It was the fall of my sophomore year in college, autumn had come
to the leaves of beautiful Bellingham, and it was time to look for furnishings
for my new dorm room. Being strapped for cash and newfound experts of Craig’s
List, we set out to find an easy chair to tie together the eclectic assortment
of items we had collected over the first month.
While surfing the lists my roommate came across something
truly beautiful, a once in a lifetime piece of furniture, with a heart of gold,
and exterior of ripped beige fabric. I have never seen anything like it since,
and from the moment we saw the price tag of “free” we knew it had to be ours.
That night we braved the icy winds of the north to my Subaru
outback and embarked on a journey to the “sticks” (Blaine). After about twenty
minutes of driving on pitch-black country roads we found ourselves on a
deserted gravel drive leading to a dilapidated wood house. From inside I could
hear the barking of what seemed to be a very threatening and presumably large
dog.
Old yellow paint peeled of the side of the building, and
weeds overgrew both sides of the walkway. One light illuminated a window where
a shadowy figure sat watching television
and smoking a cigarette. Under normal circumstances this may have looked
to be a dangerous and “sketchy” situation, but as there was a free chair
involved we didn’t care.
Bravely (or heroically, take your pick) we knocked on the
door and waited with bated breath. The dog came first, scratching at the screen
door, barking until his jaw was sore, warning us that this was no place for us
to be, but I stood my ground, saying: “This is my chair now dog! You back the
hell down or I’ll have you spayed, because I am people and I have that power!”
The dog, seeing clearly that it had met its match, backed down and went
whimpering into the corner (Which was definitely from me, and not from the fact
that his owner told him to.)
The man who came to the door looked like a cross-breed of
hipster and hillbilly, or hipbilly if you prefer. On his head he wore a torn
trucker hat, directly below thick framed black glasses, below that a
wife-beater, and then a pair of blue jeans too tailored to be accidentally
fashionable.
“You here about the chair?” He asked in a raspy voice, with
a slight hint of Chad Kroger brand douche to it.
“Yup, it is free right?” Said my roommate (Loren; a male),
not really sounding like he had taken in the abnormality of the situation, as
was his like in most situations.
“Yup, here it is, can you guys get it out to your car?”
I looked to where his hand pointed. I could not answer as
all thoughts had been struck from my brain by the mind-numbing beauty and
majesty of what we would lovingly come to call Jizz Chair. It sat there, as if
it knew we were coming to take it away, and as I looked I swore I could see a
twinkle in one of its buttons, like it wanted to come with us. I looked over
and saw Loren with the same look spread across his face.
It was only moments, but it felt like hours had passed
between us by the time we finally loaded her into my hatchback. It fit
perfectly, with almost no room to spare, and at that moment I knew it to be
destiny. With the chair in tow, we waved goodbye to our newfound hipbilly
friend. I think he may have cried as we drove away, but I can’t be sure.
When we brought it inside to the dorm there were many an odd
look exchanged. Maybe it was the stains, maybe it was the majesty, but people
always seemed to have a strong reaction to Jizz Chair. If the name isn’t
obvious now, I will explain it. This nom de guerre came about through our
inability to identify the origins of some of the stains on the chair…. But don’t
worry! We put a cover on it… after about three months.
We had the chair for a total of eight months, and through
those months it weathered the tears of breakups, and many a drunken wrestling
match in our room. It was faithful, and we loved it as a member of the family.
As with all dorm furniture, June rolled around and we found
that neither of our parents would let us bring the stray home. It was a sad
night when Loren, Ciara(His Girlfriend/our other roommate), and I loaded Jizz
Chair into the back of the car once again to return it to the wild.
We sat in somber silence as we drove to the campus
communications building. Once we were there, and had checked that campus police
were not in the vicinity, we gingerly
lifted her out and carried her inside. Down in the basement of the
building there was a small alcove beneath the winding staircase we thought
would be a perfect home for our beloved.
I placed our hand written note: Please do not move this chair, we love it. With the note placed, we
all said our goodbyes and parted ways.
When I came back in the fall the chair was gone. Whether it
was moved by the authorities, kidnapped by some coked out pranksters, or taken
to a lovely home, I will never know. Some nights I think I hear the sound of its
soft body, slinking in through our apartment door, but then when I wake I find
that it was just the wind…
Note:
I tried to sell this
chair on Craig’s List using the age old technique of lying and embellishment,
but it was taken down for violating the rules…
Included is the original post,
be warned, it’s quite graphic and crude. Enter at your own risk.
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