The Seat

A few years ago, I had made a habit of writing extremely short stories for fun. I call them "doodles" because they were not serious works, involved little or no planning, and were generally not intended for any but a very select few to see. Most of them are awful, and y'all'll never have an opportunity to read them. However, I am proud of how several of them turned out, and this seems as good a place as any to publish them.

This particular story was written as part of an exercise with a friend back at Berkeley. We used a random word generator online to pick a word that would act as the theme of whatever we were to write, and then had a time limit (I think it was an hour. Maybe two?) to produce something to share. Come to think of it, this was the only time we tried this, a fact I now regret. I should contact him about doing this more regularly, especially since he lives in a different state now and we don't get much opportunity to interact anymore. Anyway, without further ado, here is "The Seat."

Howard was comfortable. Not, perhaps, in the sense you normally think of when using this word. In fact, the seat he occupied was old, smelly, and had a spring that poked at him every time he shifted his weight the wrong way, which was often.

Many years hence, it had been a fair enough piece of furniture; brand new from the manufacturers. That had been when he was a mere boy living in his parents’ home. Those days were long gone. He was in his forties now, and the couch was in his own home. Well, not really his own; he was renting it. But he thought of it as his own, for he had been the only permanent occupant there for seventeen years.

Howard had spent his entire life in this seat. As a child, he’d spent innumerable hours watching TV and doing homework on this very same cushion. He’d spent nearly every afternoon staring outside, awaiting his dad’s return, whether in anticipation or dread. His first kiss had been right here. So had his first alcohol-induced black-out. Now, and for the past decade at least, it stood vigilantly watching a series of ever-improving television sets. To say it was worn would be like saying the sun is bright.

Howard was very comfortable in this seat. Not because it was soft; it wasn’t. Not because it supported his weight evenly; it didn’t. Not because it was clean; not by a long shot. In fact, anyone else who tried to sit on the old hunk of junk would probably be about as comfortable sitting on grimy, pointed rocks. But for Howard, it was quite comfortable.

It was in this very seat that he had watched the prime of his life dwindle away like the batteries in his remote control. From this seat, he had watched his body go through far too many seasons, decreasing in appeal like all his favorite shows. From this seat, taking out the garbage seemed like a major accomplishment, while all his dreams became as empty as last night’s pizza box. Howard was far too comfortable in this seat.

He hated it. This seat had conquered him. He did not know what to do except sit down in it and watch TV. Everything else seemed to be impossibly foreign and undesirable, for he was so comfortable sitting there. Yet every minute he lounged on this spot was sheer misery for him. If only he had the courage to stand up and walk outside. If only he had the courage to call somebody, anybody on the phone. If only he had the courage to put it out on the curb and end its terrible reign once and for all! But it would never be so. Howard was comfortable.