PeeWee's Couch

The office of our friend Jimmey sat in one of the old writers' bungalows tucked deep in the back of the Fox lot, beyond the prop warehouses and soundstages, past the famous New York street.

Pee-wee Herman had occupied it years earlier.

He left behind a couch. It was impossible to ignore. Each cushion was upholstered in a different pastel color, turquoise next to salmon next to butter yellow, all outlined with black piping. It looked like something a child would design. It looked like it belonged in the Playhouse.

Billy and I loved it immediately. We pestered Jimmey for months. Eventually, when new office furniture arrived, he agreed to sell it to us.

I don't remember how we got it home. The thing seemed far too large to fit through any doorway we'd ever encountered. But somehow it ended up in our Venice loft, where it became the center of our little universe.

We watched television on it. Read on it. Cuddled on it. Argued on it. Made up on it. Hugged Bob Slobbers on it. For years, that ridiculous couch sat at the center of our lives.

I never once imagined I'd be afraid of it.

Then one Monday morning, January 21, 2002, I found Billy dead on it.

After the funeral, Billy's family came to the loft to choose the things they wanted to keep. Chris took the records. Matt claimed the electronics. Amie, Billy's niece, fell in love with the couch. She arranged to have it moved all the way to Saint Elmo, Illinois, the tiny town where Billy grew up.

I've often wondered what became of it. Whether it sat in a family room somewhere. Whether kids jumped on it. Whether the colors eventually faded. Whether somebody finally threw it away.

I only know one thing for certain. I was grateful to see it go. Some objects become heirlooms. Others become witnesses to the most awful moment of your life. 

I was grateful to see it go because I never wanted to sit on that couch again.