My feet remain bolted to the floor. My legs, back, and seat stiff and unforgiving.
I’ve never sat vacant for so long.
I look straight ahead and survey the perpetual stillness. The chairs in the stands across the stadium — directly across from me — are just as empty. They are fellow chairs that were produced in the same factory as me, but who were manufactured too far down the line to cross paths; we were installed too far away from one another to ever have a meaningful conversation. We are at once kin and complete strangers.
As any stationary object, our only hope is that we prove useful to humans and that our neighbouring chairs are not a total bore.
I got lucky. The chairs around me — my friends and family, my brothers and sisters — help me pass the time as we recall the many moments that humans sat upon us, spilling pop and beer and nacho cheese. As chairs, we accept that our mission is to assist you when you want (or need) to take a seat- and yes, the fact that “ass” is in “assist” is considered a fortunate, if not cheeky, play on words.
When the silence began, one of my neighbouring chairs took the opportunity to complain about the goth kids in decades past who had chains hanging from their clothes. They scratched the hard plastic of his seat- their zippers in places that didn’t make sense to any of us. (But then what do we know about fashion?) Another chair joined in as we commiserated; she reminded us about the ridiculousness and prevalence of body glitter years ago. That was a rough time for all of us, as glitter is a shimmering inescapable mess if you’re a chair made of plastic. Alas, we can’t partake in your trends (or understand them completely); we can merely observe.
Call me a masochist, but I quite like the small heart that a young rebel in love carved into the left side of my seat when on a date with a young lady. He returned with that same woman years later and proposed in this very stadium. Though they didn’t sit in my section, I watched on the big screen above the court as the man got down on one knee and the young woman accepted his proposal through happy tears. The applause of thousands of strangers who surrounded them thundered throughout. Though these people shared in the joy of this couple’s happy moment, I’ll never forget the way they kissed as if they were not among strangers, for at that moment, he saw only her and she him.
The little boy whom I assisted that evening had no idea that the heart he traced as he sat through the proposal — waiting patiently for the game to restart — was carved by the man on the screen some years before. I wish I could have told him about the significance of that heart, but that’s not a chair’s place.
Like this little boy, it’s always a joy to see young children accompany their sports-loving family to the most anticipated game of the time. It doesn’t matter the sport; the fanfare, camaraderie, and the love of the game is exuberantly passed down, from generation to generation. Bearing witness to this transfer of tradition is what I’m missing most- when parents explain the game to their wide-eyed kids; children cheer and imitate the adults around them as they offer their own commentary to the delight of the fans surrounding them.
The quiet days have turned into weeks. I yearn for the applause, the laughter, the jeers, the chants, and the boos. Humans are strange, I think to myself. Perhaps we will never understand you. Then again, perhaps it’s not my place.
After all, you left with no warning. I hope everything’s okay, though I know deep in my bolts that you’re facing something extraordinary.
We sit abandoned, dutifully waiting for life to return to normal. In addition to the empty stadium, I wonder what else is left unused? Empty airports, empty schools, office buildings, and museums- structures made to enrich your lives wait for your return. Stationary objects everywhere are holding up our end of the bargain; we only hope that you do what you have to do so life as we know it can once again resume.
The silence is eerie. Wherever you are, I’m sure you feel it too.
You probably didn’t realize how social you were until you disappeared. Whatever you’re going through — for however long it takes — perhaps when life returns to normal, you’ll appreciate the little things a little more.
If I ever have the opportunity to assist you, perhaps standing from your seat to allow someone to pass while you’re gathered at the stadium won’t be such an inconvenience. I wonder- will you offer a stranger a kind word or a smile a little faster than you used to before the silence?
Will this time inspire you to look up from your screens and experience the beauty of the world and appreciate the moments that you have? (It’s not too late to start now.) Wherever you are, I can only imagine that your phones are with you, as I rarely see you without them. Maybe when you come back, you’ll make an effort to record the special moments in your memory rather than through the lens of a smartphone.
With all of that said, maybe I’m off my rocker to think that humans would take advice from a chair, but if you haven’t stood up and walked away, consider that while a chair’s mission is to assist humans, perhaps a human’s mission should be to assist other humans too.
Until I can finally assist you again, wherever you are, I invite you to take a seat. Take a moment. Take a breath. Take some time.
If you liked the above, you would really enjoy:
A work of art narrates its journey through time in this short story.
In the centuries since its creation, it has witnessed the joy of love and companionship, the heartache of loss, and hardship. Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but what if the masterpiece you so admire silently muses at the countless wonders of humanity?
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Amber Green is a self-published Canadian author and freelance writer. Her short stories can be found here: www.amazon.com/author/ambergreen
© 2020 Amber Green