He talked to her for what seemed an interminable amount of time about the rocking chair his mother had given him for his apartment. Erin wasn’t sure how the topic came up, but she knew she hadn’t prompted him, id est “So … how do you feel about rocking chairs?”, but he talked on and on about the specific qualities of the chair, and why it had seemingly changed his whole life. “When you’re in it … and you put your feet up … and you rock … you feel totally weightless. Literally. Like you’re floating. It’s the best chair in the entire world. I don’t know why it’s different from other rocking chairs – and I have sat on many a rocking chair in my day – but this one … something about the height of the seat, and the way it rocks … it’s more like it glides. It’s a whole different thing. I come home, turn on the TV, sit in that chair, and I’m like…. Ohhhhhhh.”
The ecstasy on display here for a piece of furniture was difficult for Erin to respond to. She couldn’t match his level of euphoria, having never sat in the Holy Grail of rocking chairs yet. All she could manage was a rather lame, “It sounds very comfortable.”
He shot her an odd look. Almost hurt. “Comfortable? That’s not the right word at all. It’s beyond comfortable.”
“Okay.”
Suddenly he exploded, “Whoever designed that chair is a fucking genius.”
Erin said, “Calm down.”
He was a big tall man, meaty, with big hands, a pale scowly face. He seemed always a second or two away from becoming irritated. But Erin sensed something else in him, and it dawned on her during the rocking-chair soliloquy what it was. He was an innocent. A true innocent. Erin had never met an innocent man.
Sheila — I don’t know what to say. I’m sobbing as I write this …. because … oh, when I was six, my school bus rolled down a hill.
When I was six, a man tried to kill me and my family.
We don’t talk about it, my family and me. I only know that after that, I rocked in our rocking chair, incessantly, obsessively, every day. I was the only one who even sat in that chair. EVER. I sat in the chair and no one talked to me. They left me alone with my chair. MY chair.
(Someday, maybe, I’ll write posts about these things, but it is hard and strange even to speak of them here — please forgive if this makes NO sense.)
But that line is so TRUE to me:
“Comfortable? That’s not the right word at ALL. It’s beyond COMFORTABLE.”
Oh. God. It’s so true. My chair kept me alive.
Thank you.
tracey – holy shit. I had no idea! I wrote this kind of as a character thing – how much this guy LOVES his “things” in his life – he is obsessed with his furniture, his coffee maker – he never gets over them, he never is like: “Oh, whatever, there’s my bookshelf” – he RAVES about it. He is in AWE of objects.
I am … beyond words right now. That these 2 paragraphs would make you go back to this awful event … Man oh man.
“That chair saved my life”
Now I’m crying!
I’m still crying! No — I know that’s not necessarily what you were going for — and I had tangential commenters (as you know) — but that LINE was simply inescapable for me.
It was too true.
Right – because … her line “it sounds comfortable” brings the whole thing back down to earth – but the experience of sitting in the chair is POETIC, and DRAMATIC – “comfortable” is a way of limiting the amazing-ness of the experience. He resents her trying to limit his damn chair.
That word would be “hate” not “had.”
tracey – actually, what you shared was not a tangent at all. A tangent would be: “Hey – are you watching American Idol tonight?” (Uhm – yes, I am) But what you shared was illuminating, personal and had to do with what I shared. I SO appreciate it – you have no idea.
If you’ve never loved a chair — or any special thing — you cannot understand. Perhaps she’s never thought deeply enough about how her “things” have served her in deep and powerful ways.
Things are not always just things.
That is EXACTLY it. That is EXACTLY it.
This is SUCH a great idea, Sheila, really. You’ve no idea how I needed a cathartic kind of cry today.
But also to LET myself think more about a time I don’t let myself think about.
I think about my CHAIR a LOT, though. It was my WHOLE LIFE for quite a while. And I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone but my husband that truth. It is so hard to think about THAT little girl.
I just wish I could hug you right now — sappy as it sounds.
And then watch “American Idol.”
Sheila — you’re on to something here. Hopefully my reaction has proven that.
Keep working on it.
I meant to add ….
This is a gift. It is profound to me.
Thank you again.