Snow Table

If I don’t produce anything decent between the time it takes for my coffee to get cold, my day might as well be ruined. If I could afford a new phone every night, I’d shatter my phone on the wall every morning. It was 7:30 a.m., and I lay there on the couch, my blanket pulled up to my nose. I watched the snowflakes fall, landing one by one on my Toyota Prius. The car looked back at me, but there was nothing I could do. There’s no blanket ugly enough to cover the disgrace of that vehicle. I hate everything about it. That day, I wished the snow would swallow it whole.

I grabbed my mug from the floor and perched my lips against the rim, letting the coffee course through my veins. I looked over and saw the remnants of my computer desk lying on the floor. Last night, like an ogre with a fork and knife, I had rained down with both fists on the weak wooden table that supported my computer, and I watched it tumble like a stack of cards. Looking back, it might have been an overreaction, but losing that chess match to some 13-year-old boy from Finland made me sick to my stomach. I don’t regret smashing the desk. If I had another one lying around that night, I’d smash it down as well and use the wood to start a fire big enough to engulf the entire house.

“What the fuck am I doing with my life?” I thought to myself, scratching the sleep crumbs out of my eyes. I reached and slipped my laptop from under the couch, firing up the old bastard, and began browsing Facebook Marketplace for a new desk that could withstand my fists of fury. I scrolled for an hour, opened 38 tabs, and somehow ended up on a YouTube video teaching folks how to dominate any room with charm and confidence. I bookmarked it.

Looking through the rolodex of tabs, I found a table I wouldn’t mind looking at every day. The legs looked sturdy, like a track horse in its prime. The wood was maple, and I could smell the Danish oil through the screen. I drafted up a message: “Hi, I’m interested in buying your desk. Would I be able to pass by today, and would it fit in my miserable Prius?” I moved some words around and hit send.

I walked into the kitchen to pour myself another cup of coffee and heard, “BING!” “Yes! I have many messages, but it is still available. Here’s my address: 7431 Av De L’Epee. I will disassemble it for it to fit in your car.” I looked out my window and saw the beauty of a car dressed in a white dress, waiting to be stripped naked and taken for a ride. I dressed myself accordingly, using my winter gloves and arms like a human windshield wiper to remove the snow from my car. With my big boy boots, I kicked and dragged the chunks of white and yellow snow, releasing my tires from the chains of Mother Nature.

I got in, pushed the start button, and watched my car welcome me with the digital letters appearing on the dash. I punched in the coordinates and made my way to the destination. The snow was fresh, making my wheels squeak at every turn, making my Prius sound like it was turning into a large rubber duck.

I parked far enough so the gentleman couldn’t see what I drove in and decide I wasn’t worthy enough of his homemade table. I walked, the wind and snow slapping me in the face like a duo wrestling team, making me catch my breath on every tenth step. The door didn’t have a bell. Instead, a metal ring hung from the middle of the door, waiting for me to slam it down on the wood. From the sound of his footsteps, I knew this was no small man, a real ogre.

The door creaked open, and he stood there, arm extended, waiting for me to shake his meaty hand. He smelled like gasoline and had enough dirt under his nails to start a community garden. The air in his apartment stood as still as his smile, and a bead of sweat fell from his wrinkled forehead and seeped into the skin of my forearm.

“I guess I’ll have to make time for an arm amputation,” I thought to myself.

I shook his hand and audibly swallowed. I retreated my hand and discreetly wiped it on the side of my pants, avoiding any weird infections. “Down the hall!” he said. “Follow me.” With my hands in my pockets, I followed him down the hall and counted the rolls on his neck like logs of firewood. If I lit a match right now, he’d turn into a fireball; his perfume was probably sold at a gas station. His feet were massive, large enough to kick my Prius and have it roll down a hill.

I analyzed the hall. It carried two large windows and picture frames of Marvin Gaye, Jimi Hendrix, and MF Doom, all of them watching me walk through like I was on a runway. He turned right, then left, and then went up a flight of brown stairs with nails protruding from the splints of wood.

“Is this really how I die?” I thought to myself, my anxiety increasing with every step forward. “How badly do I need this table? What does this table mean to me? Am I so obsessed with structure and productivity that I’m willing to put my life on the line for a fix of normal adult life?”

We finally got to the top of the stairs. His breathing was heavy, which gave me the impression I could run away safely if anything were to happen. He opened the French doors that led to a beautiful balcony, clear from snow and noise, a safe haven where you could smash a table down if you wanted to. All the materials needed were neatly packaged in a large bag.

Without breaking eye contact with the table, I took the cash out of my pocket and handed it to the large figure taking up 50% of my peripheral vision. I grabbed the bag from its sturdy handles and led the way out of the house, making Mr. Large Hands follow me this time.

I gave him one final look before leaving. Who is this man? Why does he seem so put together? He makes tables, and what do I do? Break them? I drive a lousy car that can easily be mistaken for a go-kart, and his driveway has four wheels that take up the same square meters as my apartment.

I extended my arm, opened my palm, and smiled. He smiled back. In fact, I don’t think he stopped smiling from the moment he opened the door and let me in. “Why is he so fucking happy?” I thought, admiring his ray of positivity, trying to soak in as much energy through our handshake as I could.

I left with a smile and a bag of wood. I walked to my car, whistling Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together,” looking down at the disassembled desk as if I was convincing it I’d be a happy owner, that I wouldn’t have a child-like outburst and break down its legs. I opened the doors to my Rolls-Royce and neatly laid the bag in the backseat, wrapping the seatbelt around its waist. I pushed start and read the “Hello Louie” that appeared on the dash.

This time, I did something I’d never done before: I got comfortable, smiled, and with a loud voice—loud enough to pierce through those titanium windows—I yelled, “HELLOOOOOOOOOO PRIUSSSSSSSSSS!”