The Master's Chair

When I was a young buck my father had the stereotypical “guys chair”; ie it looked like it had been dropped from a rooftop and then stuffed with pork chops before siccing Cujo on it. No matter how many times my mother would whine about the goddam thing and scream he had to get rid of it, my dad refused. His chair; “The Master’s Chair.” God forbid you were sitting in it when he rolled into the house, you’d hafta hear him actually say “Out of the master’s chair while the master is in the house.” He’d come home from work every day at 5:00 and from the moment dinner was over (lessee, he’s home at 5:00, we’d be done at....5:07) until he retired for the night (another funny thing...my dad never announced that it was time to go to bed, but rather “time to retire for the night.” Is that weird?) he’d sit in The Master’s Chair and read, barely looking up when nodding his head at 18 second intervals while my mother talked non-stop about everything in the world. And if the shabby chair wasn’t bad enough, he insisted on keeping whatever batch of books he was reading piled up in a mountain to the left of the chair – not piled neatly, mind you, but in a mound such that if you pulled one book out it was like that game Jenga, and the shit would come down on you like the ball in Indiana Jones.

And they were all history books. But not history books like you or I might read. Not “The Best and the Brightest”, not “Parting the Waters.” No no. They were all like “18th Century Canadian Steel Mills”, or “The 197th English Brigade, Vol. XXV.” Really fun stuff. One of my earliest memories is, on the bookshelf, the complete “The Story of Civilization” by Will and Ariel Durant. They were there every day of my life, but I never bothered to peep in, never thought to actually read them. But me being retarded, I do remember seeing them every day cause each book had a 2-color pattern that I always gawked at. Always thought the color match-ups were nice. Hmm. And my father being the dry history reader he was, this important, popular series was probably in the “Humor” section of his stacks. Day in, day out, reading this stuff in his chair. And this is a guy that graduated high school and immediately joined the Marines in time for the Cuban Missile Crisis. College? Unheard of in the Xmastime family tree at that time.

Another thing he’d do in the chair is, every morning, he’d have rye toast and coffee. Now, my father said “damn” or “goddamit” about once or twice a week. Certainly never even dreamed of saying “fuck”; at least never anywhere in my presence. But, like clockwork, once a month, and ONLY once a month, while in his chair reading the morning paper before work he’d spill his coffee on his shirt. Which would lead to an understandable “oh, shit!” But he didn’t say it like you or I might, “oh SHIT!!!” He said it in an angry, through gritted, growling teeth wait-for-the-crescendo way that only such a serious man can: “aaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr(wait for it)rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr(what’s Funky Winkerbean up to this morning?)rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr(wait for it)rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...........(pause)......(pause)....(pause, I’m not even kidding)....shit!!!!!!!” “Shit” not only being one syllable but somehow compacted into, seemingly, one letter like a firecracker. And that would be it until the next calendar month, you could bet on it.

Another favorite in-the-chair-theme came starting my 10th-grade year when I stopped wearing socks upon becoming a faithful wearer of LL Bean’s blucher mocs. Yes, I really was the coolest. Not only that, but even at a young age I knew that chicks would appreciate a huge, naked foot sweating straight into a mildewed non-vented leather insole more and more everyday. Hmm. Anyways. Literally, for two years every single morning of mine started out like this:

(Our young hero comes into the room, grabs the comics section of the paper and plops down in the Edith chair to my father’s Archie Master Chair. Reads for a minute.)
Dad: (lowers paper) Judith, more coffee (as he’s pulling paper up to read again, catches, out of the corner of his eye, his son’s sockless feet. Yanks paper back down, adopts horrified face that research has since proven to be similar to the face used by people upon learning of the atrocities of the Nazis.) Son...you’re not wearing socks.
Me: No. I didn’t yesterday either, when we had this same conversation.
Dad: (looking like a confused, lost puppy, utterly baffled, shouts out to my mother) Judith! Did you know about this??!!!
Mom: (unintelligible)
Dad: (staring shockingly at me) Why aren’t you wearing socks?
Me: Cause I don’t wear socks.
Dad: When did this start?
Me: oh, come on!
Dad: Judith! When did this start???!! Judith!!!
Mom: (unintellible)
Me: I don’t wear socks!! What’s the big deal?!!?!? And does nobody else care that soon the Soviet Union will repeal the Brezhnev Doctrine in favor of non-intervention in the internal affairs of its Warsaw Pact allies???!!!!
(Dad, while looking at me as if I had cut one not just at church, but at Jesus Christ’s funeral, slooooooowly raises the paper back up to read, all the while staring at me, coffuffled)

This literally happened EVERY morning for two years. Every time I rolled out sockless, it was as if it was the first time he had ever seen this. When it came to me not wearing socks, he had the memory of a goldfish; transcended only by the fact that he thought my mother and I had conspired behind his back so that I could walk outta the house with no socks on. The ultimate betrayal!!!!!!!

It was also while he was in that chair that I brought home another bad report card and he takes the report card, slowly lays it over his heart, leans his head back with his eyes closed, mumbling some gibberish. Then he literally started grasping his heart – I start to almost panic, thinking he’s having a heart attack. But no no. It’s not enough for him to have a heart attack because of my crappy grades - he has the nerve to, in the midst of my thinking his heart was seizing, play the ultimate guilt card and say “Son....look...at what your grades...are doing...to....your poor mother...” fuuuuuuuuuuck! In a word, kudos.

The only time I saw him laugh out loud, uncontrollably, was in that chair when I played him a tape of “Bill Cosby: Himself.” I found myself gleefully skipping around, saying “oooh, listen to this bit! Hey, listen to this one, it’s HYSTERICAL!!!” and watching him laugh like I never had seen before. Was a great moment; maybe the most “adult/peer” moment we ever had, if not the only.

I thought of that chair cause tonite I was sitting in MY “Master’s Chair”, my plush chair that has my ass-print and is within reach of just about everything I need. I was for a moment reveling in what a great chair it was. Then I looked down to my left, and there weren’t great books at all. Beer cans. 2-liter Coke bottles. This week’s newspapers, strewn about. A fucking St Ides 40oz bottle. Bag from last night’s Chinese food. A computer I forgot had ever existed. Christ, I’m surprised I didn’t find a jerk-off rag. Fucking pathetic.

Sometimes you forget who you are and where you come from so much that you have to keep going in the wrong direction and hope that the world really is round and you end up in the right place after all. Maybe the same people aren’t there anymore, but if I can find one thing to cling to when I see it, maybe that’s all I need. Here’s to holding out hope; here's to coming home.