The Empty Chair

It was always his chair, the deep-cushioned recliner with the pop-up foot rest that dominated one corner of the room. He did everything in that chair. Well, not quite everything. But it was his reading chair, his talking chair, his TV-watching chair, his snacking chair, and his snoozing chair. The recliner followed Mom and Dad from house to house, from living room to living room. It shed its upholstery periodically and grew a new covering, like a reptile shedding its skin and emerging glistening and freshly clad. It wasn’t always pretty, but it was always a part of home. A part of him.

The chair didn’t empty suddenly. The process was a gradual one - a subtle stealing away. Nor did the chair empty in any physical sense. Dad still sat in it; he just didn’t inhabit it anymore. The conversations faded first as Alzheimer’s insinuated itself into and through his brain. Reading was next to go; although he kept up the habit of holding a newspaper or book, he never turned the pages. As the months and years marked the infiltration of the leading edge of his illness, he would stare blankly at the TV screen, his book or magazine held forgotten - often upside down - in his hands. Eventually, even the pretense of reading vanished along with his memories, his laughter, his love of life and his awareness of his wife and family.

The chair is gone now. It broke down soon after Dad died. He and it had grown old together, had grown tired together. The chair mourned the loss of the familiar contours of his body and refused to form a relationship with anyone else. Mom had the chair removed, and the corner where it once stood remained empty for a long time. 


When Mom moved to her new apartment, she purchased a new chair - one without Dad’s imprint. Mom’s chair was her throne. She sat in it to watch TV, to nap, to snack on her tea and muffin, and to bask in the joy of receiving visitors. Especially family. She would sit proudly, the center of attention, trading quips, puns and jokes with anyone who would listen. But not any more. Mom’s chair is empty now. We lost her last month, just six weeks after she celebrated her 93rd birthday surrounded by her children and grandchildren. She and Dad are back together again, sitting peacefully side-by-side as they used to do. Holding hands, trading stories, and basking in their mutual love.

Bob - Take Two

You did it again. This is New York. People don’t make eye contact here - especially not on 42nd Street.

All you were doing was walking Butch. So he’s a Great Dane, weighs 200 lbs, stands as tall as your waist and walks ahead of you, weaving back and forth across your path. So you carry on a monologue with him as the two of you walk along, dodging passers-by, trash cans, an occasional pile of unclaimed poop and other detritus of street life in the Big Apple. So what?

You were walking towards Time Square when you spotted Bob - at least, you thought it was Bob - your old high school sweetheart. The one who asked you to the prom. The one who broke your heart by leaving you high and dry on prom night to dance every dance with Betty. The one you never wanted to see again. Ever!

It might have been Bob. He was the right height - about six feet tall. His hair was a little thinner than you remembered, and his waistline a bit thicker. But he carried himself with that same jaunty air - an aura of confidence in his own charm. And he was still a hunk.

You couldn’t be certain, though. You had to look into his eyes - to penetrate his facade. The eyes never lie. You wanted it to be Bob. You wanted to stroll up to him nonchalantly and show him that his rejection of you had been a mistake. A big mistake. The biggest mistake of his life. You heard that he had married Betty. You wanted to hear that she had turned into a fat, frumpy hausfrau. You wanted to make Bob suffer.

So you stared at him, making eye contact as he approached. And he stared back. It was Bob, and he was coming directly towards you, right hand extended. 

"Janie!" He smiled - a familiar broad smile that spread across his face, causing little fan-shaped crinkles to form at the corners of his eyes - and took your free hand in his. "How nice to run into you." Bob turned to address a svelte, sophisticated blond woman who was standing with impeccable composure at his side. "Betty," he said, drawing her forward, "you remember little Janie from our high school class, don't you?"

"Of course I remember Janie." Betty held out her hand to shake yours, but Butch got there first, taking her hand gently in his mouth and covering it with his slobber. "Ewwwwww! Get that beast away from me!" Betty retreated behind Bob, her sophistication dissolved in a mass of dog slobber. "That dog is a menace."

"C'mon, Betty." Bob put out his hand to pat Butch on the head. "This dog is just a gentle giant. You said you liked dogs."

"Well, I lied! And if you're more interested in that beast than in me, you can just forget about picking up where we left off after high school." Betty turned and strode briskly away.

You were afraid to look at Bob - fearful that he would be angry with you. You mumbled an apology and turned to go. "Wait, Janie," you heard him say. "There's a café around the corner with some patio tables. Would you and Butch care to join me?"

©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.

A Note of Explanation: By popular demand, here is an alternative ending to Bob

Please Have Your Say

Please post a comment indicating whether you prefer the original ending or this one.

