I’m ready to huff cinnamon in Walnut Creek. I should have given the tacky black leather chair to the leathered little 73-year-old auction house furniture mover with the face of a bull terrier. He poo-poo’d it too, but if my friends swore by it and it matched the 1000 lb. chord organ, I “could use it as a bargaining tool.”

My brother wore an 80’s vinyl style black leather jacket in front of an Ivar dive in Hollywood, when he pretended not to know me (before taking “stage right” with Tom Waits and his console T.V.) He had an apprehensive air, like when we used to slap him for being ‘Beasley’ (blonde bangs, pert nose, freckles and a girlie look), like Bobby Buntrock of Hazel, Benjie from Leave It To Beaver, the twins from Please Don’t Eat The Daisies, Johnny ‘Jodie’ Whitaker from Family Affair, all of the Brady boys, and Mark ‘Corey Baker’ Copage from Julia (a rare black ‘Beasley’).

The chair would bring 65% (I thought 35) of $20.00, but not even that if the bidders fondled the acquisitions and learned it had a flat and could ruin your back (which I didn’t realize, as I hadn’t sat in it since reading the Keith Richards bio on pain killers and anti-depressants after my ‘accident’). It firmed up in recliner mode, like it was on Viagra. Maybe it was made that way like a bean bag. No wonder my sister left it after my mom passed, it was “pre-owned.”

I dwelled on that $13.00, if I ended up donating it. I made other mistakes during the 25-day escrow. I sold a 1908 Theosophist book on bad breath for a dollar that was worth five times that! My other sister felt responsible for giving me 15 minutes to winnow my books, but berated me for being Midas-ized. “It’s the tip of the iceberg!” I cried.

I donated a corroded camping table, worth another five dollars. My family was not content to pull the rug up from under me, they wanted me to sell everything I owned, or give it to them if I tried. I was moving to a chicken coop, but I could pretend I was Van Gogh, in the heat and unmowed grass, without seeing grimaces and power chairs if I went outside.

The chair could serve as my couch. It did have a Zambezi quality, which could segue stylistically into the 50s Cuban-Philipino coffee table, that turned out not to be ‘art deco’ and was only worth a pittance, unless restored for the same amount (to double the value, like on Roadshow). I could do it myself and possibly ruin it (then it would have a middle value), with costly “messy crèmes and sprays”.

The rattan chair had tweaked rubbered springs from my sitting on it once, but had more support than the black leather albatross. The ‘hammock’ seat forced my feet into the ground. I alternated sitting in each chair for almost an hour like Sophie’s Choice.