Epstein's Couch
A short story that is difficult to follow
Epstein’s Couch
by Phil Rot
The other day, I came across a listing for Epstein’s couch:
“No cushions overturned, Not handled by FBI or Law Enforcement, Great Opportunity for Investigative Journalists.”
Wow, only seven thousand dollars?
I contacted the dealer immediately and asked if he accepted precious bullion.
“You got it, Phil.”
I drove over to the seller’s Miami residence with six thousand and five hundred and fifty dollars in precious bullion.
Ding dong. He opened the doors. “Phil, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Great, wait right here–you got the bullion?”
“I held up the briefcase of bullion.”
“What?”
“Oh, sorry, that was a thought I was thinking.”
I held up the briefcase of bullion.
He said, “I eye the briefcase greedily.”
“So you do it too, huh?” I said.
“Oh shit, did I say that out loud? Well then, it would seem I also have a habit of speaking inner narrations out loud,” the man said.
“Curious, I ask the man all about the odd condition that we seem to share,” I said.
“He is interested in the fact that I, too, vocalize the thoughts streaming through my mind. I knew there had to be other people out there like me, but what were the odds one would turn up on my doorstep asking about Jeffrey Epstein’s couch?” he told me.
“He shows me inside his house, a two-level Craftsman with bay windows and a tacky, Jewish interior,” I said.
The man replied, “I could tell right away that the guy was a rube, I mean, who answers an ad for a famous ex-pedophile’s couch? The goy probably wanted to sniff the cushions.”
“Little did he know, I’d actually left the bullion in the trunk of my car,” I said. “Inside my briefcase was a rare, antique box revolver. The unsuspecting mark opens the intriguing ornate box and, like a hidden viper, the barrel springs up and fires a 5 ⅞ mm Parabellum bullet, straight into the unwitting victim’s skull.”
The man smiled, saying, “I take him to the garage. There, sitting beside my 1933 BMW motorcycle, is the couch–but not just any couch, as he’ll soon find out.”
I said, “I ask him if he minds if I take off my shoes and socks and give the couch a ‘test ride,’ if you know what I mean.”
He said, “‘Of course,’ I tell him. ‘Be my guest.’”
“Now barefoot, I step onto the beige, human skin couch. It feels like I’m standing on my grandmother’s stomach. I dig my toes into the taut, human material. I bounce. I leap. I jump, landing on my back. The couch endures my roughhousing with unremitting allowance. It knows I’m here to play, and it obliges without the slightest irritation.”
The man said, “The guy’s treating the couch like a damn trampoline, bounding across its leather like a rambunctious five year old, full of joy, reminding me of my own daughters when they were little. Sad, I’ll never get those moments back–time really does fly. Now Beth is in college and Sammy’s married to that fucking muslim dentist.”
“I can tell that my youthful exuberance is making my host uncomfortable. I’m all out of breath anyway, so I have a traditional sit on the right cushion. I give the other cushion a pat, motion for my host to have a seat.”
“He tells me all about his CBS pilot, Let That Sink In.”
I said, “It was about this family in the suburbs and their fight to get the HOA to allow a talking sink to move into the neighborhood.”
“The guy is telling me about this fucking talking sink that stays with this family while he’s waging some lawsuit against the HOA or some shit,” he said. “It sounds fucking retarded.”
I said, “‘That’s the point,’ I say. ‘This was the 2000s; people ate that kind of shit up. All you needed was a punny show title with an outrageous premise, and you had a single-season hit on your hands–cult TV, DVD sales, and a rabid core fanbase demanding the network renew the series–that was the plan anyway. I had Brendan Frazier, Jennifer Sheets, and Andy Tomas onboard. I had Marc Levin looking for a minor production credit.”
He laughed, said, “I ask this guy, ‘How the fuck are you just gonna kill off the star of the series for the fucking pilot?’ He says, ‘Cause I know we couldn’t afford him,’ he’s talking about literally murdering Fraser off camera and blaming it on the head of marketing–he’s telling me he had the perfect plan.”
I said, “Of course, I’d be out sick that day, stomach cancer, and I had this whole statement already written up about how tragic it was for the world to lose such an immense talent.”
Scratching his chin, the man said, “He says he’s got John Cleese playing the sink. I tell him, ‘Fuckin’Cleese? You really think that old crank is gonna agree to voicing a television sink? But he’s convinced he knew a guy with dirt on Cleese so bad he’d have the old coot on all fours licking his nuts with one phone call.”
“I knew about Cleese and the Lake Michigan affair; I’d known about it for years, but lacked the materials to make it advantageous. Then I met Roci, an Italian porn star with a dick as thick as a Cuban, he’s at one of those ragers at the Woodsman when who should he run into but Cleese’s secret stateside floozies, Lislie Chinnels, dope sick, a sniff of hot glue. Out of money and looking like one of Manson’s girls, she sends him some photos and documents for the 8-ball in his jacket-”
He hands me the couch. I slip it into my vest pocket. We kiss.
Johan Bach.
Cello Concerto, C minor.
Ninth movement.
Legato.