered his clothing: perhaps a more experienced shopper who was used to places like this.

The salesman took his arrival in stride. He stated the sofa’s dimensions, the origin of the fabric, the name of the designer who had brought it to life.

In his early days, Josh would have asked him to wait, serving the first man for as long as it took. Potentially all afternoon. There were those for whom trying things in a store was funny and fun, who sat indiscriminately and had no intention of buying. And those who shopped with the future in mind (someday they’d be comfortable in every respect; they wanted to be prepared when the time came). To a certain extent, he had to humor the duds along with legitimate buyers. In order to cope with this problem, he’d learned the art of simultaneous service, dividing his talents (which were considerable) among any number of prospects.

“It is nice, isn’t it?” Alexander said. This wasn’t a mere pleasantry; he’d begun to question his initial assessment. Maybe he was mistaken; maybe the sofa had a majesty that he couldn’t perceive. On the other hand, what did this character know? If he ignored Alexander, he didn’t know quality when he saw it.

In any case, this shouldn’t dishearten him. He was scholarly, tall—by rights, at the front of any line that emerged. He assumed his professorial bearing would speak for itself, but he couldn’t take any chances.

“I think it might be too comfortable for me, though. I don’t want to fall asleep while I’m grading the students’ exams. I’m in academia,” he said, turning to Michael.

“Oh,” the man replied flatly, running his hand down an armrest. “It must be great to have so much time off.”

“There isn’t that much, really,” Alexander said coldly. “Between my research and all of the planning.” (He made up most of the lectures as he went along.) “Most days I don’t sit down until five or six.”

“I taught for a summer before I started working,” Michael said. “It was a lot of fun.”

Alexander considered seizing a pillow and beating him with it.

“I do enjoy it,” he replied instead. He started to list the benefits of the job, describing them in grandiose terms.

To establish the proper order of things, Michael removed his coat, revealing a souvenir from the company outing–a sweatshirt with the name of the law firm embroidered over his heart. The sweatshirt told them everything they needed to know: the law firm of Simpson, Mosely, Pickledorff, Dax & Morell was known throughout the land. Some awe was warranted, surely, but the two of them barely moved. Alexander was dismayed as the gesture meant he was staying; Josh’s only thought was that the color reminded him of a hamster he once had.

“I’m an attorney,” Michael said, in answer to the question that should have been asked.

“Oh, okay,” Alexander said, relieved. A lot of his classmates had gone into law. According to them, the job was paperwork mostly. There were few chances to be irate in a courtroom, few rousing speeches like in the movies; just a lot of reading and endless, colorless days. At best, he imagined, it was a chess game with months or years between moves. There was no comparison between this and his riveting lectures. He wondered how this fellow could stand it.

In fact Michael didn’t care about the law one way or the other, but he enjoyed telling people that they’d done something wrong. Unfit for the medical field (he’d once fainted during a physical when the doctor asked him to cough), he’d chosen the next best thing, applying himself to defy his high school detractors (who’d long since forgotten that he existed). Then, as now, the contrast between the miscreants and himself was delightful and striking. The way he saw it, he’d done everything right and should be congratulated. In the gradeless chaos of manhood, this occurred less than he might have expected.

“Since you both have such demanding careers,” Josh said, “you’ll need a place to recharge. What do you think of this style?”

“I’m not sure it’s what I’m looking for,” Michael said. “I have a lot more questions.”

He didn’t need a new sofa; the one he had was only a few months old. He’d come into the store because the sun was burning his head (a convertible, it turned out, was far more thrilling in theory).

Saturdays were hard: there was a long stretch between waking up and fine dining that he didn’t know what to do with. Often he drove around, eventually landing somewhere, enticed by a window display or a parking space near the door. By Sunday he usually went back to the office, ostensibly to get a jump on the week. He rather wished he could live there; he always knew what he was supposed to be doing. He was in the service of people he’d never met, of companies that took turns suing each other. Michael drew up the documents, claiming part of the windfall from every petty dispute.

As long as he was at High End, he might as well demonstrate what he’d learned from his research. Michael picked up the central cushion, turned it over and held it out accusingly. “This line isn’t supposed to be there,” he said. “It means that it’s cheaply made.”

“It does look like that,” Josh said proudly, “but it’s a new design that the luxury brands are using. Made to support up to a thousand pounds.” When it came to stuffing, his knowledge was unsurpassed.

Michael frowned. Without a half-ton volunteer, he had no way to challenge the claim. He put the cushion back, mumbling something about deceptive practices.

“What about the joinery?” he demanded.

