beyond the dogpark III . . . much less pavement

Having vowed to join Doug’s campaign to bring his chair back alive, I returned to my office to whiteboard a strategy (okay, my dry-erase markers had gone missing long ago, so I used a pad of paper). I drew a map, first of my floor, then of the building.

trust nothing on your floor

trust nothing on your city block

I studied my work products and tasked myself: “think Paul, think! Who would have a motive to take the chair?”

Was it the woman with the sweet corner office who wanted to have all the important meetings on her own turf? Was it the guy who recently moved offices and perhaps used Doug’s chair to move his PC monitor? Was it one of the smokers outside my office building’s front door who want to take a load off as they puff away? Was it the hot dog guy on the corner who wants to sit low while he serves meat from dirty boiling water? Was it one of the sketchy people in the office building behind mine – perhaps they wanted to study every angle of the engineering brilliance that defines Doug? Was it the cashier at Grumpy Pizza (who suspiciously recently started to wear a knee brace)?

My mind raced with the possibilities.

Then I had a recollection from my childhood. I recalled that I’d typically join my family in the early evening to watch the television. When my mom had her way, we’d tune into sit-coms: “all in the family” and “the jeffersons” were favorites - - but typically my father called the shots: “kojak,” “the streets of san Francisco,” and “ironsides” oriented my family’s pop-culture compass.

But I digress. . . the point of my childhood recollection is that it was a different Doug – one known to me from a much younger age – who was the first in my consciousness to steal a chair. At that moment I recalled how my brother – the original Doug – stole the chair that I had considered mine at family TV time.

Abandoning all local conspiracy theories, I focused on my brother. Had he moved recently to Nashville and I have visited him once at his new home. I distinctly recall that he had more chairs that I could ever recall him having before.

Wasting no time, I sped to Tennessee.

I burst into my brother’s house only to see him give me a wry smile and a knowing nod. “Yes Paul, we’ve been expecting you” he said with a wiry grin that was completely unfamiliar to me from any results we’ve had with our orthodontist. I hadn’t uttered a word when he continued, “The chair you seek – you will not find it here. But please stay for the night. BWAAA HAAA HAAA HAAA.”

Pretty typical stuff.

Brother Doug served some drinks: wine for some, and a large beer meant specifically for me.

Ah, a large Australian beer, how refreshing and delightful. And large! . . .and LARGE!

The next day – after the Beerzard of Oz vacated my head – we celebrated my niece’s sixth birthday. Her cake featured Barbie, as in “cake on the barbie.”