The Yellow Chair

by Mark Mazer

STORY SUMMARY:

Because of an incident while walking his dog, a writer, who thanks to his wife lives in the lap of luxury, discovers some truths about the primitive nature of life and himself.    

Stu was ready to stop trying to write a new story that morning and take the Doodle for a walk. But he couldn’t bear the thought. Though early March it was seventeen degrees, and the sidewalk was packed with a slick sheet of ice; typical of Boston weather, the rain had turned to snow briefly overnight.

Thinking a change of scene might get his creative juices flowing, Stu abandoned the computer in the study and took pen and paper to the living room where he settled his welterweight-size body (one hundred and forty seven pounds for non-boxing fans) on the yellow armchair, the one his wife, Christine, bought him five years earlier when they were living in England because of her job.

Except for the embroidered roses and green, curlicue stems Stu liked the chair, but the fact was that he resented Christine’s buying him things. Her money made him feel more like a son than a husband, mainly because she was amassing a small fortune in business while he was earning nothing. But Christine was insistently generous, besides being easy on the eye, and Stu obliged by swallowing his pride.

As the frustrated writer wedged a cushion behind his chronically sore back the Doodle jumped onto the couch, curled into a ball and sighed. Stu wished he had turned the radio on. Classical music always put her to sleep, and he didn’t want to be disturbed.  But her sighs soon became snores, so he relaxed and let his mind wander.

His thoughts returned to the day the chair was delivered to the home in Kent that he and Christine loved so much, a rented flat – once an enormous, sky-lit snooker room – in a Victorian-era mansion just converted into luxury condos. He remembered the stately, sculpted gardens of nearby Penshurst Place, the sound of spring lambs bleating from the farm next door, and the hopeful feeling when he wondered what life with the yellow chair would bring over time.

Out of the blue, images of the young blond he met in Boston when they reported for jury duty the previous week disrupted his pastoral reflections. Bored and increasingly certain that he wouldn’t be chosen to serve, Stu had passed the time peeking at the Vogue magazine the woman was reading, and felt slightly embarrassed when she snatched a real estate brochure from her bag and said, “Here, maybe you’d prefer this one.”

“No thanks,” he said, “but if you don’t mind my asking, is that a British accent?”

 “Yorkshire,” she said.

“Passed through there on the train to Edinburghx come to think of it, I remember a guy in the dining car showing me that a spoon in a cup of tea keeps it from spilling.”

“Really,” she said. “And why’s that?”

“I’m no physicist,” Stu answered. “I don’t have a clue.”

“What do you do?”

“Used to teach high school English but for the last few years I’ve been writing fiction.”

“Should I know you? I mean, are you published?”

“A few short stories but I’m nobody famous.”

Stu anticipated the inevitable next question and was deciding whether to lie or confess that his wife was supporting him, but the young woman changed the subject: “You look so familiar. Where have I seen you before? I know! Do you have a black Standard Poodle?”

The Doodle jumped off the couch the instant Stu thought of her, trotted to the yellow chair and whacked the armrest with her paw. Stu wasn’t surprised. He suspected that they communicated telepathically. For example, lying in bed at night unable to sleep Stu often thought of her – remembering an amusing incident or, like a good parent, sensing her bathroom needs. And more often than not she’d immediately prance to his side and whack the bed till he’d rub her ears, whisper “Kisses” and let her lick his face. “Now go to sleep,” he’d tell her, and the Doodle would plop down on the Persian carpet; unless of course she really did feel the urge and kept whacking, as she was doing now, till Stu got up to take her out.

With cashmere scarf wrapped around his neck, trench coat collar turned up, and the Doodle attached to a braided leather leash, Stu paused outside at the head of the staircase. He noticed the ice was somewhat slushy on top from the melting compound he spread when Christine left for work, but he decided again to put off shoveling because he knew from experience that violent scraping would chip the soft brownstone.

Seemingly aware there would be no further delay, the Doodle cracked a smile and rushed down the ten steps to the pavement. Stu nearly fell. Hoping to regain control he jerked the leash harder than usual. But spurred on by the cold, something unusual in the air, the pressing call of nature or perhaps all three, the Doodle refused to heel, and with head thrust forward pulled Stu, blowing great clouds of breath, along the slippery sidewalk.

