We didn’t talk for six years after that, not related to The Chair. He was not there for me when I needed him most. I was not there for him when he needed me most. And then he almost died, so we’re all forgiven and friends again.
He once told me I lived in a Gyp-centric universe. I told him he lived in a dick-centric universe. We both do — him in his, me in mine, though we’re happy to orbit the same sun.
Were it a Hollywood script, we’d be Happily-Ever-After by now. Girl has a goal, she meets boy; boy helps her achieve that goal while she chases another man, or two or three or thirty, only for her to realize he’s The One, but by then it’s too late and he’s all fuck-that-shit. But then, a musical montage later, they’re in some loving embrace or another. Except our musical montage never played.
But we’re even. Except I still own his chair.
I still own his chair. It’s one of my prized possessions. I have three: (1) a random table I found in an antique store that is worth way more than they were selling it for (thanks Antiques Roadshow!); (2) the dining room table I grew up eating dinner at (don’t ask why); and (3) The Chair.
Roommate and I met at work. Menial, minimum-wage work. I was an asshole, and he thought it was funny. We were friends from Go. But for that I was 16 and he was 24. And I was all what the fuck is a 24-year-old doing working at a movie theater? Fast-forward two years and limitations relax. He invited me to a party. I met his girlfriend Susan. Susan was great. But not really. Eventually I learned I was “keep your enemies closer.” She was right to feel threatened to do so. Roommate has rekindled with former friends more contentious than her. Roommate and I still vacation together twice a year.
The Chair has been in various places in my homes, depending on where home currently is. It was in the garden room at the Concordia house, then in a bedroom. Then it was on my screened-in patio, then in my living room. It was on another screed-in patio, then another living room. And then another living room, and then a dining room corner. Then another screened-in porch, then another living room, and then it was in storage for a while. Now it’s in my bedroom, again. When I first saw it, it was in Roommate’s bedroom, just after Susan left.
Men always notice it. Before I was married it was a good place to fuck. Now it’s like an exhibit in a museum, but with the warning of a tourist shop: Don’t touch – you break it you buy it (and you can’t afford it).