March 24, 2017I came home late and was taken aback by the chairs in the dark, they had all been moved and were facing each other away from the dining table. The street light always managed to penetrate through the blinds on the sliding door that lied between the living room and dining room.
I spat the papers I had in mouth and locked the door right before I turned the lights on. The ominous silhouettes summoned Schubert’s Piano Trio number 2 in E flat major. It was almost as if they were staring at each other, convening in the terrible tranquility, communicating. It was still.
The grandfather clock kept clocking and the traffic in the distance, faint.
And there they were…an order of invisible silent men, the council of quiet, all nine chairs.
How had this occurred? I wondered. Such a bizarre sight. The eerie reserved reticent eagerly begged me to run, to clamor, to stand like stone for fear, fear of what–one never knows when confronted by such a weird scene.
As I took a step towards them, the telephone rang loudly startling the pate out of me.
“Yes?”
“How many chairs?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How many? How many chairs?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m you.”
“This some kind of gag? It’s not funny.”
“No gag, bub.”
“How do you know about the chairs?”
“They represent the council of your psyche.”
“What in the world are you talking about?!”
“I set them up that way. Well, by “I”, I mean you.”
“Is this me?”
“Yes, this is you.”
“And I am… you?.”
“Yes.”
“What are we talking about here?”
“I am going to hang up now…after you give me a number.”
“What number?”
“The chairs…how many?”
“Nine, damn you, nine!”
“Good bye.”
“Hello?”
Dial tone
“Hello?!”
Dial tone…
∞