As they approached the intersection of Arlington and Beacon Streets, the wind gusting off the Charles River kept smacking Stu in the face, so he opted for a different route. Anticipating a major struggle with the Doodle, who no doubt expected to relieve herself and then do what she lived to do – chase squirrels in the Public Garden – Stu grabbed the leash with both hands. The fist-over-fist position was the same grip he used as a kid swinging a stickball bat, and the competent feeling that came from smashing a line drive over the Blackstone School fence once more fortified his body. Maybe the Doodle noticed the surge in Stu’s confidence because, just as he was about to yank the leash, she spontaneously turned the corner away from the Garden and headed for Commonwealth Avenue.

Although Stu’s eyes now felt like frozen meatballs he could see an immense black and cream-colored dog, a brute that looked more like a wolf than a Husky or Malamute, roaming the sidewalk ahead. As usual when near Marlborough Street, the lines from the poem, Memories of West Street and Lepke, came to Stu’s mind: “I hog a whole house on Boston’s hardly passionate Marlborough Street, where even the man scavenging filth in the back alley trash cans, has two children, a beach wagon, a helpmate, and is a ‘young Republican’.” And Stu thought, as he always did when recalling that quote, how odd it was for a kid like him, raised in the West End slums, to have graduated to the Brahmin part of town.

As Stu got closer he noticed that the big dog was on an extension leash held by a man, at least six feet four, lean but solid, with stringy dark hair, a long goatee and sideburns that came below his cheekbones. Even more striking was his fringed, buckskin jacket, the sort of get-up one would associate with “Buffalo Bill” and the Wild West, not Robert Lowell’s Boston.

The tall guy was talking to a short, heavy-set man, dressed in sweatshirt and jeans. Parked by the curb where they were standing was an unmarked white van with a ladder mounted on its roof. The sliding side door was open and as he passed Stu could see tools and equipment inside.

The big dog was about fifteen feet from its master and as soon as the dog noticed the Doodle he crouched, drew back his ears and lowered his tail. The Doodle slowed down and leaned against Stu’s striding leg. Stu switched her from his left to right side, hoping that by placing himself between the two dogs and making the Doodle walk as close to the buildings as possible that she’d be a tougher target.

In a flash the big dog sprang at the Doodle, but Stu blocked the attack with his legs. Determined, the big dog darted this way and that, searching for an opening while Stu, like a goalie defending a hockey net, shifted his feet fast enough to obstruct the dog’s lunges. From across the sidewalk the tall guy shouted “Buck” and tried to retract the mechanical leash, but getting the dog to respond with so much slack in the cord was as futile as catching Moby Dick with a drop line. Nonchalantly, the tall guy strolled to Buck, and then with some effort grabbed his collar and pulled him towards the van.

“You ought to get that dog trained,” Stu said.

“Fuck you,” the tall guy said. “There’s nothing wrong with my dog. You’re just an asshole.”

“Nothing wrong! He just attacked my dog and me, totally unprovoked.”

“Bullshit. He was just being friendly. Your dog didn’t mind. It’s you, you’re a fucking jerk.”

By now the tall guy had forced Buck into the van and slammed the sliding door shut.

Stu took a few steps towards the curb. “You should at least have him on a shorter leash.”

“You fucking asshole,” the tall guy said, “Whad’ja have, too much coffee this morning?”

“What are you swearing at me for? Your dog started the whole thing.”

“My dog started nothing. And if we were someplace else I’d bash your fucking face in.”

“That would make your day, wouldn’t it? Beating up somebody half your size and twice your age.”

“You asshole,” the tall guy said, and rubbing his fist with his other hand he took a step towards Stu.”

“You’re as bad a bully as your dog,” Stu said. “What company do you work for?”

“None of your fucking business.”

Stu glanced at the front of the van, read the license plate number out loud and said, “That’ll be easy to remember.”

Then the short guy jumped in: “It’s your fault,” he said to Stu. “There was no problem till you opened your big mouth.”

“I opened my mouth because that guy’s dog attacked. Since when is the aggressor the victim?”

“Listen,” the short guy said, “just go, you don’t know who the fuck you’re dealing with.”

Suddenly the tall guy strutted to within a yard of Stu’s face and said, “Come on you fucking asshole – right here!”  He extended both palms and kept jerking them towards his chest as if pleading with Stu to throw the first punch.

