Extra Door

When Tiffany and I lived in San Francisco, we bought almost all our furniture on Craigslist. It seemed like someone was always selling exactly what we needed, so we never saw any point in going to an actual store to buy the same thing for a lot more money. In New York, not so much. People here are too rich to bother selling things. They just throw them away.

Until last weekend, we hadn't bought anything on Craigslist. We had, however, picked up three excellent pieces from our neighbors. Our sidewalk trash finds so far include: a bookshelf that's too big for all our bookshelf spots (we're selling it!), a grocery cart that we have yet to use, a miniature baker's rack to give us extra kitchen counter space in our living room (the rack is not so miniature that it fits in our kitchen), and a bright orange door. We have no use for the door. That is to say, all our door frames have doors, so this door is nothing if not superfluous, but it's so pretty! And antiquey! As soon as we saw the old-timey keyhole, we had to have it. For now it's a decorative door on our patio.


But Tiffany kept scouring Craigslist, and we finally hit the jackpot with exactly the multi-purpose ottoman we'd been looking for. This guy was selling a piece that has a cushion top lid that reverses into a coffee table top. Even better, two smaller ottomans fit inside the piece, providing us with extra seating whenever we have company.

I was suspicious as soon as we approached the seller's apartment--a towering water-front high rise in the financial district.

"Why would someone who lives here need extra cash?" I said. "Should I put a rock in my pocket in case he's a murderer?"

Tiffany rolled her eyes.

(FYI: There are no rocks in the financial district anyway.)

It turns out the guy was just like us. Or he had been just like us until he moved into the towering high rise with the doorman and the swanky red lights in the elevators. Now, he was on the cusp of being someone infinitely more rich than us. But old habits die hard. He was selling his ottoman because he didn't need it anymore (he needed something bigger to go with his enormous new apartment).

Tiffany and I took a minute to breathe in the smell of his success before we hefted the ottoman up and walked awkwardly out of the apartment.

"As nice as it is," I whispered while we waited for the elevator, "it's a studio. At least we have a bedroom door."

And a decorative orange door too.