The Barcelona Chair
by David Byron Queen
Sometimes I let my neighbor rob my house. I know. I know. I know how this might sound. It’s not something most people understand—I don’t expect them to. I know.
The next time it happens, I call the police. An officer arrives, pokes around the house. And he says, why did you call if not to report a crime.
And I say, no, a crime took place. I called so as not to not to report a crime.
And he says, what is this a riddle?
And I say, I’m doing what I have to do. Because that’s what Doug would like me to do. It’s all part of the job.
And he says, who is Doug.
And I say, and that’s the law, right? The officer does not confirm nor deny this. And anyway I don’t want to report it report it. I know where my stuff is. My stuff is down the street.
And he says, who is Doug.
And I say, oh he’s my neighbor. He’s the one who robbed me.
And he says, so you know the suspect.
And I say, he’s not a suspect.
And he says, what was stolen.
And I say, here’s everything that was stolen: an etched glass gravy boat, an old iPod, an Ulu knife set from our trip to Alaska, most of our dishware, the Barcelona chair, a bag full of computer cords, and a coffee table book called Wonders of the World.
And he says, my wife and I also have that coffee table book.
And I say, everyone has that coffee table book.
And he says, does Doug always steal the same items.
And I say, not always. Although he’s taken with that gravy boat. And I’m a little peeved about the Barcelona chair—that was a wedding gift and Nevaeh—
And he says, Nevaeh.
And I say, Nevaeh.
And he says, Nevaeh.
And I say, it’s ‘heaven’ spelled backwards.
And he says, no, I know it’s ‘heaven’ spelled backwards. Who is she?
And I say, my wife. She’s been asking for me to bring the Barcelona chair over to her house for months now.
And he says, you don’t live together.
And I say, no, she lives with Doug.
And he says, Doug the suspect.
And I say, he’s not a suspect.
And he says, I’m—
And I say, we have a modern arrangement.
And he says, that wasn’t a ques—
And I say, an experiment with polyamory. It didn’t take.
And he says, why didn’t it—
And I say, well, for starters I didn’t know I was involved. And besides, the Barcelona chair had a pink Post-it on it. The officer’s sigh suggests he is unclear as to what this indicates. And I say, it’s the system we’d devised: Orange means Go pink means No. And I say, I am all about helping people. Doug is a patient of mine. Was. Before I lost my counseling certification and had to go freelance. Doug revealed it to me one day, how he fantasized about stealing from our home. And I say, I had an idea. And I say, soon we arranged the initial break-in.
When the officer leaves my head’s all jumbled, skirting around. Why had Doug ignored the pink Post-it? Had he mistaken it for orange? He wouldn’t ever deliberately take an item marked off limits. I drink a few beers and go down the block to see him. He’d set out all the stolen items on a blanket in his front yard, and had affixed price tags to them. Several neighbors walk around, examine the items. The Barcelona chair is nowhere to be seen.
And I say, Doug, let’s talk.
And he says, I was gonna give you a cut.
And I say, it’s not about the money. Orange means Go pink means No.
Doug counts the money in his hand. And he says, it’s dark in your house. I must have thought pink was orange.
And I say, I am to blame for the colors’ similarity.
And he says, yes, yes, you are. And he says, next time could I spring for better lighting throughout the house—a floodlight, or some higher watt bulbs, so this won’t happen again.
And I say, I would take his suggestions into consideration. Therapy is a dialogue, after all. And I say, where is the Barcelona chair. And I add, I don’t care what happened, but Nevaeh is demanding it be returned home.
Doug picks his ear. And he says, you mean…?
And I say, yes, she wants it home. This home. Here.
And he says, yeah yeah, no, I sold it.
And I say, oh, Doug. We were making strides.
And he says, stealing’s stopped giving me joy. Now I need to sell ‘em too.
And I say, what an unexpected development in your healing.
And he says, I’m a sick sick man.
And I say, do you know who has it?
And he says, some man in a black Toyota pickup.
And I say, is there anything about the truck to distinguish it?
And he says, a sticker on the bumper.
And I say, what sticker.
And he says, a sticker that says they’d Rather Be Trout Fishing. And he says, I’ll give you most of the thirty I sold it for (he’d been taken for a ride, I made sure he knew).
And I say, keep it. As a major depressive with kleptomaniac impulses, he could benefit from the money more than I ever could. And I thank Doug, and walk back home.
The next day, I drive around. I look for the truck. How would someone who would rather be trout fishing think? Where would someone who would rather be trout fishing go? I try to enter the mind of someone who would rather be trout fishing. I go to every sporting goods and bait and tackle. I go to every access point, and drive up to the lake to see if I can find any vehicles that match the description—no luck. Days pass. Nevaeh calls about the Barcelona chair, asking I—then demanding I—return the Barcelona chair over to the house where she lives with Doug.
