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.

Screams to whispers

She lies directly in front of the door. Her black mourning dress is wrapped around her shapely legs. The dingy carpet around her is littered with demolished tissues and dog toys. Marcellus’ golden ears perk up as my voice floats through the air.

“Amelia. Get up.”


She doesn’t stir.

“No. Not today.”

There is no sadness in her voice just that matter-of-fact tone that people have when they are really sure of something. Marcellus, Kellan’s dog, whimpers at the sound of her voice. His tail sways as he rises to greet me. The tattered couch cries as I lean onto its back.

“What’s going on?”

She rolls onto her back. Dried charcoal streaks line her face. Carpet fuzzies cling to the smashed side of her unruly, chestnut locks. She stares, not at me, not at Marcellus who is licking her cheeks and prying on her clasped hands, but at nothing in particular.

“Do you remember…Do you remember when the four of us went bowling?” An odd smile tugs at her cracked, bleeding lips. “The band? And when Charlotte threw the ball across three lanes? She made a strike…Is that what it is called? A strike?”

“Yeah, Amelia, a strike.”

“A strike…” Clearing her throat, she starts again. “And do you remember the walk to dinner? How pretty it was outside? The sky was purple and the rain was pouring, but we were all too drunk to care?”

She’s still not looking at me.

“And the food? At that place? On Magazine Street? What was the place called?”

“Semolina’s.”

“Yeah, Semolina’s. We had the waiter so flustered he dropped Charlotte’s wine in her lap…”

“We can’t change anything now, Amelia.” I slide to the floor next to her. Her hair is crunchy between my fingers. I pull her trembling body to mine.

“You know? The tears just won’t come anymore. I try. It’s just not fair.” Her voice is barely a breath now.

“It’s not our fault, Amelia”

My own voice sounds weak and unsure. It wasn’t our fault…As much as it hurts, I can only try to convince myself (and Amelia) that there was nothing we could have done to stop Kellan from doing what he did.

“But, see, it is. I shouldn’t have slept with you. I loved him. I loved him more than I love myself…”

The blood rushes to my face and I can feel my nails threatening to pierce my skin.

“But you love me.” My voice drips with insecurity. The statement presents itself as a question. “You didn’t love him as much as you love me. Don’t try to change the plot after the book is published. You wouldn’t have changed a damn thing and you know it.”

I stare at Amelia with disbelief. I destroyed my relationship with Charlotte. I betrayed Kellan. MY best friend, Kellan Montoya Jenkins, the kid that I used to play catch with in grade school, the big-eared class clown that taught me how to pick up girls and drive a car was gone because of my relationship with this woman. I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake her until she realized what she was saying, what her words were doing to me.

“But if I would have opened the door, I could have calmed him down, I could have…”

And in that instant, it all comes rushing back to me. I can no longer hear Amelia’s obnoxious rambling. My ears roar with the sound of the gunshot and the shattered glass. I see the pink mist fly from the back of his head as he crashes to the ground. The steely scent of blood and the sweet sulphur of the gun smoke fill my nostrils, gagging me. I can feel the warmth of his blood slipping through my fingers as I reach for him. So much blood, more blood than I had ever seen in the ER. Red stripes painting the door behind him. The neighbors in the apartment next door, screaming broken English into their phones, the scratching of their bodies against their doors, struggling to see what has happened. I sit there as his life escapes, as his heart stops beating. I don’t feel it, I hear it.

“He would have listened to me because he loved me.”

“He was going to kill you, Amelia. If I hadn’t been there, he was going to shoot you just like he shot himself.” I’m pacing as if pacing will somehow erase the crushing feeling pounding in my chest. I stop pacing and my legs refuse to continue support. The floor rushes up to break my fall. She calls my name. I try to smile and speak. I want to let her know not to worry, but the room fades to black as her frightened screams turn to whispers.

A Man and His Dog

I stare at him as he works on the sleek black cycle. The tail of the scorpion that rests on his upper arm escapes from the sleeve of the tight t-shirt as it struggles over his hard, pronounced bicep. The tiny mole disappears into his mouth with a purse of his full lips. He’s long and devoid of fat except for the round curve of his stomach, the beginnings of a beer belly though he quit drinking months ago. He wraps his hand around a screw on the bike’s handlebars. It looks so small in his large hands.

