Soup of Fate

Listen, I’m not saying that asking the mob for favors is a good idea. Before I really get into my story, I want to make that clear. It’s important to me that you know that since I doubt you’ll believe that stance from this point forward. It’s also important to note, right from the get-go, that I did not get into this situation intentionally. If anything, it was thrust upon me.

The couch was getting annoying. I’d go so far as to say that it was a nuisance at times. See, that’s the one thing they don’t tell you when you’re a little kid planning on living in the big city one day. That’s the one fact the world doesn’t tell you in order to put some perspective on your dreams: they don’t tell you how hard it is to get rid of a couch in the middle of Chicago. And since I hadn’t been told about this previously, I found myself in the middle of this predicament quite by accident. I’m a victim here, if nothing else, okay? But I’ll tell you the story, or at least the beginning of it, and let you decide for yourself. I guess that’s the point of having a jury, isn’t it?

So. I hate Indian food. I like food generally, but my body has some strict rules about it. I just can’t get to a point in my life where spice, or anything particularly strong, works with my body. And besides this making me the butt of many jokes by my mostly Indian family, it also makes for some awkward conversations when I make new friends and they want to go out to exotic restaurants. I wouldn’t call myself extroverted by any means, but I do have a penchant for being part of things.

That’s exactly why I ended up at an Indian restaurant on a hot summer night with about seven people I didn’t really know. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in my life, so I knew how to deal with it efficiently. You participate in the talking. You order lots of water so it appears you’re engaging with the food. You pick up and put down your fork a lot. You stir your food around while you talk. And if you’re really committed, you take a bite or two every now and again. I’d always thought about writing some kind of manual on it, but that’s a story for another time.

I had successfully avoided eating anything by the time we were all ready to leave. But then Fate happened upon me as if stumbling upon my sad body in a back alley. And as retribution for being in the way of Fate, she decided to put me in a situation where two huge cartons of leftovers made their way into my hands. One of them was full of samosas, which if you must be stuck with Indian food, is not the worst creation you could have thrust upon you by powers beyond your control. But the other one was soup. An entire carton of aromatic, thick soup oozing spices and odor directly into my nose on the entire ride home. By the time I finally made it into my apartment, I was positive my bowels were acting up merely due to exposure.

My cat’s name is Sasha. And what inspires me the most about her is that she doesn’t care about anyone or anything. When I arrived home that night, the pain of a thousand tortures on my hopeless face, she glanced at me as if to say, “Who has taken advantage of you now?” I don’t know if you’ve ever felt looked down upon by your cat. I think it’s fairly common among cat owners. But Sasha is different. A day has never gone by where I wasn’t reminded at least once that she is the superior being charged with trying to save me from myself, and for whatever reason, she’s given up trying.

That particular evening, she was sitting on the back of the couch looking at me with sheer pity. I held up both cartons in her direction. “Sasha, this isn’t my fault. I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep living like this.”

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a moment in your life that happened in slow motion. A moment you could look back on as the moment that turned your life into the series of strange events it is now. But that was this moment for me. One moment I held up these cartons which symbolized my self-doubt and fear, and then next I watched the carton full of soup slip from my grasp as elusively as my last girlfriend and burst open on the couch. Spices, goopy chicken, broth, chopped things. All over the couch. The only thing poetic about that moment was the single tear that fell from my eye as I chucked the carton of samosas into the mess and fell to the floor in defeat. And that’s when my mom called. Obviously. Because when you’re me, your mom is always calling in the deepest moments of your despair.

“Luke, what is wrong with you this time?” Her strong Indian accent was anything but comforting to me that night, which was precisely why I burst into tears right after answering. I doubt she called to ask me that question, but honestly, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

“There is Indian soup all over my couch.”

My mother has exactly three different types of sighs. The second type is one of deep confusion, misunderstanding, and resignation. It’s the one I’m the most familiar with.

“How do things like this happen to you?”

“Because I am weak and takeout cartons have really gone downhill these days.”

