The Official Mark

While at work today, I was informed that my boss was having a garage sale and usually I never paid much attention to these kinds of news but when Cindy, a co-worker, mentioned that my boss, who was retiring for good, was selling his eames chair and ottoman at a reasonable price. I just could not let the opportunity pass. So today, I sacrificed not seeing her so I can check out the said chair. I can hardly contain my excitement after work when a group of us from work rode all the way to the outskirts of town, all the way to our boss’ house. Well, we cannot really blame ourselves now since our boss, other than being known as a mean son of a bitch in the office was also known to be a man of good taste when it comes to all the fine things in life. When we got there, the place was already packed with other cheapskates and I hastily looked for our boss to haggle a price for the object that I have been eyeing without even checking it out first. He was shocked at first and was quite interested in knowing what my reasons were for buying his supposed-favorite chair without even bothering to check it first. I was quick to say that I always knew he was the type of man who took good care of his things and added that I presumed that the said chair was in mint condition knowing that he was the previous owner. He laughed heartily over the comment while I almost gagged. Anyway, now that I was able to convince him, he showed me the way to the his goods and settled on a price that was not exactly what I quoted but was good enough since his chair looked exactly like my her’s. I can barely remember my boss droning about the chair being made of Brazilian rosewood, original wood panels and etc. All I cared about was taking the chair back home so I can sit on it while I watched her from my window. This is it! I am officially signing the paper and admitting that I am a stalker by buying a similar chair that the object of my affection is using. And since we are on the topic, I might as well admit that I, too, (maybe) am a psycho.

The Morning After

It is the day after another wreck. I watch her stand there like an idiot; her hands on her hips, wondering what the hell happened. Moments like these, I grab my camera and take photos of her with that frown on her face. I know then, that my eames chair girl is back. She was sober again or shall I say logical, and was in her right mind. I have about forty-three snapshots of her looking exactly like how I am describing her now. I guess that goes to show how many times she got drunk when she was pressured by her agents or how many times she was reported to the authorities by our neighbors or how many times I lie awake at night worrying and hating myself for falling helplessly in love with a woman who was as unpredictable as the weather and as unreliable as the news anchor in Channel 8. Worst, falling in love with a woman who does not know I exist. She does not even know my name. Sure, she knows she has a neighbor. In fact, she is quite aware she has neighbors since she has been reported countless times to the authorities by the same neighbors who complained of too much racket at her house. She does not know a thing about me. She does not even know I watch her. I do not know what she will do if she will learn about my stalking rituals.

She is sitting on her chair now, her small hands are clasped on her lap as she sadly stared at the stab marks on her favorite chair. She looked closer to check the damage and to hopefully find a clue to the culprit’s weapon only to discover the charcoal smudges on the sides. She shook her head and slapped her face several times before stopping. I almost heard her sigh. She traced the stab marks with the tips of her fingers and lovingly enclosed the ripped black leather together before wiping the skin clean with a daisy-scented sanitizer. She is careful not to cause further damage to her already damaged chair. In times like these, I wish I was that chair. I care not for the torture the day or night before, what mattered was the love I will be getting the next day when she was my Salome again. I am certain, that the lows of her momentary insanity will be compensated by the highs of being taken cared of her clear-headed disposition.

Day 2

Today is a Saturday and although I am not working, Salome is. She has been seated on her favorite eames chair for hours while she gulped down cup after cup of coffee with the usual tint of brandy. I am quite sure she is drunk by now but she is still working anyway. Doodling on her sketchpad, likened to a raving lunatic who claimed to have discovered a little island in the Pacific which was discovered centuries ago by the settler’s ancestors. I do not like her when she is like this. When she is drunk, not just with alcohol but drunk with rows and rows of ideas in her head, she has her own world. It is almost like she is building a wall around her and this kind of state makes it difficult for me to appreciate watching her. Her crazed eyes and wild, unruly hair scare me as they reminded me of the African witch who my nanny used to tell me about when I was little. I watched her rip the pages of her sketchpad whenever she is done with a drawing but decide that it was not good enough after all, while repeatedly stabbing her trusty chair with her charcoal pencil. At a time like this, I like to close my shutters and waste the day watching useless, irritating shows on television because I cannot bear looking at her like that. Like a rag doll in a ditch, all messed up and dirty. It was not the eames chair girl I have envisioned to get used to. Now, she is standing up and walking around unsteadily with her man shirt on and a pair of underpants to match. John Lennon’s God is blaring in her stereo and again, after an hour or so of being drummed with continuous classic rock music, the neighbors will call the authorities and complain. What else is new? She does this when she wants to clear her head and start all over again with fresh, new ideas. Any minute now, she will light a cigarette, fill her lungs with smoke and then puff them all out to form and deform circular clouds of O’s in the air. Salome, Salome, Salome, what are you thinking about? I want to pick on your brain and demand for answers while I tie you down in that chair of yours; so just, for a few minutes, you can hold still and do away with your restlessness.

Salome

There she was again, sitting on her Eames chair. I have been watching her like a nutcase badly in need of a heavy dose of tranquilizer. A typical stalker you might say. She does not know I watch her, that I have been burning her back with an obsession almost similar to a teenager’s raging hormones. I watch and watch and watch, day in and day out. She is my daily doze of hysteria while eating my breakfast. I eat my buttered croissants with her on my mind. I know at 6:15 in the morning, my little sun-kissed tease was still sleeping. I have observed that she was never a morning person, in fact, she can be quite a grouch when forced to wake up at a time she considers ungodly which the rest of the world considers the common start of the day. I remember a certain man knocking on her door one time to sell something and I saw her chase him away with arms flailing everywhere. She is not crazy, she just prefers to keep her peace at this particular time of the day. What can I say, she likes to sleep late and wake up late.

I go to the trouble of coming home for lunch too so I can watch her sit on that damned chair with her aviator sunglasses on. Legs stationed on the patio pillars, bare lotus feet broadcasted to all onlookers in the street, wearing a white bustier and a pair of torn denim jeans, splattered with paint.

I even hurry home after work, panting along the way, so I can just catch a glimpse of her lounging again on her favorite chair while reading her favorite book for the week. Last week it was Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love In The Time of Cholera. I love it when she pauses from her reading, to frown and look up. I like to think that my stares have ruffled her and made her skin crawl because when she is interrupted like that, she stops and takes a peek at my unlit window. She will be squinting her eyes just to make sure if there really was no one up there; then her eyes will unknowingly meet mine for a minute and that is all I will need for the night. I can go to sleep peacefully like an undisturbed rock.

My eames girl goes by the name of Salome and no she is not a bum. She is an artist and works most of the time at the comfort of her home. A certain convenience that, I will assume, we are all envious about.