The Rocking Recliner

Elmer and I left house at noon for our third outing of the day. Sun shined on a weekday in July. Crows demanded tribute and I told them I’d feed them later.

We began walking down the block and I saw what appeared to be a a large plush chair leaning against a power pole. I needed such a chair for my back patio, or what I call Lou’s Lair, my writing, editing, reading and napping studio.

But I knew the chair would prove worthless up close: soaked, molding, frayed, splitting, every spring, if it even had springs, busted.

Seconds later, after removing the FREE sign from the seat, I sat in the chair, rocking, pushing Elmer away so he wouldn’t christen it with a whiz.

It was is pristine condition: Hoto brand from the Midwest, union made, cherry wood, spotless wool green upholstery, no cigarette burns or cat piss smells, no mars, scars, rips, tears. The chair was probably 60-70 years old. It would go for hundreds in an antique store.

How in the world did it come to lean against a power pole in my Empire neighborhood? I surmised some old Coos Bay coot had croaked it in decades ago drinking a Hamm’s and watching Mannix on the boob tube. His grandchildren just got around to getting rid of it. I did know for sure I was claiming this furniture gem, carrying it one block uphill.

I nudged the chair, heavy. I tried to lifting it with one hand to test the weight. No way I could carry it a block uphill. A travois for Elmer? He’d love pulling it!

No, the idea was to walk Elmer around the block, stash him at home, then I drive the Subaru to the chair, pop the hatch, wrestle the son-of-a-bitch in, bungee it down, take it home, a new home, new purpose.

Elmer and I took our walk and I felt giddy at the prospect of my future with the rocking recliner. I hustled him inside, found the key fob, raced outside, started up the Subaru, backed out of the driveway, and peered down the street.

Someone was sitting in the chair and rocking! It could only be a homeless man or woman and doubtless they’d soon be hauling my chair into the woods, willows or lighting it on fire to heat up a can of chili.

I approached the chair and recognized its occupant: a homeless man of Indian descent I’d interacted pleasantly with near the encampment several times. He had never been addled during our encounters. We never exchanged names.

A great rocking recliner notion struck me. I turned right at the power pole, whipped the Subaru around, and parked ten feet away from the chair.

I jumped out and said to the man, “Hey, I’ll hire you for five bucks to help me load the chair into the back of my rig.”

He stood up from the recliner, smiled, and said, “You got a deal.”

I popped the hatch, we loaded the chair. The hatch wouldn’t close. I said I lived only a block away and would drive slowly.

The man offered to walk behind the Subaru and secure the recliner. He said no charge! I thanked him for the offer, but didn’t think it necessary.

Twenty minutes later I was rocking in the recliner on the patio. An afternoon snooze was surely about to begin.