A Furniture Warehouse to Call My Own

"It looked like shit, but I knew I had to stand by it."

When we moved into our first house, I threw out our frat boy futon. The time had come to invest in an “I’m a mortgaged adult” sofa. Skipping over Ikea’s middle ground, I set my sights on a down-filled velvet sectional with a price to match. 

For weeks, I loitered on Article’s website with Royal Velvet propped in my shopping cart.

However, even after red wine and indulgent Real Housewive’s marathons, I’d get close but then panic and abandon. As a Dollarami-Mami (in recovery), without a promo code or flash sale, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. 

As luck would have it, after some deep web sleuthing, I found Lady Velvet on Facebook Marketplace. The couch was in good condition, nearby, and most importantly, less than half off.

And hey, a little stranger dander never hurt anybody.

After coercing my 60-year-old parents to pick her up (and deliver it…I know), the mission was complete. 

But as time trudged on, I grew hungry. The appetite of a junker is only satisfied for so long. And so, I tapped into my bargain bin intuition in search of the matching ottoman.

Following several fruitless scours, I finally got a hit. I found someone reselling the oversized dazzler for a fraction of retail. 

To secure the loot, all I had to do was: fake a dentist appointment, drive two hours in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and retrieve it same day.

It was game on. 

As I got closer to the pick-up address, I realized that this wasn’t going to be your neighbourhood friendly retrieval. I was heading into a desolate warehouse district.

I wasn’t naive to the risk. We’ve all seen the headlines—an innocent Craigslister gets mugged, kidnapped, or worse…bait-and-switched. It’s something we junkers fear day in and day out.

*insert literal*

C

H

I

L

L

S 

But in our line of work, in the face of a deep discount, you’ve only once choice: drop a pin and soldier in.

In the parking lot, I surveyed the entrances and foot traffic. The whole area was completely empty. There wasn’t even signage on the depressed warehouse.

I checked my phone to reconfirm the address. I was in the right place. So, with a 19% battery charge and a prayer, I entered through the loading dock. 

And instantly, my jaw dropped. 

A melodic harp rang out. Cascades of golden light shot from the ceiling. Three angelic cherubs, Sally, Jesse, and Raphael, whispered, “Welcome, we’ve been waiting for you.”

And just like that, I’d left Concord, Ontario behind for furniture warehouse heaven. There were jewel-toned velvet furnishings, a Tetris of mid-century dressers, and herds of leather sofas. There was a rug mountain so high, you’d need a walking stick and ice grippers to summit.

There was nary a Lazy-Boy recliner with built-in cup holders and LED lighting in sight. This wasn’t a Brick or Leon’s reject pile. This appeared to be a bargain binner’s wet dream of high-end furniture—repoed from Instagram influencers only.

And the best part: all the contraband was pennies on the dollar.

I had no time to think about the broken collar bones supporting my junkfest. Instead, I sifted, clipboarded, and meticulously groomed through every aisle of the overstuffed warehouse. 

Not only did I see the ottoman, but also dozens of other things from websites I was too cheap to buy from. They even had multiples of the exact velvet sectional I’d bought secondhand for a fraction of the half off I’d bought it for.

We’re talking half off, of half off, of half mother-fucking off. 

I was freaking out but tried to maintain my composure. I couldn’t let the matron of the warehouse see my bulged eyes before we settled on a final price. 

While there were enough Grade A furnishings to redo a posh hotel lobby, I settled on a modest collection.

I got the ottoman I came for, plus a leather sofa, a second velvet sectional, and a chaise lounge with not one—but two—missing legs.

After an additional round of bartering, my hundreds of pounds in home furnishings came out to $550 cash—including delivery. I calculated it to be 94% off retail.

This was the moment I’d trained for all of my life. I had won gold at the Junker Olympics. 

In my rearview, I watched the warehouse grow small as I vibrated with excitement. Immediately, I hit the rotary to spread the news of my win. I kept the calls tight, extending only as far as a friendly acquaintance or Great Aunt/Uncle maximum. I didn’t want to speak too soon ahead of the final hurdle: delivery.

After all, a no-show on delivery day would explain the entire discounted scheme. 

However, that weekend the truck arrived with my shipping container of goods.

There was only one minor snag: every single pillowcase and cushion cover was stripped from the couch(es) and missing.

Was this the caveat?

Were the covers being held hostage for an extra fee—like at a Montreal strip club when you go to leave (after downing a pint of beer and sadness) and are coerced into paying an off-menu $100 “or else...”?

Would I have to deal with Pierre AKA “Chopper” to get what’s mine?

I drove back to the warehouse in silence with white knuckles. When I got there, all of the doors were locked. I was about to give up and accept a living room of coverless loaves.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something.

At the back entrance of the warehouse by the dumpster was a large garbage bag. 

Daringly, I poked the black plastic. Slowly, I opened the bag. I feared finding a human torso or something truly unsettling: a set of Leon’s polyester pillowcases.

Instantly, I recognized the quality velvet. I breathed a sigh of relief. 

The cushion covers weren’t being held hostage by an angry mob boss. There were no amputated limbs. No skulls.

The velvet covers were just soaking wet (?) and smelled mustier than a houseboat’s hull (or your Great Aunt Janice’s lower deck).

And so, with my garbage bag of precious cargo in the backseat, I returned home a champion. My bootleg set was complete. I could finally rest easy.

Once the cushions were washed and dried, I stuffed the new XL sectional into my Toronto-sized spare bedroom. The door couldn’t open or close. It was the unspoken marker of a bonafide junker—of someone who’s gone too far.

I added the legless chaise as a makeshift extension to the sectional in the living room.

It looked like shit, but I knew I had to stand by it. At least for a little while. 

Between all the sofas + extension, I had enough seating for the entire cast and crew of “19 Kids and Counting” (RIP). There was a safe place for every member of Arcade Fire (RIP) to fall. I had a dedicated cush to pay tribute to every white shirt I’ve ever spilled mustard on (RIP). 

Regardless, I had my collection of 100” trophies—even if they were a fire hazard.

On to the next.

Actual photo of legless chaise “in position” in the living room.