Still Life as a Movie Theatre Chair
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Still Life as a Movie Theatre Chair
I was installed sometime in late ’92, though I don’t know exactly which month, precisely. I only know that on my way from the flatbed to the theater, it got awfully nippy for a minute there.
I came from a factory in the Northwest, somewhere way out in the middle of Nowhere, Washington, the kind of place where the cows outnumber the people and a breeze is exciting. Humble beginnings breed humble theater seats, that one thing is for sure. And so it was and I am.
I was crafted, not-so-delicately, by a cold machine that had no mind for individuality and molded all of us into little cookie-cutter chairs. From the minute I left the warehouse, I was jealous of all the antiques out there that were lovingly trimmed by hand, had laquer applied with gentle brushstrokes, and were sanded with a deft touch.
This was never to be my fate, however, as I was destined to forever be just another face in the crowd.
After being disingenuously assembled by some guy with a “Chuck” nametag and who touched me in ways I still have not forgotten, my sexy, new red felt cover was stapled over my bare frame with no concern for how well it displayed my curves. I was bolted into a steel girder of sorts, alongside three other chairs, wrapped unaffectionately in plastic bubble wrap, and tossed carelessly into the back of a flatbed truck for the long journey to my first and final resting place.
The place ended up being a well-traveled AMC Theatre on Van Ness Avenue in the heart of San Francisco, California. My three companions and I replaced a row of golden oldies, whose velvety sheen had long lost its luster and whose joints now creaked and wobbled crassly, in a most undignified fashion.
Though I am a member of a group of four, I am clearly the standout amongst us. Out of the 140,367 people who have walked to our row and chosen it, 89,345 have picked me to sit in first. I have had little to do except keep track, so you can be sure this number is not a falsification. That’s almost a 64% success rate, probably far and away the best number out of any other chair in the theater or on this side of the country, perhaps, except the two seats that occupy the dead center of the theater (though it’s not like they really have to TRY to get people into their arms, those little hussies).
At any rate, I have seen just about every kind of posterior there is to see. I have been smothered in fat crammed into shapeless jeans, choked by even larger rears who are all but bursting out of their moomoos, easily upheld the lithe shapes of teenage girls, been pummeled by the tossing and turning of toddlers, and even, once, had the dignified duty of supporting Antonio Banderas while he went (by himself) to see one of his own movies, incognito, of course.
I have caught the tears during dramas, been tickled, myself, with people’s laughs during comedies, been gripped and strained during thrillers, and vibrated along with screams during horror movies. I have suffered through the indignity of being sprayed with saliva and semen a few times, when frisky teenagers decide the theater is not a place of repute, but a place to go and grope and fondle and perform fellatio on each other, even though I and all the other chairs and people in the audience know damn well what’s going from their grunts and giggles.
Yes, my dear friends, I have had to bare it all and have done so with an elegance and such an upright stance as should be admired and should prove exemplary for all other theatre chairs to come. To hell with Coke spills and popcorn butter! Down with smudges of Goobers and pepperings of lost Buncha Crunches!
I am the one, the only, Fabrizio Suarez Longo Chair #1132349078, and I have come to let you know that I am not going quietly!
Long live the Queen!
