The Purple Couch
	It was 2006 and I was painting a large mural that was to hang permanently in City Hall in downtown Tampa. Shortly after I started it, I fell and tore the rotary cuff muscle in my left shoulder. After extensive surgery I was released to go home with my arm in a sling. A week later, while my arm was still in the sling, I stepped in a hole in my driveway and fell. I put my good arm out in front of me to catch myself, which I understand is the worse thing you can do, and I tore the other rotary cuff muscle. So I had both arms in slings at the same time. I called City Hall and said that there was no way I would be able to continue the Tampa project. It was titled "The Story of Tampa" and was a depiction of Landmarks throughout Tampa. It was comprised of close to 250 dinner-plate-sized vignettes with many of their edges fading into each other. The head of the city's Public Arts Program, said they still wanted the mural, take the time to heal, and resume progress as soon as I was able, which I did. During this rehabilitation period, there wasn't much I could do. My long time friend, Betsi Maguero, also an artist, called me and said that she had a large purple couch she wanted to take to Atlanta in the back of her truck. She wanted to surprise her daughter, Buffi, with it. She asked if I wanted to ride with her. At first I wondered, who'll watch my television. Because I had always driven with her to Atlanta and I certainly had nothing else to do until my shoulders healed, I said, "Sure, I'm in." The back of Betsi's pick up had a camper top, which was pretty low. She had gotten someone to help her load the couch into the truck before leaving her house in Gulfport. Then it was to Thonotosassa to pick me up. The couch was a pretty tight fit. The top of the couch's back almost touched the ceiling of the camper. They did a great job of squeezing it in there and closing the tailgate and back window of the camper afterward. Ordinarily, I would've driven to her house and helped load it into the truck, but with both arms in slings, I was pretty useless. It would have been like an arms-down, fully-wrapped, pretty pudgy mummy trying to help. Betsi stopped at my house and I made my way out to the passenger door of her truck, waiting for her to open it for me. She said, "Oh, no, Q.J. is coming with us. You'll need to ride in the back." Q.J. was a woman who also lived in Gulfport. I could see her staring out at me through the foggy window. The three of us went to the rear of the truck. After some maneuvering we got my head and shoulders into the small space that was left in front of the couch. The two women managed to somehow get my knees up onto the lowered tailgate. Then I was on my own. I did exactly like one of those walruses on the beach getting up onto a rock. I caterpillared my way up into the couch and gave a great sigh. But I was facedown with my head bent back and my face trying to see over the purple arm of the couch. The front window of the camper and the rear window of the cab of the truck were lined up and I could see the back of their heads up there. They were nodding and talking away. I had reminded Betsi as they loaded me into the truck that I have a bladder the size of a peanut. My main objective now was to roll over so I would be lying on my back. It seems like this took at least five minutes. "Just tap on the window and we'll stop at the next gas station or rest stop," she had said. Turned out that was easier said than done. There were four purple arms in the back of that truck and I managed to get one of mine out of its sling and up to the window to tap. When Betsi tells this story, and it is pretty funny, she says that every 20 minutes, like clockwork, they'd hear, on their back window, tap tap tap. Each time we stopped, we had to go through that whole ordeal of getting me out of the truck and then putting me back in. The first time I got out I sort of spilled out onto the pavement. Betsi and I were laughing about all of this but Q.J. was less than amused. By the time we reached Atlanta, we had the routine down to a science. Riding back there, I felt like a big crumpled unmade bed with eyes. I could picture me wriggling out of the truck when we reached Buffi's house and me having completely lost one shoe, and with a piece of hard candy, that came from who knows where, stuck in my hair. Buffi, Patrick, Betsi, and Q.J. managed to get the couch, and me, into the living room and the couch in place. Buffi's two pit bulls, Marlene and Cleo, didn't know what to think of me with my arms in those slings. But they were nice. However I think if they could talk they would've said, "We've got our eyes on you." Late next afternoon, after a wonderful visit with Buffi and Patrick and a very enjoyable Atlanta breakfast, we headed home. But there was no couch for me to lie on. I couldn't just roll around in the bed of the truck, too painful. If anything could ever be called "shoulders of the road" it would be mine, after that trip. We got a straight-back kitchen chair from somewhere for me, which we put in the center of the bed of the truck. The top of my head was barely touching the ceiling of the camper. There were long grooves, resembling two -inch wide corduroy strips on the floor of the truck, going from the cab to the tail. So when the truck would stop are take off too fast the chair would slide a foot or so forward or backward. I would stop it by dragging my feet and pressing my head against the top of the camper. The chair would not slide from side to side, because of the grooves in the floor. I kept thinking that I was glad we hadn't used the chair with rollers on the bottom. I pictured myself rolling out of the back end of the truck and down the highway as I watched the red tail lights of our truck disappear out of sight into the night. We stopped to buy gas in Ocala. We decided to rotate riding in the front. It had bucket seats with the gearshift in the middle so there wasn't room for three to ride in the front. Q.J. was having no part of riding in the back, so Betsi volunteered to ride back there for a while. She just laid down. Q.J. and I rode up front together and it was very quiet. I had gotten some snacks and offered her some. "No thanks." I said that I was putting the wrappers and stuff on the passenger side floor between my feet and I would clean it all up as soon as we got to my house, which I did. I found out later that this was what was bothering her, no end. I had no idea. When we reached my house and were gathering up, sorting out, and cleaning up everything, one of the girls exclaimed loudly, "Oh no! Where's my pocketbook!" It was one of those big pocketbooks with a flat bottom that stands straight up, with two big loop handles. And it was gone. We backtracked our steps. It was last used at the gas station, at the pumps to pay for the gas. Well, there was nothing we could do but drive back to Ocala. After our trip it seemed like that was halfway back to Atlanta. We just hoped the purse would still be there. Betsi drove back to get the pocketbook so it must've been hers. To tell the truth I really can't remember. But I rode back with her and Q.J. waited behind. A couple of hours later, we pulled into the gas station and there under the bright fluorescent lights, as plain as day, sitting next to our gas pump was the pocketbook. Now, what are the odds of that? We drove back home and the next time I went to Atlanta it was to Buffi and Patrick's 25th Anniversary party. After Betsi and I made a tableful of ham and cheese rolls for the party and arranged them on platters in really cool designs, I went into the living room and sat on the purple couch and said, "Hello, old friend. Do you remember me?" Lash Out Loud