Through the window, I see the chair, paralyzed under its own weight. The wooden frame is in tatters, and the fabric is beside itself with grief. It fell, rather, was thrown, from the deck. Twenty feet of reprecussion pending. My mother left it there after its displacement. I refuse to move it in protest.
The chair scenario:
“Clean up your room…and get rid of that chair.” Mom, being motherly, of course.
“I’ll take care of it after work.”
“You’ll take care of it when I ask you to.”
“I don’t have time right now, and I am not getting rid of the chair.” You know it’s ominous when “a chair” becomes “the chair.”
My mother mutters a few unintelligible phrases. Presumably, concerning my “indecency” towards her and the family in general. I decide to risk going to work without making the subtle ammends that she desires.
I return from work to find my mother cleaning my room. I can still see her through the window violating every space within its dense confines.
“I found bugs in your room.”
“Bugs?”
“Yes, bugs Derek. God damnit, start cleaning up your room more often. You know…”
“Where is the chair?” I questioned, with admitted hesitance.
“There were bugs.”
“Don’t make me ask you again.” Idle threat.
“It had bugs all over it.” Funny, I don’t remember seeing any bugs when I was reading earlier.
“You threw it away?”
“I threw it over the balcony.”
The ancient floral print is soaked at this point. The sprinkler dances across the aged outer-surface. Undoubtedly, various bug species, from a variety of different subterranean departure zones, now inhabit its inner crevices. I fondly remember the day of its acquisition. Pulling abruptly off the road, I loaded the burdensome investment into the trunk, and tied it, quite unsteadily I might add, to the inside of the compartment with a pair of dirty work shirts.
It was the quinessential feature of the room. The print set off the rest of the enterprise. Now the room is obscure, uncoordinated, entirely uncomfortable. No distinguished reading chair. No Sunday afternoons curled up with a book. I am forced to use the unstable piano stool that I collected approximately a year ago. I have to sit upright, without a broad backing for additional support. I feel as though I have fallen in status. Each piece of uniquely ornamented trash that blankets the room, contributes.
Inventory:
(1) Piano
(12) Surfaces for different painting endeavors
(8) Visible, and obscure, pictures
Records, tapes
(4) Tape holders
(6) DVDs
(1) Bird cage (I am still waiting to find the appropriate bird)
Trinkets, furniture, ornaments (The list continues)
My collecting status points decline steadily with this loss. I have been subverted by my own family. I feel detached. My mother has banned me from collecting any further. I have been sneaking additional items in the house while she is at work. Inevitably, there will be another confrontation. Until then, I am a fugitive in my own house. I refuse to move the chair.
Date of disposal: still pending
