My Crosley Shelvador refrigerator claims the kitchen as his own.
He purrs through the night like some overweight good-natured Belushi bear, pawing the vegetables and humming a good hum.
Crosley Shelvador gives hugs and takes no shit. The room around him takes on all the purpose of a football field when the lights go on. Friends mention him with real fondness, and relax into a chair with an unexpected sense of calm, familiarity, good humour.
Crosley never says a word. Just hums. But he clearly knows. This is the living, and he’s sitting right on top of it.