The salesman provided the details, noting that the frame could withstand a low-grade nuclear blast and temperatures down to fifty below. He would not be intimidated. Of the shop’s three salesmen, Josh was the most decorated; in addition, he was shift supervisor on Friday and Saturday evenings. He had custody of the keys to the restroom and permission to fluff the pillows as needed.

“Excuse me a second,” he said, removing himself a few paces. “Andrew!” he called in the direction of a boy with a feather duster. “You can go on break. But only ten minutes!” he added, hoping the others were watching. (Terrorizing this boy was one of the perks of the job.)

“I’m not sure I like it, either,” Alexander said, to remind them that he was there. “Actually, I’m not sure I like any of them that much.” He also didn’t know what they cost; there were no price tags to guide him (High End Furnishings avoided this vulgar custom). Anyway his plan was to pay in installments: to mention this casually and at the latest possible moment.

“The winter collection will be coming out soon,” Josh said mysteriously. “But I can’t tell you when.”

“I understand,” Michael said. “There was a bombshell in one of my cases this week. I can’t really talk about it.” (He’d said the same thing to the mailman and the boy who’d given him his change at the carwash). Someone had whited out a zero on the other side of the world; this abomination would grip him for months.

“Sure, I know how it is,” Alexander replied. “I can’t repeat anything I hear during office hours.” (Most weeks nothing was heard but the turning of pages and the subtle hum of the clock. Like the coconut husks of New Guinea, he was an underutilized resource.)

“A lot of nights I bring work home,” Michael declared. “So the sofa has to be big enough for me, a pizza box and eight or nine sensitive documents.

“Hmmm.” Josh wasn’t sure how to respond to this statement. “I have a tape measure if that’ll help.”

Michael said that it wouldn’t; the vital documents varied in size.

Alexander started to ask whether red pen would come out of the cushions when the salesman cut him off.

“You’ll have to excuse me a second,” Josh said, glancing over his shoulder. (In accordance with his training, he surveyed the premises every ten seconds.)

There was a disturbance in the bed section: a woman had upset the pillow arrangement and was trying a mattress in different positions. Her shoes had strayed from the cardboard liner, putting the mattress at risk. What’s more, she’d exceeded the two minutes granted for the testing of items. He strode over to reprimand her and to prosecute if needed.

With an air of great concentration, the two men inspected the sofa, looking for heaven knows what. They took turns getting up and walking around it, then reclaiming their seats.

“Slate gray,” Michael said rather loudly.

“What?”

“Oh, I was just talking to myself. I was wondering whether this color would clash with the stone on my fireplace.”

Briefly, the remark had the desired effect: Alexander wasn’t at the fireplace level, and felt a sense of dismay. He quickly came to his senses, however. After all, he had something more valuable: a starring role in the intellectual life of the nation. The students couldn’t take their eyes off of him; they paid rock concert rates to listen to him speak. As a teacher, he was engaged in a painfully noble endeavor: no less than the perfection of man. The fate of the race was more or less in his hands, so he should have a nice sofa.

“Yeah, I’m wondering if it’ll match my place, too,” he said diplomatically. “Anyway I’m out of town so much.” Panel discussions, conferences, excursions to do more research: the travelling was tough, he said, but he owed it to the international community. (In fact he had never seen the Pacific; it was all he could do to drag himself to New York or Chicago so he could tell the department he’d gone. That he attended events, that his development was unending. He was interested in the region, but it was a very long trip, and he didn’t know what he’d do when he got there; plus somebody might kill him. Alexander had a similar relationship with the subject of Mars: he enjoyed reading and talking about it, but didn’t need to go there in person).

Michael wished that this goofball would clear out. He deserved an unobstructed view of anything he wanted (even if, as in this case, he really didn’t want it). Anyway, out of the two of them, he was the one who had something to rest from.

He did his best to illustrate this, describing the many commitments that took him away as well. There was the time that he was required in China (in this account, a critical mission involving white tea and red splendor; in reality, it was more like a week-long asthma attack). Alexander declared that he was keeping an eye on the nation, whose ambitions were anyone’s guess.

Ten minutes later, Josh found both men sitting with their feet straight out (they’d activated the footrests), their hands folded behind their heads. For some reason, they were talking about the Pacific. Alexander spoke of inter-island strife and the need for mediation. Michael said something about Bora Bora and juices fit for a king (he’d rented a honeymoon suite for himself there on a recent vacation).

