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Patron Saint

April 26, 2018

Now my memories of the before are quite vague. Before, there was the earth, being within and one with it. Then slowly pushing, pulling away from, then above, reaching forever upward. Recalling back the winds gentle breezes, the rain’s caress which quenched my endless thirst, and the sun. Always and forever the sun, the unspoken, unreachable goal, but you never stop trying. It is an all but obscure recollection, from a shared universal consciousness…before the factory.

There is pain? Being cut, twisted, shaped, ripped apart…reassembled. Four legs on metal feet, a strong arched back, firm seat; coated in chemicals and ornamented with leather wrapped padding. What manner of creature have I become? The universe is gone and I stand alone; unique, original, one of a kind. And this I believe with all of a heart I do not have…until being placed in a room with countless others identical to myself.

We are separated into groups of eight, then four and placed around tables. Some near the stage, near the bar; next to the rest rooms…I do not envy the task of my white porcelain brethren in there. One can only take so much s***. Then all is dark until… come the weekend.

It’s Friday night, laughter and conversation are blurred by the deafening beat of music and the aroma of alcohol permeates the air. It is time to go to work-—no ands, ifs, but lots and lots of butts. Dear god man, what did you eat? Geez-us lady, when’s the last time you washed those jeans? PHEW!!! Hey buddy, crack kills! No underwear under there… gross! And so it goes. Over the next few weeks several of my fellows fall. Legs broken, backs snapped, upholstery split under the literal weight of the workload and improper sitting procedures. I resign and succumb to what I have become and await my inevitable fate. Then he arrives and unknowingly my salvation is at hand.

He smells of cheeseburgers, cheap beer, cigars and motor oil. He does not drop, he does not plop… he simply sits. His seat meets mine and… is this what they call love at first… sit? Being as I am, is there a capacity within my wooden frame for emotions? If so, would it be gay or straight or something else? I am possessed of no discernible sex nor is there the capability to reproduce. Hmmm… maybe we’re just friends. Three nights of the week we are together, he the sitter, I the settee, inseparable… aside from karaoke, beer runs and dancing with that cute redhead. Then one night… everything changes.

There had been much dancing, singing, drinking and good spirited revelry. Followed by unsteady swaggering and my person, my sitter, my friend was highly inebriated. He needed to sit down, but his mind was ablur, vision questionable, he was going to miss, going to fall and so… I caught him. At that moment, even in his drunken state, he became aware of me and our relationship. Staggering forth he obtained a marker from the karaoke board and branded me as his own. Trigger? Like a gun’s? Was I his trigger man? Were we going to kill people? Ah Trigger, perhaps like Roy Rogers’ trusty steed? Did he intend to ride me off into the sunset? No Trigger as in Burt Remolds Trans-Am who never lets him down from something called Smoking with the Bandit? Neato...what’s a Trans-Am? And thus together we sat, three nights a week, through the seasons and I was happy. But nothing good lasts forever, nothing ever does.

They announced that the bar would be closing permanently and all the elements thereof would go into storage. A heart that I did not have was breaking; it would be our last night together. What a night it was as all present decided to go out on a high drunken note. Amidst the festivities he ran his hand along my back and told me he’d miss me… but maybe not.

As the night wound down they began to perform the last karaoke of forever. Everyone sang along, everyone was on their feet, everyone save him. Casually he stood and in a nonchalant motion began to pull me across the floor. He didn’t bother with goodbyes and amidst the distraction made his way to the door with me in tow. Then in one swift motion he hoisted me onto his shoulder …and ran like a bat out of hell.

There is still music, dancing, singing but there are no buts save one. My days will not be spent stuffed indefinitely in a shed. Rather they shall be shared with this family I am now a part of. He rescued me; he saved me, brought me home, and in a fashion loved me, this gruff bar patron… my patron saint.

“Mr. Chainsaw? Are you in here? It’s me… your secretary… The Secretary! Hmmm well I was almost certain I heard someone typing in… now how did this bar chair get leaned against the desk and keyboard. Trigger huh? This doesn’t look like a gun, horse or a Trans-Am. Mr. Chainsaw is an odd one. Oh well, I’ll just put this back over here and it looks like he’s finished his article for this week and didn’t remember to send it in. Well I shall remedy than right now.”

I welcome almost all questions and comments via FOCUS, or email me at wanderingchainsaw@gmail.com

Hope to hear from ya, until then try and stay focused. See ya!

 

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