Stu noticed a police car drive by and stop at a red light about thirty yards away. “I’m getting the cop,” Stu said instinctively, stepping onto the street with the Doodle in tow.

“Come back here, you chicken shit,” the tall guy shouted.

Stu hurried towards the car but the light turned green and the cop, apparently unaware of Stu, drove off.

Stu turned around. The short guy was lugging a tool box into the former Atlantic Monthly headquarters, now one of the most exclusive condominium buildings in the city, and the tall guy was standing by the curb swearing loudly, still beckoning Stu with his hands.

Resisting a powerful urge to give him a hand gesture of his own, Stu headed to the grassy mall that divides Commonwealth Avenue, paced with the Doodle till she pooped, dropped the plastic bag into a trash can and followed her lead to the Ritz.

The doorman greeted her by name and, as was his custom, gave her a biscuit from the built-in brass cabinet by the front door. “Thank you,” Stu said, noticing a higher pitch to his voice and a shaky sort of tightness in his throat and chest. “But, please, don’t feel you always have to give her a treat. She’s far from starving.”

“I don’t mind,” the doorman said, “she’s such a sweet dog.”

“I’ve got to buy you a box of Milk-Bones,” Stu said, and as the doorman replied, “No need to do that,” Stu tugged the firmly anchored, shamelessly begging Doodle away from the hotel.
Trudging past the Newbury Street boutiques Stu thought how bizarre it was for a situation as primitive as his run-in with the tall guy to happen in such a classy neighborhood; and though the West Ender in Stu felt cowardly for not walking back the way he came, he was pleased to have spoken up and that he and the Doodle escaped unharmed.

At home, the ice on the front steps cracked under Stu’s feet, a sure sign that it was ready for shoveling. But feeling that his ordeal entitled him to a break, Stu decided to leave the job for the doctor’s teenage son on the first floor.

After going inside and climbing the elegant, curved staircase to his apartment, Stu tossed his coat and scarf on the living room couch and returned to the yellow chair. The Doodle lay on the floor watching him, her front legs stretched forward and her paws crossed, a habit that reminded him of praying. When their eyes met Stu said “aw-Main,” the way he remembered hearing amen chanted by the men in his grandfather’s Chambers Street shul a half century earlier. The Doodle greeted the ancient sound with a quizzical cock of her head. Heartened by the gesture, Stu tried getting into a writing frame of mind by refocusing on the courthouse blond, but he was preoccupied with the question of whether, at this point, he should call the police.

He was most afraid that the cops would contact the tall guy through his company, decide that since no injuries occurred no crime took place, drop the case and leave Stu to deal with an emboldened lunatic more determined than before to seek revenge. On the other hand, if Stu didn’t call he felt that he’d still be in danger, because even if he hid from every tall man, white van and Husky in Boston, the tall guy someday might spot him and conduct a mini pogram.
As the endless, oppressive nature of his vulnerability sank in, Stu felt so resentful that he couldn’t tolerate the passivity of sitting. Bolting from the yellow chair, he went to the kitchen and got his old Sears-Roebuck fixed blade fishing knife out of the junk drawer. His brusque movements startled the Doodle and she didn’t bother following in hopes of getting a treat. He went back to the living room, put on his coat and stood in front of the marble fireplace, just far enough back to see his reflection waist up in the mounted mirror. He unsnapped the leather strip that secured the bone handle, put the sheath in his right coat pocket and repeatedly practiced drawing the knife. But as quick as he became he knew that he’d never be fast enough; the stronger, more experienced tall guy would grab the knife, stab Stu, and later claim self-defense. I need a pistol, Stu thought. I’ll be able to shoot the shmuck before he gets close enough to take it away.

As if on cue, the telephone rang. The Doodle barked but didn’t howl the way she would for the doorbell, and Stu yelled “Shut up” before answering the phone. It was his wife calling to remind him to pick up her new business suit at Escada. Stu vented about what happened on the walk. Christine scolded him: “You should have left the first time he threatened you, and kept your mouth shut to begin with.”

“But I don’t back down,” Stu said.

“That’s crazy! The guy might have killed you and done God knows what to the Doodle.”

“I know,” Stu said. “But I don’t back down. I’m not like that.”

And for a moment he almost believed what he said.