The other day Byron sold a chair on Craigslist. The woman had arranged to pick it up Monday evening but Byron had other plans at that time so I was given the duty of overseeing the chair transaction.
"The woman's name is Debbie and she'll be here at six," Byron tells me before the fact, the same way a parent tells a babysitter, Emergency numbers are on the fridge! His bedtime is eight! as they're heading out the door.
Just after six I get a phone call from Debbie saying she's around the corner, and I offer to bring the chair out to the street. The chair has a bold, dark turquoise body with shiny metal legs; it's very modern and it easily fits Byron's ethos.
As I reach to the sidewalk an oversize black SUV pulls up and honks at me, two figures waving at me through the tinted windows. The woman who gets out is easily over six feet tall and slender, an update on the 50's housewife with her short blond bob and her long flowing dress and heels. Her husband, stepping out of the drivers side, is wearing a baseball cap and golf clothing, right down to the golf shoes most take off when they step off the green. They're both in their forties.
I stare at these people, stepping out of their poster of domestic upper-middle class luxury, and suddenly I feel scared for Byron's chair. Its entire life it has been with Byron, a hip young graphic designer. During small parties at his apartment people have probably sat in the chair, drinking wine and sharing a story. It has most likely been sat in on Saturday mornings while Byron is nursing a hangover and surfing the internet. I think I even used the chair to stand on when I helped Byron paint his bedroom and couldn't reach the ceiling trim. And now, this evening, I'm handing it off to this couple who will no doubt take good care of the chair, but will give it an entirely different existence.
"This looks brand new," Debbie coos as I stand on the curb, holding it by the back and legs. I imagine the chair's new life, in a giant house, among other modern pieces the couple has acquired (people like that don't buy furniture, they acquire it). It will never be sat in during a party because there aren't any other chairs, and it will surely never be stood on while painting. It will probably sit in front of a desk somewhere, in a home office at the end of a long hallway. And all at once Golf Husband takes the chair out of my arms, puts it in the back of their SUV and I'm handed the money they owe Byron. A smile, a wave, and they pull off as I stand on the curb.
So long Byron's chair. I hope you like your new life.
