Your Dad ran a moving company and he was killed by a couch. It was being
raised up to the third floor to try and get it through the window of
an apartment because it couldn’t fit through the door. The cord
snapped and the couch dropped right on your Dad’s head, snapping
his neck. In an exploit the local news called "incredible in it's physical improbability" Daddy had tumbled down three flights of stairs into the street and his face was ran over by three taxis before a homeless person dragged him onto the sidewalk.
“He
left the business to me,” you’re telling a customer. “And I’ve
built it into a small local empire. I did it with hatred in my
heart.”
The
logo on your trucks reads “Your Furniture Killed My Daddy, And I
Will Never Let Your Furniture Get The Upper Hand Again.” As Couch
Connie, you promise that you will be in control at every point in
the move. No one will ever see you or your team members hesitating or
guessing at an angle or a width for getting a couch or an armoire
through a doorway. You’re always ten steps ahead of your furniture.
You’ve already carried their couch up the steps and around the
corners and through the vestibule and into the living room before
your customers have even finished packing.
“It’s
about not letting the furniture get the jump on me,” you’re
telling your customer. “Like my Dad did.”
This is the point where you turn to the portrait of your Father that hangs over the register, the portrait is imposing and massive, to the point where the front teeth in your Father's smile are the size of index cards and his presence dominates the room in it's 9 foot portrait.
“You
were sloppy, Daddy,” you state plainly to the mammoth rendering.
The
customers are getting uncomfortable.
“SLOPPY!”
you shriek. “YOU! WERE! SLOPPY! DADDY!”
You’re
now sobbing uncontrollably. Spit is coming out of your mouth as you scream.
“HOW
COULD YOU, DADDY! HOW COULD YOU LET A COUCH TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME?!
HOW? DID YOU WANT IT TO TAKE YOU AWAY? DID YOU NOT WANT TO BE WITH ME
AND MOMMY ANY MORE? WHYDIDN'TYOULOVEUSDADDYWHYYY!?”
The
customers are moved to tears with you. You barely even know they’re
there anymore.
“WHYYYYYYY
DADDY? WHYYYYYY?”
You've bitten your tongue, it hurts and though it takes a minute you gradually recede back to a less manic state. You blink the tears away and turning to the customers, you raise your arm high and slam your fist down on their moving contract.
The wife of one of your customers starts to tell you blood is dripping off of your chin, but you cut her off.
“As
God as my witness,” you snarl through gritted teeth. “I will tame your furniture. I
will be its master during the entire course of your move. Your
furniture wants to be damaged to prove that it cannot be subjugated
to human will. I will make very clear to your furniture that on this
matter, it is very mistaken.”
Your
customers sign their contract, and then the three of you hug and cry
together.
