I’ll Procrastinate Tomorrow… You’ll see…

Avoiding any and all thing productive, I found myself scrolling through my contacts when I stumbled across a causal acquaintance who had died. He was a really nice guy who whenever I did hang around with him, I enjoyed myself. I couldn’t for the life of me think of a single reason why we never became closer friends.

Thinking back it was always the usual, lame excuses, “Busy” lives, working hard and crammed schedules that always led to quickly forgotten empty promises of lunch or dinner. “Hey, we should grab a drink!” None of which ever came to pass.

And now here was all of his information; phone number, twitter feed, email address, etc… What was I to do now? Delete it? I couldn’t think of a single sane reason not to but pressing the “delete” button seemed so disrespectful. Almost cruel. To pass away is one thing but to “be deleted” is something else. Harsh.

After some serious thought, I decided to call his number. And if you know me. I do not like talking on the phone. Even a little bit. To me this was a respectful gesture. I took a deep breath and listened to it ring and ring, eventually going to voicemail. I then left an unrehearsed, rambling, incoherent message about how sorry I was we never got to know each other better. I then apologized for never following up on at least one of our promised lunches. I’m aware of how silly this sounds but as I hung up I felt a surprising sense of closure. At least a little bit of closure. Not because I was proud of what I did in some self gratifying way, rather the feeling of not being cold hearted and deleting someone who deserved better.

Then my phone rang. I looked down and saw his name on the caller ID. Huh? I froze. Was I in a bad Kevin Bacon movie? The room started to spin a little and my heart began to pound in my ears. I took a deep breath, hit accept and slowly brought the phone up to my ear fully expecting to talk to a ghost.

It was his son. He was confused as to why I would call his late father. We laughed and I promised to explain it over lunch.

Date, TBD…

Lovely Chair of Death

So I find myself living in my cousin’s house for the summer. Mind you, I am a grown man totally capable of caring for myself. My own snazzy apartment will be ready on September 2. My cousin and his girlfriend were kind enough to offer me a place to sit and wait for a few months.

I no longer own a bed. I lost that, my soul (sic) and 99% of my furniture in a divorce that I believe will be resolved around Stardate 2361. I have been spending my nights (when I am at their home) in one of the few things the ex left behind. An electronic “help you stand up” reclining chair (circa 2004). My daughter and I refer to the chair as The Lovely Chair of Death.

You see, two people have died in the chair. Literally. The chair was a favorite of two elderly members of the ex’s family. They both chose to spend their final days at home, in the chair. They both gently pushed off this mortal shore in the chair. They were happy and they spent their final days in peace surrounded by loved ones. In The Lovely Chair of Death.

Another extended family member of the ex became ill while visiting her immediate family. She was visiting from Germany, spoke zero English and was pretty freaked out about falling sick in a foreign country. She was offered refuge in the chair.

She remained in the chair until that family could figure out how to quickly ship a sick old lady back to Frankfurt so they could take their Hawaiian vacation (right?). She apparently passed away the following year. I always look at how that situation was handled through the eyes of comedian Ron White, “I pinned a twenty dollar bill to their lapel and wished them luck”… Different strokes, I suppose.

The chair then sat alone in the ex’s parents house, quietly plotting it’s next evil deed. Without explanation (well that’s not true, the ex’s family no longer wanted a creepy ass chair in their house) the Lovely Chair of Death somehow made it from the lovely backwoods of South Jersey to our home in Pennsylvania where it sat alone and unused for two years.

Somehow, years later, I find myself still in possession of this chair. And I’m actually sleeping in it. With one eye open.

I pained over keeping it until I realized my cousin was offering me an unfinished room in his home. I didn’t want to buy furniture for my new apartment three months before I moved into it. So I was possessed by the chair like Jack Nicholson in The Shining and blindly allowed the chair to follow me to my cousin’s house.

It’s like a bad Stephen King novel. In a few weeks I will move to my own shiny, happy apartment. I fully intend on leaving The Lovely Chair of Death behind. It will find itself curbside in front of my cousin’s house where it will await certain doom by the hand of the mighty trash compacting trash dudes.

Or will it? (Cue creepy music) If in a few months you, loyal constant reader (also a King reference), suddenly notice the blogs have stopped. Please do not line up to claim a used, comfy electric recliner from my shiny new apartment.

Until next time, don’t say I didn’t warn you…

Bloog!