“We’re takin’ that sofa you’re sittin’ on, old man. The sign says ‘Free,’ and that means the first guy who carts it away gets it. Understand?”

The two men in soiled white coveralls have already loaded the chrome table and chairs that were out on the sidewalk. They arrived a few minutes ago in a dented delivery van with “Barney’s Bargains” spray-painted on the side.

The older man leans back into the yellow and brown floral sofa and grasps the cushioned arm with twisted, arthritic fingers. “But I was here first.”

“You’re too spindly and withered up to carry this thing away. Just get off it. We make a livin’ with the stuff we pick up.”

The older man says stubbornly, “No.”

The man in dirty white raises his voice. “This ain’t a park bench for homeless bums. Now beat it.”

The older man sits up straighter. “I’m not a homeless bum. I’m Marvin Knowles, a retired accountant.”

The old house behind them is being renovated. Their conversation is temporarily drowned out by the sound of a chainsaw and jackhammers.

One of the men in coveralls lifts up the other end of the sofa.

“We don’t have all day, and we ain’t leavin’ without this.”

Marvin plants his black Velcro sneakers on the sidewalk and shouts, “This is rightfully mine! I have claimed it!”

The commotion brings one of the renovators out of the house.

“What’s the fight about? Whoever was here first gets the stuff. That’s the deal.”

“I was here first,” says Marvin. “These scavengers can have the rest of the furniture, but this sofa means a lot to me. It’s identical to one Olive and I had in our home.

“When she was so sick, we spent many hours on the sofa, just talking and enjoying each other’s company, until she was gone. I didn’t expect I’d ever see another one in this condition.

“When my children moved me into my room at the Isabella Seniors Home around the corner, they gave all our furniture to charity. Nothing there reminds me of home.”

He reaches his hand hopefully back over the top of the sofa. “I’m Marvin Knowles.”

“You crazy?” says one of the men in coveralls. “This thing is huge. There ain’t no room for somethin’ this size in no old folks home. And pretty soon you’ll be in a wheelchair anyway.”

“I’m not giving up this sofa,” says Marvin.

The renovator waves the scavengers back and turns to Marvin.

“Get off and stand to the side. I have a solution.”

Reluctantly, Marvin stands and takes several steps down the sidewalk.

The chainsaw in the renovator’s hand roars to life. The oily smell of two-stroke smoke drifts towards the street. He drops the bar into the back of the sofa and buzzes it cleanly in half. Scraps of poly filling and foam settle on the sidewalk.

The scavengers curse the renovator and stomp towards their van.

Marvin stares in disbelief and stammers, “You are too young to know what it’s like to have all your memories taken away.”

He turns and shuffles slowly down the street, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his brown tweed blazer.

One week later, Marvin is called from his table in the dining room. The renovator is there with a bulky wrapped package on a moving cart.

“Mr. Knowles, I called the office and got the exact dimensions of your room. This will fit perfectly between the end of your dresser and your bed.”

Marvin tugs at a corner of the cardboard wrap. “What is it?”

“It’s half the sofa you claimed. I added legs and a finished wood panel to the cut-off side. Enjoy it, Mr. Knowles. I hope it makes your room feel like home again.”

Allen Unrau writes fictional stories about real-life issues. Comments? allenunrau@yourlifeweekly.com