The Good Chair

By Jeff Eckenrode

The chair itself was nothing special. Vinyl cushion, dark wooden frame, the kind of chair you'd find in a church basement or a DMV. Its only virtue was sitting directly under the ceiling vent, which made it, by a wide margin, the coolest seat in the building.

Gene sat in it every week while he waited to shop, with the reliability of a pocket watch and the quiet certainty of a man who'd claimed it back in the spring. He was tall in the upright, deliberate way of a man who still stood when someone entered a room. His straight, silver hair was combed with the kind of intention most people reserve for job interviews. His khakis creased sharp enough to leave parallel lines down the length of his legs. Wanda disputed the word "claimed."

She was as soft as Gene was sharp, wearing a hand-knit cardigan the color of a faded rose. Her reading glasses rested leisurely at the tip of her nose, attached to a beaded chain which rested against her collarbone. She looked like someone who'd offer you a butterscotch candy right before ruining your whole afternoon. "There's no name on it," she told me, settling into the chair with the casual confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. "Seating is first come, first served, you know. That's just how chairs work."

Gene had arrived four minutes later than usual, saw the chair occupied, and did not react so much as recalibrate. He selected a spot nearby and began waiting with the specific intensity of a man who fully intended to outlast her.

"You could sit anywhere else," Gene said, with the strained courtesy of a man who'd rehearsed sounding unbothered.

"I could," Wanda agreed, and didn't move.

Gene checked his watch. Adjusted his cuff so the crease lined up with his wristbone. Checked his watch again, as though the first check might have been reporting inaccurate information.

"Take your time," he said, to no one, several times.

She stayed about nine minutes longer than she really needed to, unwrapping a butterscotch candy from her cardigan pocket with the unhurried calm of a woman who had absolutely nowhere else to be and several better places to be seen not going.

This had apparently been going on for weeks. I only knew about it because Old Pete mentioned it the way he mentioned most things, sideways, mid-task, like it wasn't really the point of what he was saying.

"They're at it again," he said, restocking a shelf without looking over.

"At what?"

"The chair." He said it with a sigh, the way you'd talk about rainy weather. "Gene thinks it's his. Wanda thinks it's hers. I think it's everybody's, but nobody asked me."

I watched Gene check his watch. I watched Wanda stay put.

"You could just tell them to knock it off," I said.

"Could," Pete agreed, not doing that.

I got the sense Pete had a side in this. Or maybe he got a private thrill from the dysfunction. He never said so. But he always seemed to be nearby when the chair was in dispute, restocking something that didn't strictly need restocking, watching with the stillness of a man enjoying something he'd never admit to enjoying.

Wanda finally stood up, not to leave, but to get a cup of water while she waited it out, announcing to Berny that she'd be "right back" with the ceremony of a general declaring a tactical retreat and calling it a victory lap. Gene took the chair, sat down with the quiet triumph of a man reclaiming disputed territory, and closed his eyes like he intended to hold the position indefinitely.

Ten minutes later, Pete came out from the back carrying a second chair. Same vinyl, same frame. He set it down a few feet from the first without a word and went back to restocking.

Gene opened his eyes. Looked at the new chair. Looked at Pete.

"Is that the same chair?"

"Different chair," Pete said, setting it down at the exact same angle as the first, close enough that measuring the difference would've required a tape measure and a grudge. "Same vent."

Gene did not look reassured. He looked at the new chair, then down at his own crease, as if checking whether the rules of engagement had changed enough to require re-ironing something.

Wanda returned a few minutes later, spotted the second chair, and stopped dead in the doorway.

"Wait a minute. Which one's the good one?"

Nobody answered. Nobody knew. Pete just kept restocking, entirely too pleased with himself for a man who claimed not to care.