Dave’s first job in Charlotte was working for a land surveying company, which brought him to homes that resembled homes in the Hollywood Hills. Our Friday date nights consisted of driving to the well-to-do neighborhoods (there were many) and looking at the elaborate homes that Dave and his crew had surveyed earlier that week. Looking back, it’s a wonder we weren’t taken in for questioning under the suspicion of casing these places.
Every once in a while, Dave would come home with some piece of wooden furniture he found out in a field, or on the side of the road. His vision was much more creative than mine. I saw these items as garbage, covered with bugs and haunted memories of better times. There wasn’t much room to be picky, so we would end up refurbishing (aka painting) the TV stand, or magazine rack, or foot stool. Admittedly, the stuff turned out ok.
On a warm summer evening in June, Dave and I were returning home from an early dinner. The sun had just set and the sky was still illuminated with the oranges and pinks of dusk. We were about a block away from our duplex when Dave said, “Mery! Stop the car!” I braked, “What the hell, Dave? You want me to crash??” I thought I had hit something and not noticed. As I was coming to a rolling stop, Dave had already opened the passenger side door and was out on the curb inspecting someone’s trash. My instinct was to leave him there and drive away. I was humiliated. I rolled down the passenger window and said in a whisper yell, “DAVE! What ARE you doing??”
Dave had found another “piece” for our collection. On the curb, next to a garbage can, was a white 4-drawer high boy dresser with porcelain drawer pulls, each with a rose inlayed into the center of the knob. It was cute, if I was a 12 year old girl! The legs of the dresser were thin and one had broken off. “I can fix that, no problem.” I was still looking around as if we were on some kind of gotcha reality TV show, waiting for the police to pop out of the bushes and arrest us both for petty theft.
“Open the trunk.” Was he serious? There was no way that thing was going to fit in the trunk of our 1994 2-door Toyota Camry! I started giggling. For those of you who know me well, you know that under any type of stress or pressure, I laugh. I laugh a lot. It starts with a giggle and turns into a full blown debilitating cackle. It is not the most productive defense mechanism, but it’s mine.
“We are not stealing this dresser, Dave.” He was already removing the drawers and putting them in the back seat of the car. “It’s not stealing when they put it out on the curb, Mery. They want someone to take it so they don’t have to pay someone to remove it for them.” If that was the case, why was he whispering? And why wasn’t there a sign that said, “Free” or “Take me”? Dave was now getting annoyed with me since he was doing all the looting and I was just standing there, doubled over, laughing at him. “Mery, seriously, help me put the drawers in the back seat.” I was paralyzed with laughter and he was getting more red and more sweaty and more annoyed with every minute. “I just can’t do it!” I cackled.
“Mery, you are going to have to help me lift this into the trunk.” Fine I would help him, but then what? Half of the dresser was still coming out of the back of the trunk. We lifted the heavy piece of refuse into the trunk top first. Fortunately, the 200 yards to our house was all downhill. “You are going to have to coast down the street with the clutch in and I will walk behind holding the legs so it doesn’t fall out.” It seemed like a full proof plan. I hopped in the driver seat and put the car in neutral. I started to coast down the road with Dave walking behind the car holding onto the dresser.
We were doing great, or so I thought. I just wanted to flee the scene as quickly as possible. I looked in my rearview mirror only to find Dave with a death stare, in a full sprint trying to keep up with my “slow pace”. “SLOW DOWN!” I slammed on the brakes and he crashed into the back of the car. Oops. This triggered my laughing spell again while Dave was muttering more than one explicative at me under his breath. I managed to make it the rest of the way home without destroying the dresser. Oh, and without killing Dave. We unloaded our new acquisition and brought it in the house. We both sat in silence looking at it. “Dave, the leg is broken.” “I can fix it.” Pause. “Dave, it’s white.” “We can paint it.” Sigh.
The next day we took a trip to the local hardware store to purchase supplies for the refurb. We bought a couple nails and 2 spray cans of blue fleck paint. Use fleck pain on anything and it looks amazing! Who knew. We were so proud of that high boy. You would have thought it was our master craftsmanship that built the thing. All we did was throw a couple of spray cans at it. Friends even asked us if we were willing to sell it.
I think that was the last piece we actually “acquired” from someone’s curb. Might as well end on a high note, right?
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