Chodyn lumbers over. He’s fat, though Marcus will never admit this, the dog is fat. He’s a funny looking creature. 145 lbs of fat slathered muscle jiggle with each heavy step. His silvery tan coat sparkles as he crashes down beside me on the cold concrete floor of the shop. He forces his large snout into my palm and nibbles at my hand. Marcellus, my much smaller companion, bounds around the corner from the showroom. He leaps onto the larger dog’s back and growls playfully. The pit bull mastiff mix snorts and drools on Marcellus. They tumble into a scooter, almost knocking it to the ground.

Marcus is looking at me. Not grinning, not smiling, just staring at me as I stare at the dogs. Watching as I push my unruly black hair from my eyes. A sad smile crosses my face as I look into his bright brown eyes. Marcus walks over and separates the dueling animals, snatching his friend by the scruff of the neck.

“You know? There’s only two things in my life that I could always rely on…Alcohol and my dog. And now that alcohol is out of the picture, I’m left with my dog.” His voice is rich and deep filled with only the slightest drawl to tell of his Southern Louisiana roots. “And my dog would never betray me.”

I don’t know if this is a dig at my infidelity, or his own, but I know a dig when I hear one.
I clear my throat and study a grease spill beneath my heels. Marcellus trots up to me jumping, begging for attention. I lean down to pick him up. The tan and black dog proceeds to remove my make up with his tongue wagging his tail with ever lick. In that moment, I get what he is saying. Dogs are innocent, childlike, and they love unconditionally.

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I’m here. Even when you’re gone on another one of your sexual escapades, I’m still here. I’ve never intentionally done anything to hurt you. I’ve always been there for you…I think it’s pretty apparent that no matter…” My throat begins to close and my eye twitches threatening to spill tears. Marcellus leaps from my arms, tumbling ungracefully onto the grease spot. His coat is now covered with oil and kitty litter. I laugh to keep myself from crying. “No matter what you put me through I am here for
you…I am here with you. I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you.”

His grips my chin between his rough hands and pulls my head up so that I meet his stare. He’s silent momentarily. The corners of his eyes tug on the corners of his lips and a small, tortured smile crosses his face. He places his large thumb over my mouth as he leans down to kiss my forehead.

“I know that. I never said you did. I’ve never thought for a minute that you would.” He turns his back on me, swiping a towel and a water bottle from the counter. He spritzes the water onto my dog, rubbing the towel across the drying litter. Marcellus tries to bite him and the towel as it musses the fur. Without looking at me, he continues. “I’ve made mistakes. I cheated on you. Every chance I got, I slept with her. You didn’t deserve it…Hell, you deserved revenge. But I know that you’re too good for that kind of petty shit. When you told me you had sex with that other man in our bed…You were lying because you wanted to hurt me.” He’s still not looking at me.

A single tear slips from the corner of my right eye. I catch it in the tip of my artificial nail. I look at it; grey from my supposedly waterproof mascara, it catches the light from the shop, and glitters on top of the white acrylic. I wipe it on my leg leaving a thin black streak on my otherwise spotless khakis. I got my painful revenge. I beat myself up over it for months. I had convinced myself that no matter what he did to me, there was a reason for his insanity. But for him to sit here and tell me that he didn’t believe that I slept with that man…It stung worse than the actual act. “So you’re telling me that you are so self-important that you don’t think I am capable of the same actions as you? You’re really going to sit there and call me a liar?” My face is hot and my lips quivers. My knuckles have turned white from digging my nails into the palm of my balled fist. I imagine slapping him. I can almost feel the slight burn as my hand meets his face. I can’t hit him. Instead, I spit. I spit, disturbing the brake dust that has settled on the smooth concrete.

He jerks his head up and glares at me. “Watch your temper.”

“Fuck you, Marcus.” I shock myself, but the damage is done and the words continue to spill from my lips. Regret will hit me later, but in this moment, I don’t give a damn. A shocked look covers his face. “Four years of this BULLSHIT and I’m tired.”

He starts to speak, but I’m not done yet. “Four years of your lies and you manipulation and your self-important attitude and you know what? I’m done. Now. This stops right now. Cam wasn’t the only one. How about you ask Lou? Yep, Lou. Ask him about the fun we had when you were at work. Go ahead. Call him.” I pick up his phone from the wooden shelf and chunk it across the room. Though it was in one piece when I threw it, it’s now in several. The keypad is under one bike and the battery rests in the kitty litter oil mixture.