And I say, but Doug—! But the pink Post-it—! And maybe it’s me, but she doesn’t seem all that sympathetic.
And she says, I don’t give a shit about a Post-it. I want the Barcelona chair.
And I say, I’ll get you the Barcelona chair.
I drink a few beers and go online. On Craig’s List I find a similar Barcelona chair listed for sale outside of town. It is the exact type of Barcelona chair we’d had in our home. I call the number. I tell the seller not to sell the Barcelona chair to anyone else, and arrange to buy the Barcelona chair back in the Dairy Queen parking lot. I get in my car and drive. I am there within twenty minutes. When I pull into the parking lot I see a man parked and waiting, with a ripped and mangled “chair” sticking out of the back of a mini-van, strapped in with bungee cords. Not only is it not a Barcelona chair, it looks nothing like the photo. I roll past him, and leave.
On the drive back, Nevaeh calls. And she says, Barcelona chair!
I stop off at a gas station and find myself at the bar attached to it, seated in front of a KENO machine and a wide purple window that casts odd moving shadows on the walls, sort of lava-lamps the whole damn feel of the place. I play a few dollars, press the usual buttons. I drink a few beers and settle in and then a black pickup truck backs into a parking spot near the window. On the bumper a sticker reads I’d Rather Be Trout Fishing. Energy pulls through my limbs, buzzing the bones behind my ears. I finish my drink, and hurry outside. I wait in the parking lot until the truck pulls away. I follow the truck around town, keeping pace, until it leaves the main road. I follow it out along a dirt road running parallel with the river. It’s night. The water ripples with coins of gluey silver moonlight; and the outline of the pines pitch along the hillside, each a perfect black circumflex against the sky. The truck veers off the road and stops in front of a messy one-story ranch. I pull off to the side of the road, turn off my headlights. The lights come on in the house, and I leave my car and sneak over to the window. I peer inside. A TV summons warm flickering light across the living room, on a man lying on the couch and a woman sitting on the Barcelona chair.
I knock on the front door. Soon the man comes to it. He is sturdy, with muscular forearms and a gray mossy beard covering most of his neck.
And he says, whatever it is, don’t.
And I say, I want to buy the chair!
And he says, they aren’t selling any chair. And if I didn’t leave he was going to go and get his 336C and turn me into the kind of cheese with holes!
And I say, well that would depend on the variety!
And he says, the fuck out of here!
And I say, five hundred!
And he says, wait! And he leaves to converse with the woman in the Barcelona chair. He comes back. And he says, price went up!
And I say, what does he mean!
And he says, one thousand!
And I say, it isn’t fair!
And he says, final offer!
He closes the door. I wait for an hour before they go to bed. Then I squeeze in through a dog door on the side of the house and into the living room. The Barcelona chair sits there, same as all twelve years of my marriage, still smelling of Nevaeh’s perfume. I hoist it up and carry it into the yard. The house lights come on. I stumble forward with the Barcelona chair. I wrestle the Barcelona chair into the back of my car, and speed off as a gunshot crackles against the night.
I am down the road, near the river, when a blue and red light ignites behind me. I pull off to the side of the road. A police officer knocks on my window. I roll it down.
And he says, you again.
And I say, me again.
And he says, where you headed.
And I say, dropping off the chair to Nevaeh.
And he says, Nevaeh.
And I say, Nevaeh.
And he says, you know it got me thinking—isn’t the backwards of heaven hell?
And I say, but isn’t the backwards backwards of heaven also heaven?
And he says, your taillight’s shot out.
And I say, huh.
And he says for me to be careful getting home and to be more aware, to try and better notice things like my being shot at.
I start up the car and drive a ways down the road before it gives up on me. The gas. I get out. The woods are quiet, except for the river beneath the guardrail. I pull the Barcelona chair out of my car and walk with it humped over my back along the side of the road. I walk all three miles with the Barcelona chair. I arrive at her house, but Nevaeh and Doug have left for work. I set the Barcelona chair on her front porch and sit in it. Hours pass. The sun slides up into the sky. I sink and sink deeper into the Barcelona chair.
And I say, Nevaeh.
And I say, Nevaeh.
And I say, Nevaeh.
And I say, Nevaeh.
David Byron Queen grew up in Ohio. His work has appeared in Vol. 1 Brooklyn, VICE, Hobart, McSweeney's, Split Lip Magazine, and elsewhere. He has an MFA in Fiction from the University of Montana, where he was a Truman Capote Fellow. Currently he lives in New York and runs the indie publishing company 'word west.' Find him on Twitter @byron_queen