Sofa, so good in the romance department

FROM THE MOMENT I bought the sofa bed, I knew it was a mistake. It was too big, it was an ugly yellowish-brown color, and it was heavy. Man, it was heavy. I dislocated my shoulder twice while trying to heave its nail-spiked wooden frame between the rooms of my Manhattan apartment. Two years later, when I was offered a job in Los Angeles, I began to fantasize about dumping the “sofatank” into the Hudson.

But my dear grandmother had paid for half of it -- to help get me “started” when I emigrated from Britain -- and, besides, I would need somewhere for guests to sleep. So I tipped the movers generously, and they hauled it into their 18-wheeler. One of them threw his back out.

I slipped him an extra $20.

My relationship with the sofa bed worsened when I got to California. I had rented an apartment on a steep hill, accessible only via three flights of stairs. The moving van driver, Larry, almost choked at the thought of getting the sofa bed into my new place. I gave him a handful of twenties. Larry told me he hadn’t taken a vacation in nine years. I bought him lunch. Finally, after an hour of sweating and profanity, the sofa bed had completed its short, violent journey. The damage to my door frame was minimal.

A year passed. My life changed. I split up with my girlfriend. And then, one day, I decided to do it: I would sell the sofa. My grandma, unable to fly long distances, would never know. And I would finally get rid of my two-grand mistake.

In the end, I decided on a typically journalistic headline for my Craigslist ad: “The Best Sofa Bed in the World.” My in-box almost crashed with the volume of replies. I made viewing appointments with prospective buyers. I snickered at the thought of the poor sucker who would have to wrestle the wood-framed beast back down my three flights of stairs, then down the hill to the pickup truck.

Farewell, sofa bed, and good riddance.

When the Craigslisters started to show up, I could hardly believe my luck: girl after girl after girl after girl. Had I inadvertently cast some kind of voodoo dating spell? Putting furniture up for sale got you five minutes of uninterrupted time with some of the hottest women in Los Angeles.

It made sense, sort of: The women who answered the ad were young, recently relocated and on a strict budget. Personally, I found the viewing appointments a lot less stressful than dates. There was something to talk about, for a start. Some of them flirted before offering half-price. I began to doubt myself. Perhaps I was the one being taken for a ride?

Then came Lucie, the most beautiful of all the Craigslisters. I was winded with apprehension. Getting rid of the sofa bed now seemed unimportant. What mattered was seeing her again. I resisted the urge to give her the sofa bed for free. Instead, we talked for half an hour. A few days later, she returned for another viewing. We talked even longer. Then came a third viewing. This time, cash changed hands.

Moments later, to my surprise, I found myself hunched over and shuffling backward with the weight of the sofatank on my shoulders. Yes, I had offered to help her carry it down the hill.

There was a reward. That evening, Lucie allowed me to buy her a cocktail to “celebrate the sofa sale.” She sipped on a single shot of Maker’s Mark as I downed four vodkas. Could this really be happening?

To my friends, Lucie became “sofagirl” -- an almost mythical creature who they suspected was a product of my imagination. That weekend, I invited her to a Golden Globes party at a film producer’s house in the Hollywood Hills, expecting her polite rejection to be the end of the matter. She accepted. When we got there, my friend Sarah -- who had heard all about the Craigslist sofa bed auction -- greeted Lucie with a huge smile and declared, “Oh, you’re so much nicer than lampgirl!” I gave a forced laugh. Lucie looked suddenly nervous.

We kissed on the way home. The following evening, Lucie came over for dinner. We sat cross-legged on the floor where the sofa bed used to be and ate takeout sushi. Months passed. Eventually, Lucie moved in with me, and I found myself carrying the sofa bed back up the hill -- then up another hill when we bought a house together.

Before our wedding last July, we met Craig Newmark -- the Craig behind Craigslist -- at a party on the roof of the Formosa Cafe on Santa Monica Boulevard. Craig conceded that he was a modern-day Cupid, responsible for perhaps millions of chance encounters, many of them destined to end in romance. Who said technology makes our lives less personal? Or perhaps the sofa bed was simply a lucky charm -- the magic somehow bestowed upon it by my grandmother in England. Who knows? There is only one certainty: No matter how much I still hate the sofa bed, I will own it forever.