“What the hell?” Marcus jumps up and begins collecting the pieces of his precious electronic black book. The look in his eyes is frightening. I’ve seen this look before and with this look, things always end badly for me. Not this time. “Don’t even think about laying a hand on me.” The wrench in my hand is heavy and awkward. I’ve never once said anything back to this man. Never once have I raised a hand in my defense. I’m lost and shocked at my own actions. I look down at the wrench. When I do, he grabs my wrists, shaking the lead tool from my grip. The dogs are barking now. Marcellus bites the ankle of his boot. With a swift kick, my tiny friend whimpers and flies across the room. I slam the tip of my pointy toed stiletto into his shin. He releases my wrists. Blood flows freely down the back of my throat and over my lips as the bones of my nose shatter under the weight of his large fist. I scream and begin to choke. Marcus’ best friend growls, furious that someone is harming his master. Chodyn throws all 145 pounds at me pushing me backwards onto a bike. I feel my back snap over the kickstand of the machine. Marcus yells something as he reaches for Chodyn’s collar, but it’s too late. The dog closes his massive jaws around my neck. Teeth tear into my flesh and I lose consciousness.

and again

I've done it again...done something extremely risky, dangerous, and irresponsible that could jeopardize not only my school and work, but also my life and my freedom.

I can't deny it anymore. I need help.

I hate AA. I don't like the concept of Celebration Recovery. I haven't heard of any other groups to help alcoholics get sober and straight.

I can't keep doing irreversible damage to my body and mind in search of fleeting happiness. It's not healthy...And I will die.

And I will fail...That is a fate worse than my own demise.

I don't even know anymore.

I told you something huge...And you said, "I don't care right now."

You know what? I am begining to see what you are truly made of. Hatred and selfishness. You are the person that I have always been good to. You are the one that I have always treated better than anyone else. You are the one that I wanted to do this with. You are the person I fell in love with.

I'm not sure I am in love with you anymore. I am not sure why I keep coming back or why I hold on so tight to something that isn't what it was. You have never been anything less than the hero in my story until now. Now you're the villian. You're someone that I don't respect. You're no longer my support system...Instead, I feel like I need to support you.

I can't carry you when I can hardly carry myself.

Numb again

I am so numb right now...with good reason.

I don't know if this is the end, but maybe it should be.

I'm more worried about the lease than I am anything else. I already said the other day that I was tired of this mess...I love you, but I don't love this you. I love the person I knew in 2006 and 2007...The begining of this mess. I don't love this person that doesn't make time for me. I don't love this person that has no clue what he wants in life or what he feels about me.

I don't doubt that you love me, but it's not enough at this point. It was enough a very long time ago when you cared about my school and you cared about me.

If this is supposed to teach me a lesson, it's not teaching me anything except for how to hate you.

When you said that you would do anything for me and you loved me but on a different platform it wasn't enough. It's not enough it never is.

Nothing is ever enough actually. You and I in the begining worked so well, but you said the other day it was empty. it meant everything to me...

I'm done. I'm messed up right now and I am going to try to do something productive.

No Hook

So this semester is totally kicking my ass. I'm not sure if it is pure laziness or if I am actually too stupid to complete the assignments required of me. AAH doesn't make sense. I love listening to that man because he is incredibly intelligent with a soothing voice, but I cannot help but think maybe he is purposely tripping me up. I don't understand half of what he is talking about. I can read the material and it clicks, but it never sticks. So then I'm left staring at my test like a five year old trying to read Freud. My AMST class makes sense, but this stupid paper is tough. I don't know how the hell to compare American Psycho to Psycho and I sure as hell don't know what means you would like for me to use when comparing horror of personality flicks with real life. Pop Fic isn't too bad. My Prof is hot, but why does the whole damn theme have to be sex and gender? I don't really think that when Ross McDonald wrote his pieces he was thinking about what the Alice character said about women of the time...No, he just wanted a bitch to kill something. Genre is the only class I'll likely pass and that's bc it's all BS. I write whatever the hell I want and the can analyze it however they want...Not my prob.

Anyways. part two.
Marcus is completely driving me insane. I'm tired of this, "I love you/I care about you" bullshit. If you really feel that way, then don't you think four years is long enough to form some sort of commitment? I'm not talking about marriage. A freaking title of some sort would be great. I got drunk djing the other day and I text him, "I love you?" At that point, when I was having fun and working and drinking and being hit on by attractive men, it was a question. I kind of wish I could have expressed that fully when he asked...

Ah fuck it. I need to get on my grind and get back in shape and quit worrying about all this bullshit.