Four o'clock couldn't come fast enough.
When Ethan's shift officially ended, he didn't even bother changing out of his work clothes. He grabbed his keys, said a quick goodbye to Leo—who was now attempting to re-organize the bargain cassette bin—and walked out into the chilly alley behind the store.
The Ford F-150 was waiting for him, looking as beat-up and reliable as ever. Behind it, sitting under the blue tarp, was the massive brown floral couch. The tarp was covered in a small layer of rainwater that had pooled in the middle.
Ethan walked over, grabbed the edge of the tarp, and yanked it off. A splash of cold water immediately hit his left work boot.
"Great. Perfect," he muttered, shaking his foot out.
He lowered the tailgate with a loud metallic CLANG that echoed off the brick walls of the alley. The real problem now was that he was completely alone. Last night, moving the couch had taken two people and a lot of cursing. Today, he had to get this thing out of the bed at the dump by himself, or figure out a way to slide it off without breaking his legs.
He grabbed his phone and contemplated calling Leo to come help, but he knew Leo would just complain about his back for two weeks and demand three slices of pizza in exchange.
Instead, Ethan decided to just deal with it when he got there.
He climbed into the cab, fired up the engine—which coughed three times before settling into its familiar uneven rattle—and backed the truck slowly out of the alley onto the main road.
The city recycling and waste center was located about fifteen minutes south, right near the river in an industrial zone full of gravel lots, auto repair shops, and rusty warehouses.
By the time Ethan pulled up to the weigh station booth at the entrance of the dump, the sky was starting to darken into a bruised purple color.
An elderly woman with thick glasses and a bright yellow high-visibility vest leaned out of the booth window. "What's in the back, son?"
"Furniture," Ethan said, leaning out his window. "An old sleeper sofa."
"Ten bucks flat rate for furniture," she said, holding out a small plastic tray. "Cash or card."
Ethan pulled a crumpled ten-dollar bill out of his jeans pocket, handed it over, and received a small orange paper slip in return.
"Bay number four," she pointed down a gravel road lined with massive concrete walls. "Dump it over the yellow line. Don't fall in."
"Thanks," Ethan said.
He drove slowly down the gravel track, the truck shaking violently as the tires hit deep ruts in the dirt. Bay four was a massive covered shed with a deep concrete pit at the back. A few commercial vans were parked nearby, guys in work clothes tossing drywall and old carpets over the safety railing into the pit below.
Ethan backed the truck up as close to the yellow line as he dared, pulled the handbrake up hard, and stepped out.
The air here smelled like wet paper, sour garbage, and diesel exhaust.
Ethan walked around to the back of the truck and stared at the couch. It looked even bigger now than it had in Sarah's living room.
He grabbed the bottom edge of the frame, grunted, and pulled. The couch slid backward about three inches before the heavy iron folding mechanism inside caught on the ridged metal floor of the truck bed.
"Come on..." Ethan muttered, bracing his feet against the gravel and pulling with everything he had. His face turned bright red, his veins bulged in his neck, but the couch refused to budge.
"Need a hand, chief?"
Ethan stopped, breathing heavily, and looked around.
A guy in a stained yellow raincoat and mud-covered work boots was standing a few feet away, holding a wooden broom. He had a thick grey beard and was chewing on a plastic toothpick.
"Uh," Ethan panted, wiping sweat from his eyes. "Yeah. Honestly, that would be amazing."
The guy set his broom against the concrete wall, walked over, and grabbed the other end of the couch frame without saying another word. "On three. One, two, three—HEAVE."
Together, they gave a massive pull. The couch finally unstuck itself from the metal ridges, sliding backward out of the bed. They guided it down over the tailgate, letting it hit the gravel ground with a heavy THUD.
"Thanks, man," Ethan breathed, rubbing his burning forearms.
"Don't worry about it," the guy said, grabbing one end again. "Let's toss it."
They hoisted the sofa up to waist height, shuffled two steps toward the yellow safety line, and swung it forward.
The brown floral monster sailed over the metal railing, flipping once in mid-air before crashing into the deep pit below with a magnificent, splintering CRUNCH of snapping wood and twisting metal.
Ethan stood at the railing, looking down at the wreckage of the couch lying among heaps of crushed cardboard and broken drywall.
It was finally gone.
"Good riddance," the guy in the raincoat said, picking his broom back up and walking away without waiting for a thank you.
Ethan climbed back into the cab of his truck, wiped his sweaty face with the dirty gym towel on the seat, and let out the longest sigh of his entire week.
He turned the key, drove out of the dump, and headed back toward his apartment. He didn't even care that his lower back felt like it was made of broken glass—the couch was gone, Mr. Henderson couldn't dock his pay, and he had two days off coming up at the end of the week.
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