Hi. I’m Chair.
I’m old, but you can’t call me “Old Chair”–I’ve been called that too often throughout my life. People have called me “Old Chair,” “Ugly Blue Chair,” and even “Worthless Piece of Garbage Chair,” but my new owner doesn’t believe in stereotyping, so she just calls me “Chair.” Because that’s who I am. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you. Let me tell you how I came to be…
…Actually, I can’t start from the very beginning, because the lady typing my story hasn’t known me from the very beginning–and I can’t type it for myself, because I am an inanimate object and therefore cannot type [though I seem perfectly capable of speaking…].
So instead I’ll tell you how I came to be, insofar as my typist knows the story…
Back in the ’70s, I was a very fine piece of furniture. When I was brand new, I lived in a nice home with my courteous Owners. They sat on me all the time of course, but I didn’t mind, because I am
Chair, after all. They never let their filthy kids jump on my cushions, and they never allowed their sneaky cat to scratch at my legs. I was loved–at least as much as humans can love their living room furniture.But that was over thirty years ago, and times…they change. One day, Mr. and Mrs. Owner came home from the city, talking excitedly about their new furniture. They kicked me to the curb (quite literally) to make room for the new arrivals, and I was left for the garbage collector. But that night, a nice lady driving by saw me, and thought, “That ugly old chair has potential!” Which of course I did. The new lady picked me up and dropped me off at her nearby parents’ house to store for a while–next to an old rickety door that someone else had already scavenged–until she could take me home and make me her own.
Everyone seemed to think I was garbage.
So there we were, just me and the door, and the
new new lady. The new new lady took me home (even though she felt guilty for scavenging me off of her sister-in-law’s scavenge). She sanded down my already-worn finish:
And she placed me in her well-ventilated garage:
(Oh, look–there’s my old friend, Door… Hi, Door!)
…and painted me a nice crisp black. She washed my foam cushions and their blue covers and finished my black paint with a shiny coat of polyurethane.
And now look at me! I’m sharp, I know.
The only problem is, I don’t really fit here, because I’m blocking the walkway to the Twins, and that’s bad. So the lady tried putting me in her living room:
But while I look nice by the piano, I don’t really blend in with the other colours she’s got in the living room. See? I kind of stick out like a sore thumb.
I also look bad in the basement, even though none of the furniture down there matches anyway:
Where can I live? Finally, the lady had a breakthrough. I am now the proud resident of…any guesses? Here’s a few hints:
The Blue Room! But of course! At long last, I have found my niche in the world. Good thing some previous owners’ teenage yahoo painted this room blue to match me. And it’s another good thing that the blue room hasn’t been painted over yet.
…and that’s the story of a chair named Chair.
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