The Comfort of Ben
The chair next to the fireplace was an old one. It was so old that the upholstery was threadbare and bits of the stuffing were coming out of the cushion. This did not diminish the comfort that the chair provided. When Benjamin sat in the chair, he often produced a sigh that would express the deepest release of stress and replace it with relaxation and self-actualization almost immediately. The chair was so very old that it had grown to fit Benjamin in particular. Others may have found the chair abominable to sit in, but for Good Old Ben, the good old chair was just what was wanted at the end of the day, and when he reached retirement, the chair served as well as it ever had during both ends of the day and in the middle.
Lord knows how many Benjamins sat in that very chair on how many days throughout the years. For while it is easy to say that a piece of furniture or an inanimate object doesn’t change in any way that really matters, people are more complicated. Benjamin often thought how different he had become through time, so different, in fact, that if one could place all of the Benjamins that had ever sat in the chair in one room together, they would be a stadium of Bens, and that would include the teams on the field, the cheerleaders on the sidelines and the peanut sellers besides. The chair itself, however, would remain unchanged enough to have been always considered the same chair, no matter how much its owner had decided to change through his ages.
If the chair was ever so comfortable, that was in part due to the fire burning in the fireplace. It crackled and popped with all the good firewood it could hold through the cold months, and for Benjamin, they were all cold months now. The wood seemed to jump into the fireplace on its own accord for Good Old Ben could never recall how the fire kept itself going. It may be absurd to think of a cut piece of tree wandering into the fireplace to be a part of the comfortable fire, but for all Ben knew, maybe the wood knew its place, and it had every right to be as comfortable as he was in his chair by the pleasant fire.
Next to the chair was a small end table. It held Good Old Ben’s favorite book, a pitcher of water with a glass next to it and table lamp to give him light when he wanted it. That was the end of the table’s usefulness as far as Ben knew, but then Ben didn’t know very much. He thought it was quite possible that such a table would have a secret life at a time when Ben wasn’t around, but never mind that, the important part was that it was around when Ben was in the chair and it always faithfully held his book, water and light.
The book was light for it was no large tome, but it was well loved by Ben himself or since he had read the book through the years maybe it was himselfs. It was a dog-eared tome to be sure. It was so dog-eared that one could fill a kennel with all types of dogs if they were truly represented by the book itself. From floppy, long-eared basset hounds to tiny-eared chihuahuas to alert-eared Australian Shepherds with their great aural appendages standing up as if waiting for military inspection, the dog ears of the book were a veritable Westminster Dog Show of dog ears.
While the space itself looked comfortable, with its walnut and dark shadows dancing in the firelight. It was the epitome of comfort when Benjamin sat down. He fit the chair as well as the chair fit him, and there was just something correct in his presence in that particular space. Good Old Ben looked extremely out of place almost everywhere else he was to be seen, which weren’t as many places as you may have guessed but they were enough to show just how bent-over and slumped-shoulder Benjamin had become.
Worse than always looking uncomfortable wherever he was that wasn’t the chair was that he always looked as if he should be somewhere else. If he was in the kitchen, he looked like he should be in the hall. If he was in the hall, he looked like he should be in the bedroom. If he was in the bedroom, it looked like he should be in his closet – though why he should ever look like he should be in his closet no one could guess. It was such a small closet that there would be no way for Ben to be comfortable in it, but notwithstanding that fact or maybe because of it, he looked most uncomfortable in the bedroom. If he was in the bathroom, well, we shouldn’t look at a man or a woman in the bathroom unless it is part of our jobs or we have been strictly invited to do so, and only then if we are comfortable ourselves with the person whose being is in the bathroom.
Ben’s gait was akin to that of a thoroughbred on his way to the glue factory. There was some hint at the speed that he could have once attained, but he was never to see that age again. His hair, however, made up for it with its wind-swept appearance in spite of the fact that Ben himself hadn’t felt wind through his hair in several years. His eyes remained dull and hidden behind bushy eyebrows whenever he wandered through the house. You might have gazed upon them and thought Ben didn’t know exactly where he was, and you’d probably be right – for most of the time Ben didn’t know where he was. His memory seemed to return to him most often while he sat in his chair near the fireplace and the spark would return to his eyes.
So, Ben would sit there day after day, enjoying the fire, sipping water and thumbing through the dog-eared book on the table. Every once in a while, Ben would hear someone talking about how he had lost his faculties though Ben could never remember being the head of a college or university. In fact, Ben couldn’t imagine that he had ever had charge of any professors; for surely, if he had, he would have shooed them all away. Sometimes, he connected the saying to his brain at which point he would have objected to the idea of losing faculties because one cannot lose what one never had. Such was his dislike of the past that Ben thought, during his more lucid hours, if he had ever had a Professor of History Emeritus wandering around in his head, he would have taken him out, shot him and buried him in the yard with the dog. He wasn’t exactly sure which dog, but he thought it might have been one who had given its ears to the book.
At times, sitting in his chair, Ben knew he wasn’t right. That is, he wasn’t thinking politically or handedness, but about his own health, mental and otherwise. When he felt truly out of sorts, he would just thumb through his book and wonder how many dogs had given up their ears, so the reader could hear its messages. No one would notice these times, just as he rarely noticed other people at other times, they would just go about their business leaving him to his favorite pastime.
Ben never slept in his chair, so the day that the nurses found his eyes closed, they were surprised. They were even more surprised to find out that the fire had gone out in spite of the great log that had roared just moments before. The light was off, the book rested on the table, the water remained unpoured, and the end table prepared to go out and justify its means. The nurses gently moved Good Old Ben into the mortuary. Try as he might, the mortician just couldn’t get Benjamin to look comfortable in any casket. But never mind that dear reader, for Ben did not inhabit the casket any more than he had inhabited the hall, the kitchen, the bedroom, the closet or the bath. His spirit still inhabited the chair and the space near the fireplace that it sat by, and that’s where he is today, unless the chair has been moved away.
