The Drinkin' Chair

I'm sitting in Marcus' chair...His "drinkin'" chair. It is undeniably the most comfortable chair I have ever sat in, but it's ugly. Not typical ugly, horribly ugly. It's leather or could have been considered leather at one time. There are stains from his greasy mechanic hands on the arms; scuffs from his work boots on the reclining part. Scratches from his dirt caked jeans mar the surface. A spot of white paint is splashed on the seat and there is a definite groove (and oil spot) in the place where he used to rest his weary head.

I'd like to imagine that once, someone loved this chair very much. A man probably bought it, brand new, from some fancy furniture store in the city. He probably went into the store with their wife (or girlfriend or who ever it is people do furniture shopping with) looking for a couch or maybe a refrigerator...Anyways, so they're in the store and they're looking for the fridge and he sees this chair out of the corner of his eye. I imagine it was beautiful in it's earlier years. It's tan leather shone under the showroom lights, inviting him to sit for a minute. Just a minute. So he plods over and plops down into the chair. He leans his head back and pulls the lever. He lays his head on the smooth cool leather and lays flat, staring at the ceiling. Just relaxing. Then he imagines how awesome it would be to sit in this very chair after a hard day's work. He almost feels the cold beer in his hand. He sighs. He stands and turns to face the chair. It stares back at him like a puppy, begging the man to take it home. His wife (or girlfriend or whatever) walks over to him, rambling about the fridge that he doesn't give a shit about. He doesn't hear a word from her mouth. Instead, he's imagining the sounds of the game and the smooth leather of the chair. He turns his back on the chair and wanders over to the stupid fridge that he doesn't give a shit about, she's still talking, he can hear the announcer calling plays.

Then he stops. Dead in his tracks. Without a word, he spins and ambles back over to the chair, placing his hand on the head rest. A man needs...No...A man deserves a good chair. Every hard working blue collar man should have somewhere to rest his weary head and put his feet up. A drinkin' chair...A chair of his own.

"Stop. This chair. I'm buying it." His girlfriend (or wife or whatever) scoffs. She fingers the price tag. Again she laughs. She speaks, but he's not listening, he raises one rough finger to her lips. "I'm buying this chair." She shakes her head.

So he buys the chair and they take it home. It doesn't really match anything else in the house, but he's doesn't give a shit. It's his damned chair. No one sits in his chair, not even company. He eats dinner in his chair and sometimes, after one too many, he sleeps in his chair. The woman begins covering the chair with a quilt when he's at work, worried that he's going to ruin it's shiny leather with his dirty work clothes. Every night, he comes home and throws the quilt in the floor. The feel of the leather is part of why he bought...A small part, but a part...

Several years pass and one day after a particularly long afternoon at work, he comes home, he grabs a beer, and drops down into the chair. It's a good chair, it doesn't even creak under his weight. He turns the game on and proceeds to sip his beer. His dog comes over and lays down at his feet. His wife (or girlfriend or whatever) walks into the living room and stands in front of the television with her hands on her hips.

"Frank (or Mike or Joe or whatever), we need to talk."

He grunts and stares through her. He doesn't want to talk. She's been nagging at him for a week (maybe longer, men aren't good with time) and he just wants to watch the game and drink his beer and be in peace. So he's ignoring her and she clears her throat.

"I can't do this anymore."

He hears her, but he still doesn't want to talk. OU is down by ten because that piece of shit Quarterback can't keep 'hold of the ball...

"Do you hear me? Are you listening?"

He replies with another grunt. She kicks his chair, leaving a long rough scratch in the side.

"Listen to me!"

She turns on one heel. She's ranting and raving now. Going around the house, throwing things into her suitcase, bitching. "You don't care, blah, blah, Your fault. Nag, nag. We don't go out..." She sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher. He chuckles. This makes her even more angry. He turns up the volume on the game...She's marching and nagging and it's halftime. He gets out of the chair to get another beer from that ridiculously expensive fridge that she just had to have. She follows him into the kitchen.

"I've been cheating on you."

He looks at her standing there with that smug look on her face. He grabs a beer and opens it with his dirty arm. After a long pull, he says, "I know." and walks back to his chair. The cushion forms around his butt as he sinks into it's seat. She's crying now, OU is down by fifteen now. She's apologizing, but he doesn't give a shit, his team is on, there's a beer in his hand, and a good dog by his feet.

She leaves, slamming the door behind her.

Nothing changes. He still comes home every night, plops into that chair with the dog at his feet, and drinks a beer. The chair is showing it's age. His ass groove is visible now. A water spot crawls over the arm of the chair from Super Bowl Sunday when he had too much and dropped his beer. The foot rest starts to sag a little bit, but it's still his chair and he still loves it.

One night, the man goes out with his rowdy friends and meets a girl. They date for a long time, she's a nice girl. She comes over and cooks and cleans. She plays with the man's dog. She doesn't touch his chair. After about a year, she moves in...Slowly, the way most women move in...a toothbrush here, a couple panties in the drawer, maybe some shoes in the closet. No sudden movements as if men are wild animals...

So he asks the girl to marry him. She's a good girl.

After the wedding, she tells him she's redecorating; Get rid of the chair. He doesn't for a few months. He still comes home and plops into his chair, cold beer in hand. She replaces the furniture around the chair. She tries to put a slip cover over the chair. He throws it in the floor and sits down, cold beer in hand.

One Friday night after a particularly long day at work, he comes home, grabs a beer, and turns on the game. OU is up by fifteen points. She comes in and lowers herself into his lap. He shrugs her off, leans over, and starts to pet his dog. She stands up and kisses his forehead.

"Honey, this chair has got to go."

She's not angry. They don't fight. She never nags about his dirty boots or threatens to leave when he stays out too late. He loves her and he knows he has to get rid of his chair.

He wakes up early the next morning and loads the chair into the back of his truck. As he's wheeling it into the consignment store, something catches in his throat.

The shop keeper comes out and eyes the chair suspiciously. The leather is cracking, there's a large scuff on the left side. The foot rest sags on the left side and there's a water spot on the right arm.

"I can't give you anything for this chair."

"I know." The man grunts.

I imagine that the man's eyes begin to water. He's not crying because men don't cry, but he's not happy. He wipes his eyes with his dusty shirt sleeve. He gives the chair one last look, shakes his head, and leaves the store.

A couple of days later, Marcus stolls into the store, looking for a coffee table and a sofa. There's the chair. He walks over to it and plops down. He doesn't notice the cracked leather or the crooked foot rest. The chair hugs his butt and he sinks down into it's cushions. He imagines sitting in this very chair, large glass of Everclear and Diet Pepsi in hand, playing X-Box, with a big dog sleeping at his feet. He's found his very own "drinkin'" chair.

He gives the shop keeper $5 and takes the chair home to play X-Box.