He shot into the showroom like he'd been launched straight from the corner office by a cannon. His white shirt was crisply starched, his shoes were shined and he reeked of expensive cologne. "I need a table," he said abruptly and somewhat angrily. Nothing fancy. Four legs and a flat surface. Where he could drink his coffee and read the paper. Alone.
Two days later, a black Escalade ripped into our parking lot. Out jumped a guy in surgical scrubs, a surgeon, sweaty after hours in the operating room. "I need a chair," he snapped. Something comfortable, he said, but he had to be able to fit it in his car and carry it up three flights of stairs, by himself, to his new and empty apartment. We found him a nice barrel chair at a reasonable price. Now at least he has a spot in which to sip a stiff drink after work.
What's going on? Two different guys, same week, same story. They came home from work to find the locks changed and the golf clubs scattered all over the lawn. I guess May must be the month for disgruntled wives to really clean house.
At least Wife #1 was able to offer one small act of mercy to the schmuck in the driveway. "Where do I go?" he asked his wife as he stuffed his belongings into the trunk of the car. "I don't care," she yelled out the window. "Get an apartment." Shocked, he stammered, "But I don't even have a bed - or a table."
There was a moment of silence then she apparently took pity on him, he told us. "Go to Furniture Consignment Gallery," she shouted then she slammed the window shut.
