This had been the easy part, he realized, taking his receipt. The finding, the coveting, and the acquiring.
The next part would be the challenge. Perhaps even a bit of a battle.
Fitting the object of his desire, a vintage 1932 Philco console radio, into the passenger side of his tiny light blue Nash-Healey convertible wasn’t too bad. He’d had help. And besides, it scarcely weighed much more than say, a Saint Bernard.
But when he pulled up outside his apartment building, the situation became distinctly less rosy. Standing beside his car, he stared at the metaphorical Saint Bernard hoping to look perplexed, and thereby enlist someone to aid in the next leg of the Philco’s journey. No such luck.
With a series of grunts and groans, all the while using his body as a sort of pry bar, he managed to roll the Philco out of the Nash-Healey and onto the sidewalk. He’d ice his smashed fingers later, he thought wryly, when he was relaxing in front of the beast with a good stiff drink, listening to music.
In a series of push and pull dance steps, he arrived at the bottom of the stairs that led up two flights to his front door. Formidable stairs, he thought to himself, and so blasted many of them. One at a time though. The old “where there’s a will there’s a way” philosophy.
Lifting, tipping, straining, one vertical increment at a time, it seemed to take hours just to reach the second floor landing.
He paused. Where was everyone? Surely some benevolent soul should have come along by now to offer assistance.
And come to think of it, where was the Philco going to go once it was in his apartment? He was beginning to question the wisdom of stopping by that estate sale, just to “have a look.”
About halfway up the second flight, when he thought his back would surely break in two, disaster almost struck. In his exhausted and overexerted state, the toe of his brown wingtip caught on the edge of a step. He teetered wildly for a second before grasping the handrail, and preventing his would be assailant from knocking him back down the stairs and landing on top of him. Heart racing, he blistered the air with a few choice words.
At last, he stood on his welcome mat, and leaning on the Philco for support, he felt a mixture of pride and relief that he was within a Jack and Ginger’s reach of having his new possession installed in his home.
Hey buddy! A boisterous voice registering, close by. You gettin’ rid of that thing? My wife’s been after me for months to get her one. Would you take twenty-five bucks for it? And while your at it, would you give me a hand gettin’ it down the stairs to my place?
Wincing from the pain, but having no regret for his impulsive, yet well placed right jab, he was actually amused. Well I was going to have to ice my fingers anyway…