She sat down on the couch in the middle of Second Avenue and said, "I love it."
She hadn't planned this. Hadn't messaged anyone. Hadn't confirmed a pickup time. She was just walking past on Second Avenue when she saw me place a couch on the pavement and said exactly what she thought.
"Nice couch."
"You want it?" I said.
"How much?"
"Free."
She looked at me like I'd made a mistake. "You sure?"
"Take it."
She sat down immediately. Right there on Second Avenue, Manhattan. Pulled out her phone and started calling friends.
Here's what had happened in the 24 hours before that.
Christine was pregnant. That meant the move out of our walk-up on Second Avenue was mine to manage. Six flights of stairs. No lift. A couch, a bed frame, a dining table, boxes of everything we'd accumulated in three years of New York life.
A few weeks earlier, Christine had suggested I list everything on Facebook Marketplace. I put up the ads, got hundreds of responses in the first day, panicked, and took them all down. I'd put them back up a few days before the move, priced at between €10 and €150, except the couch, which I listed as free.
Thirty-four people confirmed they'd collect the couch.
Thirty-four people didn't show.
By the time I'd wrestled it down six flights alone, knees aching, arms burning and dragged it out onto the pavement, I was done with it. I was going to leave it there and walk away. If the city wanted it, the city could have it.
Then she walked past.
Within an hour, she'd called three friends. She had just moved to NYC, her mother had arranged a large Uber, I think, big enough for a couch. It was an unusually warm January day, and they had drinks. They were sitting on the couch on Second Avenue, laughing, waiting for the Uber like it was the most natural thing in the world.
As I carried more things to the car, I kept handing her stuff. Art we'd bought at markets. Pots and pans. A lamp. Things I'd been meaning to sell, or donate, but hadn't got around to.
She took everything gratefully. Every single thing.
By the time Christine and I were ready to leave New York, this girl had thrown a small party around a couch she'd found on the street an hour earlier.
My newsletter last week reminded me of this story.
Thirty-four people committed. Thirty-four people didn't show. One person, who made no commitment at all, who just happened to walk past, got the couch, the art, the pots, the lamp, and a story she's probably still telling.
The difference wasn't luck. It was genuine interest versus hollow commitment.
The thirty-four people who confirmed the pickup treated it as free because it was free. No cost, no commitment, no follow-through. The girl on the street saw something she actually wanted and responded to it honestly. She didn't calculate. She just said what she meant.
There's a reminder in this on how we price ourselves, too.
When you make yourself too available, too cheap, too easy to access, people treat you accordingly. Not out of malice. Just because the price of something tells people how much it matters. Free often means disposable. Scarce often means valuable.
I'm not saying charge more for everything. I'm saying: be honest about what things are worth. Your time. Your work. Your energy. The things you create.
The thirty-four no-shows wasted my time when time was limited. The girl who walked past showed me what NYC was about. We knew our stuff would be valued. I am reminded that price matters; it sends its own message.
Thanks for reading. Reply if any of this landed, I read every response.
Shane
If someone forwarded this to you:shane-fleming-newsletter.beehiiv.com