They’d settled in like two revelers at a party. Immersed in the discussion, they were startled by the salesman’s return and looked at him with disdain. This grinning nuisance should leave them alone unless they requested his service. If he was going to stand there, he should at least have a tray of hors d’oeuvres or glittering drinks to give them.

Josh asked what they thought of the sofa now that they were better acquainted. In his opinion, he said, it was the most alluring one in the store. (He had superlatives for them all.) Furthermore, it was the most avant-garde (Josh had no idea what this meant but said it regularly). Presentation was key: everything they sold was luxurious by assertion. In conjunction with sky-high prices, the names of the items supported this notion (The Emperor, Sans Pareil, Top Banana and so forth).

There was a moment of silence. Alexander knew it wasn’t the one sofa intended for him, and Michael found it inferior to the one that he had (though an acceptable place to kill time). And yet leaving felt like a comedown, a concession to a man who could be anyone.

Though neither cared for the prize, they looked forward to beating somebody out. Thus far, this had been the primary thrill of their lives. Michael had fond memories of the selection process at Simpson, Mosely, Pickledorff, Dax & Morell: they’d interviewed him nine times before they gave him the job. With every round, more rejects and thus more laurels upon him. Meanwhile, Alexander had his own glories: he relished the thought of the many who’d wanted to be where he was—would-be scholars with lower grades than his own, who’d settled for lesser things.

Alexander steeled himself. His was the prior claim.

“It has some of the features I want,” he said noncommittally.

“I like how dense the beech is,” Michael interrupted. “But I’m not sure it’s unique enough.”

“Stultus only made ten of them,” Josh said, thinking quickly.

Michael wasn’t impressed. Everything he owned was a limited edition, even the socks that he wore.

“I’m thinking of going custom,” he said. “But that can be such a hassle.”

“Oh, I know,” Alexander lied.

They agreed that the energy couldn’t be spared, not at this time of year. Reportedly, there was a hellish week on the horizon: multitudes seeking their input, complex tasks that only they could complete. Lounging, wound up, they bludgeoned each other with anecdotes, describing their plight in lavish detail.

Josh was getting uneasy. He wasn’t supposed to let anyone linger this long. As manager, he had to take charge. After all, this was his jurisdiction. They sat at his discretion.

“So, what do you think?” he said vaguely. “Would you like to see something else?”

“I’m still considering this one,” Michael said.

“So am I,” Alexander jumped in.

They clung to it as to a life raft on a turbulent sea. What could Josh say to end the suspense, to get one or both to commit? By now, a sale was unlikely, but it wasn’t the end of the world. All commission was welcome, but the sofas were merely a sideline; he made a fortune selling giant beds to bachelors. He rather hoped that the two of them would hit the road.

“Just so you know, we only have one of these in stock,” he said. “It’ll take about three weeks to get another one from the warehouse.” Here was a chance to leave someone out in the cold; this alone would have tremendous appeal.

Michael saw a way out. “Actually, I’ll need two,” he said grandly. “I want a second one for my guest house.” He’d put a futon in the toolshed, along with a lamp and a washcloth. In six years, the only guest had been a cousin who was driving to Utah and wanted to break up the trip.

“That won’t work for me, either,” Alexander said quickly. “I’m speaking at a conference at the end of the month.” (The segment featuring him and a poster was only ten minutes long.) “Anyway I’m not sure if it’s really me.”

“You can keep looking,” Josh said, resigned, “but we close in a couple of minutes.”

Michael grasped the armrest and leaned forward. Sensing this movement, Alexander leapt to his feet. Observing this race, Josh would have called it a tie; both competitors gave the edge to themselves.

“I should get going anyway,” Michael said. “I’ve got dinner reservations.”

“I have to run, too,” Alexander said. “I have an engagement at six.” There was a taco with his name on it and a cartoon that he planned to enjoy.

They drifted away from the sofa. Unsought, it was simply a blob that faded into the background.

Josh accompanied them to the exit. A bore and a blowhard, he thought, hoping they wouldn’t come back.

For Alexander, leaving without a sofa was a bit of a letdown. Even so, the outing was a success. He’d held his own, gone the distance, had certainly made an impression.

Michael was unsatisfied. They didn’t seem to grasp who he was. He’d attended the stodgiest schools, was now an associate at a frightening law firm. Day to day, he thought, this counted for less than it should. Once he made partner, things might fall into place. (The possibility that he could be a twerp in a trench coat had never occurred to him.)

The doorway was wide enough for them both, so they could exit without controversy.

“Well, take care,” Michael said, without looking at him. “I’ll have to put the top up,” he sighed, staring into a cloudless sky. “I think it’s going to rain.”