Jericho Flint loved his apartment. He felt he was a really special bird to live in such an eclectic and elevated space. Some of his friends’ apartments looked like Crate & Barrel show rooms. “Well,” he thought condescendingly – “not everyone is gifted with taste. Those who aren’t can still live decently by emulating an expensive show room.” As for Jericho, he would never be caught dead in one of those “cookie cutter” home décor stores. Everything he owned had meaning – a provenance.
Let us be honest. There was a time when Jericho was not quite so negative about Crate & Barrel. In fact, Jericho’s mother had four sons. Three of them were into computer games while Jericho was into helping her shop for the perfect rug. And it wasn’t at a flea market that they did that.  But, as Jericho would be quick to point out, he was not really shopping for himself then. And, we might add, not with his own money either. 

Jericho was a little vexed that his apartment wasn’t better appreciated by the people in his social circle. He felt that it deserved more attention. Sometimes he even daydreamed that he was being featured on one of these celebrity apartment tour shows. He imagined all the little details: The obligatory opening scene where the apartment’s owner appears at the front door all beaming and pretending that he was just casually “hanging out around the house” and not at all feverishly preparing for the filming session; the interviewer’s opening lines – the kowtowing and accolades; and then the meticulous, item by item tour of the apartment and its many treasures.
“Please – tell us as much as you possibly can about all your wonderful things!” Jericho imagined the interviewer saying. “Don’t worry about talking too much. Remember – it is easier to cut things than to add new footage, so don’t be shy.”
Jericho didn’t need to be coaxed into talking about his things. In fact, he was known for not being able to shut up about them. All the stuff in his apartment was thrifted, handmade, collected, DIYed, haggled for, repurposed, or otherwise lovingly willed into being. No one else in the whole world had an apartment like this.
His curtains were cotton lace. There was only one place left in the world that made curtains like these, and they cost a fortune. He happened to get his from a friend whose grandma had moved to a retirement home and had gotten rid of five decades’ worth of stuff. They were a bit yellow, but their exclusivity was well worth the discoloration.
His dishes were collected one piece at a time from antique stores and flea markets all over the country. No two pieces fully matched, but that was the beauty of it. This was a veritable museum of crockery.
He had repurposed an old wooden shipping container into a coffee table by staining and painting it and stamping it with rose patterns.
His bed was covered with a magnificent handwoven bedspread that was made for him by one of his old girlfriends.
On the wall opposite the foyer Jericho had hung assorted metal bookstands – the kind students buy for cheap to prop up their textbooks on their desks, and on each stand he put an ancient-looking volume. He liked going around bookstores, antique stores, and garage sales and buying old, smelly, moldy hardcover books of all kinds. He didn’t care what they were about, since he usually didn’t read them. But he did display them on his wall, sometimes closed, sometimes open to random pages. They made for striking wall art and he loved it. It also made him look learned and refined, which he didn’t mind at all. 
And then there was the divan. Everyone nowadays has couches and sofas, but not Jericho Flint. Jericho owned a divan that was once owned by a famous actress (or so he told everyone, since he had found it on the curb by a theatre that had closed down). It looked like a cross between a chaise and a chesterfield and was upholstered in bright pink velvet with gold buttons. The wooden legs were elegantly chiseled and carved. He liked to tell friends that the actress to whom this divan purportedly belonged had conducted a rather interesting sex life on it backstage after performances. He didn’t feel bad about saying this. He was sure that it was likely to be true.

            Oh yes – there was no question that Jericho’s apartment deserved to be seen and talked about. This particular afternoon Jericho had gotten farther in his fantasy than he usually did, and he could almost taste the opulence and decadence. He was so enraptured by his daydream that he started pacing and actually talking out loud. He imagined a wide-eyed audience hanging on his every word, and he felt princely and very generous for letting people into his life like this.

            But then… a knock on the door. ‘Poof!’ went the cameraman. The interviewer shimmered like hot air over scorching asphalt, then vanished like a ghost. To Jericho’s dismay, he heard the creak of a key in the keyhole. His mother did not wait for him to open the door. She used her own key again, despite being told a million times that it drove Jericho up the wall.   

“Who are you talking to? Are you talking to yourself? You shouldn’t be talking to yourself. You should be talking to recruiters about getting a new job. You are probably running out of savings by now. Are you running out of savings? Are you in debt? You let me know if you are. But I know you’d never say anything with all that damned pride. Eh well – pride is not a bad thing. Anyway, I was up here to meet a girlfriend and thought I’d drop by to see you. Soon you’ll be working again and we all know what happens when you are working. I never get to see you. You don’t visit us. You should visit us. Then I won’t have to drop by, if you are annoyed about that. Humph! It’s dusty as hell in here. It’s all these damn books and antiques you keep dragging in here. They smell like mold. You should throw half of this stuff out. It’s probably not good for your health. Oh well. Don’t worry. It’s not your fault that the economy has been shit. Soon you’ll find a good job and then you’ll be able to afford some normal furniture. Have you had lunch yet? I’m starving.”

            This pulled Jericho right out of his daydream, but not really. The interviewer rematerialized in his mind, bewildered but understanding. “Sorry for the interruption,” thought Jericho. “I wouldn’t be worth anyone’s time if I didn’t respect my mother. Let’s take a lunch break and come back to the tour after we eat, shall we?”