In my experience, anytime an uncoupled man needs to furnish a home, you will find some combination of the following:
At least one black pleather couch or chair on cheap silver legs with nonexistent padding in the cushions.
Heavy wood furniture sourced from Mom and Dad’s twenty-year-old castoffs, usually comically large dressers and dining tables. (Yes, I have no room to judge here, this is simply an observation.)
If he has a porch or balcony, at least one camp chair, which he claims is “so comfortable.”
A corner of the room devoted to analog music, including a record player and a few choice vinyl albums that probably only get played when someone else is in the apartment to see it. Occasionally this area will include hardback novels by Cormac McCarthy and David Foster Wallace, orDune,and feature a knockoff Eames lounge chair and footstool.
In dire cases, the bedroom will consist of either a futon or a mattress on the floor. Sometimes a crate of some sort will serve as a bedside table.
A giant fucking TV. No matter how poorly equipped he is, there will always be at least one giant fuckingTV.
Nick’s apartment doesn’t follow the basic pattern, aside from the TV. Maybe he has yet to unpack his music-credibility-establishing record player.
“Have you used this yet?” I hold up the Bundt pan that’s currently serving as a receptacle for Kira’s colored pencils.
“You know, it’s weird,” he says. “She put the pencils in there yesterday and they have yet to produce a Bundt cake.”
“Must be defective,” I say. “But it’s the perfect bowl for microwave popcorn.”
“We just eat popcorn out of the bag,” Kira replies. I had no idea she was listening. She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, double-fisting slices of cheese pizza while Romily scrolls through streaming options on the giantTV.
“But it’s so much fancier to eat it out of a pan that looks like an ancient helmet,” I say. She ignores that.
Defeated by the selective hearing of a nine-year-old, I turn back to Nick. “I can quietly take it to the donation box and hide it under some old textbooks. My mom will never know.”
“No, I’ll keep it,” he says. “Someday maybe we’ll surprise you with a Bundt cake.”
“I need to use the bathroom,” Kira calls, rising from the couch, pizza still in hand. “Don’t come in.”
We watch her march to the bathroom, shut the door, and turn the lock. If it’s anything like my mom’s bathroom, the quality craftsmanship left a sizable gap between the bottom of the door and the floor and there’s no such thing as total privacy in there.
Nick leans toward me. “Just to be clear, Idon’tgo in there. I think she picked it up at school. They’re all obsessed with privacy.”