Jumping past the next several hours, which remain mostly black due to trauma response: by the next night, I had scrubbed that couch with every cleaning element known to man. And it did nothing but clear away the goop. All I’ve ever really wanted in my life is to sit and eat saltines in peace, and in such a hostile environment that was never going to happen. So, I acquired a new couch and slid the old one outside. However, that’s where we come full circle and catch up a bit. I slid the contaminated couch outside my front door, and it remained there. I don’t have a car, let alone anything capable of moving a couch. Nor do I know anybody who does. Nor would I have any idea of where to take such a poisonous item.

And before you jump to conclusions, I’ll just tell you. I tried giving it away via countless online platforms. I didn’t want to make any money off of this couch because it isn’t right to profit from tragedy. I just wanted somebody to come and take it away. But being the honest man that I am, I felt the need to tell everybody who inquired about the couch of its status as soiled goods. And that is why nobody wanted it, even for free. And that is why it stayed by my front door for months. And that is where things got weird.

I was at my favorite bar, drowning my sorrows in a glass of water when another life-defining moment happened to me. A burly gentleman sat next to me and ordered a whiskey, casting his eye upon my ice water in disdain.

“What’s with the kid?” In hindsight, I guess it makes sense that he asked the bartender instead of me.

“He can’t get rid of a dirty couch.”

“It’s contaminated, Billy, I’ve told you this at least eight times.” I threw back the rest of my water in time to welcome another glass. Nobody made ice water like Billy.

“Dirty couch, eh?” The man was already on his second shot of whiskey, and I was in awe at his stomach’s heightened abilities. “That’s a problem around here. I’ve got lotta stories.”

“Then tell me what to do!” Perhaps it should be a testament to how traumatized I’d become by the entire situation because at that moment I thoroughly believed that this complete stranger could help me.

“Calm down, kid,” he answered, “Gimme your address and I’ll be over later tonight. Don’t worry about it.” I then met the eyes of Billy, who only nodded briefly. And because there is a certain code of protection and respect among bartenders and their patrons, I didn’t run away right then and there. Billy only wanted the best for me. I still believe that.

I pulled out my small black notebook from my jacket pocket, tore out a page, and scrawled my address on it, making the burly guy laugh. “Why you got a notebook? You a poet or something?”

“It’s my birdwatching notebook, jackass.” Empowerment through the glimmer of hope had made me reckless. “Yuck it up, but someday you’ll spot a sandhill crane and have nowhere to write it down. 7 o’clock tonight. Don’t be late.”

When I left the bar, it was 4 pm. Which just translates to me going home and having three solid hours to overthink the direction my life was heading. I imagined every possible scenario coming upon me that night. Fate wasn’t on my side as a general rule, after all. And I’d given my address to a complete stranger. But none of it mattered. I’d entered into dark waters to solve a problem, and through them I must swim.

When I opened the door at 7 o'clock, the guy from the bar blew a puff of cigar smoke in my face that was actually quite picturesque.

“This the couch?”

“That’s the couch.”

“Grab it, Lenny.” I managed to look past these words and the smoke they carried to see the apparent Lenny and another man effortlessly pick up my couch and carry it off. The gravity of the situation I was in didn’t sink in until that moment. Why you ask? Because as they carried that defiled temple away, they didn’t say a single word about the smell. In a vain attempt to save myself and my ragged future, I opened my mouth to ask him how much I owed him. That would make it go away, right? But before I could speak, he was handed a smallish black back which he tossed into my hands.

“For your trouble,” he said, smushing his cigar into the doorframe.

“But I …didn’t do anything for you…” My voice tasted like chalk.

“Oh, you will. We’ll be in touch, kid.”

I stood staring at the empty space where my old couch had been for a solid five minutes. If not for the black bag in my hands, I would have thought it was all some kind of fever dream. But that was all too far from true. Finally, I closed the front door and walked into the living room, where the contents of the bag materialized on the floor.

I stared at the pile of cash for decades. The only miracle I can claim in my life is the appearance of a paper bag in my hand at that moment, right when I needed it, to assist me in the unprecedented panic attack that was happening with or without me. It didn’t get better when I finally finished counting the bills and realized that I had $20,000 on my living room floor. What happened next was the only logical thing that could have happened in my life at that moment. My phone rang.

“Hey, Mom.” My voice could easily be described as shaky, “Remember my old couch? Well. I think I’m in trouble with the mob.”