She Got The Chair

My pal, Mr. Imma, otherwise known as Sorryless, inspired this with his comments concerning the self-absorbed habits of the very rich.

I was in my late 20s, my clarity impressive, when I lived in my garret of an apartment with nothing in it but an old black and white TV set, a used mattress that was given to me, and my esteemed wicker chair that still nobly graces my bedroom.

It was a muggy summer’s day when I found it at Housing Works, the charity thrift shop, still in existence championing the homeless and those suffering with AIDS.

It was 35 dollars, a fortune back then, especially for me who lived on brown rice and beans, but fell so in love with it, like it was waiting for me to take it home.

I carried it 5 blocks and three avenues with great pride, bumping into Marty Fab, I’ll call him, and his snooty wife on the esplanade at Park and 77th.

I wore old denim shorts, a Hanes T. and Keds, my uniform back then, while they, in all their rich splendor, looking like Astors, gave me their best condescending smile.

I remember it well, the seeds of that cub reporter taking it all down.

“Oh, you got yourself a little chair I see,” said Marty, while his wife, who never speaks directly to the servants, the category I, as Daisy Mae fell into, gave me an icy stare.

I didn’t let them dampen my joy, I’m happy to recall.

“Yes, isn’t it great?” I said, skipping across the street as the light changed, stopping every few feet to rest.

It was a brief encounter that I believe had become significant in memory because of what happened to them…this elite couple who on paper had everything, including a beautiful baby girl.

Their marriage fell apart, him moving into a hotel, she becoming much more successful than he in the art world, not caring what it did to his self-esteem, while he to this day, remains a devoted drunk.

The only thing going for him now, with his wife’s earnings, is to drink at the Saint Regis Hotel, ironically once owned by an Astor, in an overpriced suit, staggering his life away.

As for me, I’m very content with everything I have, while my chair, that if could only talk, would lecture on what’s important, and what’s not and how money doesn’t buy happiness.  Sigh images-1.jpeg

SB

About Susannah Bianchi

I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves. My eBooks, A New York Diary, Model Behavior: Friends For Life and Notes From A Working Cat can be found on Amazon.com. Thanks.
This entry was posted in alcohol, Culture, Family, Fashion, humanity, money, New York City, Women and men and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

45 Responses to She Got The Chair

  1. skinnyuz2b says:

    Susannah, happiness and contentedness are entwined. Pookie and I have lived in a small trailer, a slum apartment, and worked our way up to a mini-mansion. We have always been happy.
    In addition to being content, we need to be able to see the beauty around us. That is something you do in spades, whether it’s appreciating nature, witnessing/giving acts of kindness, or being cognizant of your surroundings. Too many people go through life with blinders on.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Oh yes, and how accurately you’ve described me. I am so happy with the simplest surroundings. Just now i came from the park that is so flush. Irish Green, I call it, verdant from all the rain we’ve had. I never understand those who need so much then never even notice what it is they’ve acquired. Leaves me perennially scratching my head. Thanks, as always. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Sorryless says:

    Susannah,

    Firstly, thank you quite a lot for the mention. I’m surprised/honored/smiling that you would wrangle me in to your laboratory.

    Your style is so smooth. Whereas my “fuck you” is about as subtle as a dull hatchet, you can summon the sentiment so very sweetly. With better payoff. Imma take your two cents and raise you three more . . so we have a nickel in the pot. You can give it to the artist formerly known as Top Hat when he’s gallivanting drunkenly about. That way, he’ll only be a dollar eighty away from a Starbucks java.

    Like

  3. Sorryless says:

    Here’s one for the old Top Hat . . .

    Liked by 2 people

  4. You can’t buy happiness, they say. It’s the little things that make life special. And hey, the more you have, the more you have to worry about too. Love the story of the chair. I think also carrying it all that way made it even more special for you.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Dale says:

    How great Marc inspired you to write this post, Susannah.
    I think the things we schlep across town because we fell in love with them is the best thing. How can you not still love this item?
    I think it’s sad the couple didn’t make it. Because even if you were raised to be snooty and above others, there is always a chance you can become a better person. They fall into that whole cliché but what to do?
    Thank you for sharing your story.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I still see him. We don’t speak after one day, on the avenue, I’d say 4 years ago, he went off on me like a roman candle. Drunks do that. They fixate and get all nutty. I also find that many long term marriages just get ugly. Life’s short. I always feel if a union no longer serves then it’s prudent to put it to rest. My own parents were a prime example. If my mother had let my dad go rather than selfishly hanging on to me, abusing him terribly, I think he would have lived much longer, alcohol not having the last say. But alas, all sadly moot.

      As far as my chair goes. Her parts needed a little care…reweaving…and the wicker man asked me why did I want to fix such an old chair, and I said, WHO YOU CALLIN’ OLD…and that was the end of that…:)

      Liked by 1 person

  6. Agreed, and I am definitely happy!

    Liked by 1 person

  7. robprice59 says:

    I like your piece, I like your chair, but most of all I like your attitude.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.