The Gorko Gazette

Faux Chairs

For Billy Collins

‘Look!’ my wife said. ‘There’s people sitting in the chairs out front. I can’t believe anyone would do that!’

I looked out the living room window, and there were indeed two younger people sitting in the Adirondack chairs to the right of the front door, facing toward the street. It was a man and woman. They were both wearing windbreakers and shorts, and the man had black tights on under his shorts. A Yeti sat on the chair arm closest to us.

We watched them for a few minutes to see if they would leave, but they just sat there talking, the woman’s pony tail bobbing up and down with her head.

‘Get them out of there,’ my wife said, frowning, as she sometimes does.

‘Okay,’ I replied, as I usually do.

I went out the side door and walked to the front. The welcome flag by the front steps waved as I went by.

‘Good morning,’ I said, approaching them with some trepidation.

‘‘Morning,’ they said in unison, turning toward me and smiling.

Best to pull off the band-aid quickly. ‘Um, why are you sitting here?’

‘Just taking a break,’ said the woman. Then, after a beat, her eyes widened. ‘That’s why the chairs ’re here. Right?’

I pushed my hands into my pants pockets and turned toward the street. ‘Well, not really. They’re pretty far from the sidewalk.’

I thought I saw a momentary smirk on the man’s face. The woman tilted her head.

‘Actually, the chairs aren’t here for anyone to sit in,’ I continued. ‘They’re decorative.’

‘Decorative,’ the woman repeated, frowning. Two beats. ‘Okay. Got it. Sorry to bother you.’ She turned to her partner.

He was looking at the pink flamingos in our neighbor’s front flower bed. After a few moments he touched the woman’s sleeve and got up. ‘We’re leaving. Sorry for the inconvenience, chief,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should hang rope across the arms like in a museum, so people know you’re not supposed to use ‘em.’

‘Yeah. That would work,’ the woman said. ‘Have a good day.’

‘You too,’ I replied, smiling unconvincingly. ‘Thanks for understanding.’

My wife came out the front door after they left, and we both watched them walk away. The woman turned to the man just as my wife turned to me.

‘So strange,’ they both said.

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About the artist

Ken Long has been writing short stories for a number of years, but only recently decided to seek publication. His work has appeared in The Bookends Review and The Avon Review. He also writes poetry and is a photodigital artist whose work has been exhibited at a number of galleries.

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Image: Adirondacks (185312329).jpg