Lord knows how many Benjamins sat in that very chair on how many days throughout the years. For while it is easy to say that a piece of furniture or an inanimate object doesn’t change in any way that really matters, people are more complicated. Benjamin often thought how different he had become through time, so different, in fact, that if one could place all of the Benjamins that had ever sat in the chair in one room together, they would be a stadium of Bens, and that would include the teams on the field, the cheerleaders on the sidelines and the peanut sellers besides. The chair itself, however, would remain unchanged enough to have been always considered the same chair, no matter how much its owner had decided to change through his ages.
If the chair was ever so comfortable, that was in part due to the fire burning in the fireplace. It crackled and popped with all the good firewood it could hold through the cold months, and for Benjamin, they were all cold months now. The wood seemed to jump into the fireplace on its own accord for Good Old Ben could never recall how the fire kept itself going. It may be absurd to think of a cut piece of tree wandering into the fireplace to be a part of the comfortable fire, but for all Ben knew, maybe the wood knew its place, and it had every right to be as comfortable as he was in his chair by the pleasant fire.
Next to the chair was a small end table. It held Good Old Ben’s favorite book, a pitcher of water with a glass next to it and table lamp to give him light when he wanted it. That was the end of the table’s usefulness as far as Ben knew, but then Ben didn’t know very much. He thought it was quite possible that such a table would have a secret life at a time when Ben wasn’t around, but never mind that, the important part was that it was around when Ben was in the chair and it always faithfully held his book, water and light.
The book was light for it was no large tome, but it was well loved by Ben himself or since he had read the book through the years maybe it was himselfs. It was a dog-eared tome to be sure. It was so dog-eared that one could fill a kennel with all types of dogs if they were truly represented by the book itself. From floppy, long-eared basset hounds to tiny-eared chihuahuas to alert-eared Australian Shepherds with their great aural appendages standing up as if waiting for military inspection, the dog ears of the book were a veritable Westminster Dog Show of dog ears.
While the space itself looked comfortable, with its walnut and dark shadows dancing in the firelight. It was the epitome of comfort when Benjamin sat down. He fit the chair as well as the chair fit him, and there was just something correct in his presence in that particular space. Good Old Ben looked extremely out of place almost everywhere else he was to be seen, which weren’t as many places as you may have guessed but they were enough to show just how bent-over and slumped-shoulder Benjamin had become.
Worse than always looking uncomfortable wherever he was that wasn’t the chair was that he always looked as if he should be somewhere else. If he was in the kitchen, he looked like he should be in the hall. If he was in the hall, he looked like he should be in the bedroom. If he was in the bedroom, it looked like he should be in his closet – though why he should ever look like he should be in his closet no one could guess. It was such a small closet that there would be no way for Ben to be comfortable in it, but notwithstanding that fact or maybe because of it, he looked most uncomfortable in the bedroom. If he was in the bathroom, well, we shouldn’t look at a man or a woman in the bathroom unless it is part of our jobs or we have been strictly invited to do so, and only then if we are comfortable ourselves with the person whose being is in the bathroom.
Ben’s gait was akin to that of a thoroughbred on his way to the glue factory. There was some hint at the speed that he could have once attained, but he was never to see that age again. His hair, however, made up for it with its wind-swept appearance in spite of the fact that Ben himself hadn’t felt wind through his hair in several years. His eyes remained dull and hidden behind bushy eyebrows whenever he wandered through the house. You might have gazed upon them and thought Ben didn’t know exactly where he was, and you’d probably be right – for most of the time Ben didn’t know where he was. His memory seemed to return to him most often while he sat in his chair near the fireplace and the spark would return to his eyes.
So, Ben would sit there day after day, enjoying the fire, sipping water and thumbing through the dog-eared book on the table. Every once in a while, Ben would hear someone talking about how he had lost his faculties though Ben could never remember being the head of a college or university. In fact, Ben couldn’t imagine that he had ever had charge of any professors; for surely, if he had, he would have shooed them all away. Sometimes, he connected the saying to his brain at which point he would have objected to the idea of losing faculties because one cannot lose what one never had. Such was his dislike of the past that Ben thought, during his more lucid hours, if he had ever had a Professor of History Emeritus wandering around in his head, he would have taken him out, shot him and buried him in the yard with the dog. He wasn’t exactly sure which dog, but he thought it might have been one who had given its ears to the book.
At times, sitting in his chair, Ben knew he wasn’t right. That is, he wasn’t thinking politically or handedness, but about his own health, mental and otherwise. When he felt truly out of sorts, he would just thumb through his book and wonder how many dogs had given up their ears, so the reader could hear its messages. No one would notice these times, just as he rarely noticed other people at other times, they would just go about their business leaving him to his favorite pastime.
Ben never slept in his chair, so the day that the nurses found his eyes closed, they were surprised. They were even more surprised to find out that the fire had gone out in spite of the great log that had roared just moments before. The light was off, the book rested on the table, the water remained unpoured, and the end table prepared to go out and justify its means. The nurses gently moved Good Old Ben into the mortuary. Try as he might, the mortician just couldn’t get Benjamin to look comfortable in any casket. But never mind that dear reader, for Ben did not inhabit the casket any more than he had inhabited the hall, the kitchen, the bedroom, the closet or the bath. His spirit still inhabited the chair and the space near the fireplace that it sat by, and that’s where he is today, unless the chair has been moved away.