Bob

You did it again. This is New York. People don’t make eye contact here - especially not on 42nd Street.

All you were doing was walking Butch. So he’s a Great Dane, weighs 200 lbs, stands as tall as your waist and walks ahead of you, weaving back and forth across your path. So you carry on a monologue with him as the two of you walk along, dodging passers-by, trash cans, an occasional pile of unclaimed poop and other detritus of street life in the Big Apple. So what?

You were walking towards Time Square when you spotted Bob - at least, you thought it was Bob - your old high school sweetheart. The one who asked you to the prom. The one who broke your heart by leaving you high and dry on prom night to dance every dance with Betty. The one you never wanted to see again. Ever!

It might have been Bob. He was the right height - about six feet tall. His hair was a little thinner than you remembered, and his waistline a bit thicker. But he carried himself with that same jaunty air - an aura of confidence in his own charm. And he was still a hunk.

You couldn’t be certain, though. You had to look into his eyes - to penetrate his facade. The eyes never lie. You wanted it to be Bob. You wanted to stroll up to him nonchalantly and show him that his rejection of you had been a mistake. A big mistake. The biggest mistake of his life. You heard that he had married Betty. You wanted to hear that she had turned into a fat, frumpy hausfrau. You wanted to make Bob suffer.

So you stared at him, making eye contact as he approached. Butch decided to stare, too. And bark. A lot. And the hunk - not Bob after all - ran the other way.

©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.

A Note of Explanation: For this prompt, we were to imagine the following scenario: You are approaching someone on a city street. From several yards away, you make eye contact. The other person turns and runs away. Why?

Just Desserts

Jessie stared at the menu. Her lactose intolerance and her allergies to peanuts and chocolate made choosing dessert a challenge. “Could I have the apple crisp, but without any sauce or ice cream?” she requested.

“Plain apple crisp - yes, ma'am.” The waiter nodded. “Coffee, ma’am?”

“Yes, please - black.” Jessie closed her menu and set it down. Tom, her blind date, placed his hand on top of hers where it rested on the table. “I like a woman who knows her own mind.”

“Well,” Jessie blushed a little. “It’s just that I have some food allergies and have to watch what I eat.” She hated the urge to explain herself.

“Your dessert, ma’am.” The waiter set a plate before her - a chocolate brownie topped with vanilla ice cream and decorated with delicate puffs of whipped cream. “And your Irish coffee, ma’am.” He placed a steaming glass mug of the frothy concoction to the right of her dessert.

“Wait,” Jessie exclaimed. “This is not what I ordered. I asked for a plain apple crisp and a cup of black coffee.”

The waiter apologized and removed the offending items. In a few minutes, he returned with an apple crisp topped with vanilla ice cream and sprinkled with chopped nuts. “Your black coffee will be here directly,” he assured Jessie. “We’re brewing a fresh pot right now.”

Jessie stopped him. “Please. I asked for a plain apple crisp - no ice cream, no sauce, no chopped nuts. Just a plain apple crisp. What part of ‘plain apple crisp’ do you not understand?” Jessie’s frustration was starting to show in her face and in her voice. She took a deep breath and told herself to calm down as the waiter removed the dessert from the table. “Sorry Tom.” She looked up at her date with a wry smile. “I don’t mean to be a pain. Maybe we should just skip dessert.”

Tom pushed back from the table abruptly and stood. “Excuse me a moment.”

Jessie watched him walk off. Had she pissed him off? Was he skipping out on her? What should she do? She checked and rechecked her watch. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. She stared down at the table, her cup of black coffee untouched and getting cold. She would give Tom five more minutes before giving up on him. 

Jessie looked at her watch again; it was time to move on. As she prepared to stand, she heard a commotion coming from the direction of the kitchen. The restaurant patrons fell silent as the chef led a procession of the entire kitchen staff to her table, a smiling Tom bringing up the rear. “My profound apologies for the mix-up, madame.” 

The chef bowed as he took her hand and touched his lips to it. He turned to his retinue and clapped his hands. The waiter removed Jessie’s cold cup of coffee and swept crumbs from the tablecloth. Then, with a flourish, and a murmured apology, he placed silverware, a cup and saucer, and a fresh pot of steaming black coffee on the table. The chef turned to another member of his entourage, received a dessert plate from him, and placed it with great ceremony in front of Jessie. “I do hope that you will find this satisfactory, madame,” he pronounced. “Bon appetit.”

©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.

A Note of Explanation: The prompt for this exercise was to imagine a first date, during which the restaurant brought the wrong item to the table three times.