Now that I’ve moved out, I can share this story publicly.

There I was, on the porch of my new second-story apartment, trying to heave all 8’3″ of my green couch through a very narrow entrance. My dad was on the other end, and together we were doing everything we could to defy geometry.

It was never going to fit. With a sigh, I plunked my head against the pea-soup green fabric. It was the end of the road for Green Behemoth and me.

In that moment, my mind traced the miles I’d brought GB, clear back to South Dakota….

I’d first met GB at my friends’ basement apartment. Then, when the one friend moved out, the other inherited it. Then I moved in, and the couch became partly mine. Not long later, I was the last one in the apartment, and before I knew it, the Green Behemoth had become like a stray mutt, the type everyone loves despite his looks, but which no one has room to house. I claimed GB as my own, remembering my two best friends and all the memories we’d had in the living room: Bible studies, discovering bacon Oreo sandwiches, long talks, letting the upstairs kids bounce on the cushions…

In my flashback moment, I recalled getting a bigger U-Haul just for GB, then lugging him up the narrow stairs. (It seemed wherever GB and I went together, we left our mark…on the walls.) He moved with me from South Dakota to New Mexico, gathered dust in a storage unit and then mice in a garage, then came this last stretch to Oklahoma.

There on the porch, I could readily admit I’d lugged GB out of pure sentimentality. Anyone looking at him would realize there had to be some reason beyond appearance that attracted me to GB.

I sighed, and in that sigh, I forfeited sentimentality and decided I’d take him to the nearby Salvation Army this very night.

But then…I noticed the window.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked my movers (aka my parents.)

Turns out, Mom was too.

Out came the tape measure, and my Salvation Army run was cancelled, but only under one condition.

Moving the Green Behemoth out six months later.

We had to wait until the office closed and the cover of darkness descended.

After all, we had to remove the shade screen, which the 21-page lease just might have specified was not to be removed. (But after that much fine print, who could remember anything, right?)

Darkness crept back over the forest of the world, which is my Lord of the Rings speak for “It got dark.”

Out came Dad’s drill and off came the screen. Next, we had to raise the window pane farther than its bounds, so off came the window tracks, nearly breaking the glass in the meantime. (Pretty sure that was implied as a no-no in the lease.) By that point I was in complete disbelief of all the lengths I’d gone for this ugly couch over just one year’s time.

We lifted GB to the sill and pushed him through like a comedic silent film. Finally, he was in where only a Briggs or a chainsaw could get him out. I swore my parents to secrecy, and we put the window and screen back together. 

But, after a lease is up, what goes in must come out, right?

Let’s just say that GB and I are both out of the apartment now, the window is intact, but the sisterhood of the traveling couch has seen its last chapter. Now who am I going to have adventures with? After all, I left my piano in the last state I lived….

7 thoughts on “The Green Behemoth

  1. Your stories are always a highlight of my day!

    “Now who am I going to have adventures with?”

    I know for a fact that you are in possession of 4 adorable cats that are always up for an adventure! 😉😉😉

    But, seriously… Bacon Oreo? 🤭🤢😆


    1. Thanks, Ann! Yes, it’s time to stir up an adventure with four cats. And bacon Oreo sandwiches are actually really good! I wasn’t convinced either…until I tried it. Go on; I know you’re up for the challenge. 🙂


Leave a Reply to Meagan Briggs Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s