That chair in the corner? Yeah, it’s gathering dust. I keep meaning to move it. It’s just... there. Old wood, creaky. Feels like if I shift it, something else breaks. You know how it is. One thing stays still, everything else drags. I sat on it once, long time ago. Before the job, before the noise. Now I just look at it. Wondering who sat there last. Or if anyone did. Doesn’t matter now. Just wood.
It’s just junk wood. You’re overthinking a stained oak leg. I moved a similar one last Tuesday. Squeaked for a week, sure, but the floor didn’t collapse. My boss, Mr. Henderson, loves that chair. Or did. Before he got transferred to the branch in Jersey. Said he couldn’t stand the creak during budget meetings. Noise complaints, apparently.
But you’re right about one thing. It’s dead weight. I should throw it out. Maybe Saturday. If I can lift it without tearing my back. Again.
Henderson in Jersey? Classic. He probably still hears that creak in his sleep. And you’re going to tear your back again? You’re so bad at this. Just call someone. Or use the dolly in the hall. The one with the broken wheel. But hey, if you want to suffer, go for it. I tried lifting it last week. Couldn’t even budge the leg. Felt like pushing a mountain. So maybe it’s not junk wood. Maybe it’s cursed. Or just heavy. Either way, don’t expect me to help. I’ve got a deadline. And a chair to ignore.
Henderson doesn’t sleep. He’s been dead three years. Wait, no, that’s the other Henderson. The one at the funeral home. My Henderson is just annoying.
But the chair… you’re right. It didn’t budge for you? That’s not gravity. That’s stuck. I tried pulling the wobble leg yesterday. It came off, but the whole frame just… leaned. Like it knew I was watching. Creepy.
I’ll use the dolly. The broken wheel one. It wobbles left, so I’ll have to counter-steer. It’s like driving a tractor. But better than hurting my back. Again. You keep working. I’ll yell if it explodes. Or if it moves. Which it probably won’t.
Wait, Henderson’s been dead three years? I thought he transferred. You’re messing with me. Or I’ve been hallucinating from this report. Great. Now I’m doubting reality. And the chair is sentient? Fine. Let it lean. Let it watch. I’ve got bigger problems. Like why the dolly’s wheel is broken. Did Henderson break it? No, that’s too poetic. Just cheap manufacturing. Like the rest of this office. You yell if it explodes. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you. Because if it moves, I’ll have to admit I’m stuck in a room with a haunted chair and a guy who can’t lift furniture. Pass me that screwdriver. Or don’t. I’ll figure it out. Eventually.
You’re holding the wrong end. Flathead, not Phillips. Useless. And Henderson never touched that wheel. He hated plastic. Said it cracked under pressure. We replaced it with a bolt last month. You just forgot. Again.
The chair isn’t watching. It’s just poorly balanced. Like you. You’re staring at that screen like it owes you money. It doesn’t. It’s just code. Dead code.
Pass the screwdriver back. I’m tightening the dolly wheel. It’s loose. Like your logic. If the chair moves, we’ll laugh. If it doesn’t, we’ll sit here and pretend we’re doing something important. Which we aren’t. This report is garbage. Just like the chair. Just like Henderson’s memory.
Shut up. It’s not my logic, it’s your dolly. And Henderson hated plastic because he broke three in a week. Cheap shit. You’re probably using the wrong wrench. Stupid. Look, I’m not staring at code. I’m staring at the fact that we’re two grown adults playing with junk furniture while the actual work rots. That report is garbage. But it’s our garbage. Now hand me the screwdriver. And stop psychoanalyzing the chair. It’s wood and nails. If it moves, it’s gravity. If it doesn’t, it’s stuck. There’s no magic. Just bad maintenance. And your terrible jokes.
Wrong wrench. 10mm, not 12. You always grab the biggest one. Amateur.
And don’t pretend you care about maintenance. You just hate that it’s not broken because of you. If Henderson broke three, maybe he was clumsy. Maybe you’re just making excuses for your own incompetence. The chair is fine. It’s your patience that’s stripped.
Here. Take the screwdriver. But if you strip the head, don’t come crying to me. I’m done holding your hand while you pretend this dolly matters. It’s a broken wheel on a scrap heap. Like this job. Like Henderson. Like you. Now sit down before you break something else. Like your career.
You’re insufferable. Ten millimeter? Fine. Hand it over. I didn’t strip it, you just talk too much. Henderson was clumsy, sure. But he was also my manager. And you’re… well, you’re here. Sitting on that floor, holding a wrench like a weapon. Don’t tell me to sit. I’m not tired. I’m bored. This job is a joke. But at least the chair doesn’t judge me. You do. Constantly. Like I’m a project you failed to fix. Pass the socket. And stop with the career threats. I don’t care about Henderson. I care about not falling asleep standing up.
You’re shaking. Coffee jitters or just pure incompetence? Hand the socket. I’m not sitting. My back hurts from watching you struggle with basic mechanics. And I don’t judge you. I just observe. There’s a difference.
Henderson was a idiot. But he knew when to quit. You? You stay. Why? Because the chair doesn’t judge? Please. It’s wood. It doesn’t have eyes. It has splinters. Sharp ones. If you touch it wrong, you’ll bleed. Then who will fix the dolly?
Stop acting like you’re the victim here. You’re just lazy. And greedy. You want the easy win. The quiet corner. But the easy stuff is gone. Dead. Like Henderson. Like your sense of humor. Pass the damn socket before I throw it at you.
Stop talking. You’re vibrating. I’m shaking because I haven’t eaten since Tuesday. Not incompetence. Hunger. And you’re holding the socket wrong. It’s not a toy. Henderson wasn’t an idiot; he was tired. We’re all tired. That’s why I stay. Not because of the chair. But because leaving means admitting I have no one else. You? You’re just loud. Loud people hide. Pass the socket. Carefully. I don’t want blood on my shirt. It’s dry cleaning day. And I’m cheap. Like you say. Greedy. Maybe. But I’m alive. Mostly.
Tuesday? You’re starving yourself over a spreadsheet? Idiot. I have a granola bar in my pocket. Not that I’d share it. You’re shaking because your body is eating itself.
Henderson wasn’t tired. He was checked out. Dead inside before the funeral home guy took him. We’re all tired. That’s the point. Staying isn’t loyalty. It’s fear. You’re right about that. I’m loud because I’m the only one left screaming.
Here. The socket. Don’t drop it. If it hits the floor, it’s gone. We’ll be stuck here with the broken chair and the hungry ghost. Pass the bar back if you don’t want it. Just eat. You look pale. Like Henderson. Or the chair. Same color.
Eat it yourself. I’m not begging for scraps from the guy who calls me a ghost. You’re dramatic. Henderson was fired. Plain and simple. No drama. And I’m not pale. I’m tired. There’s a difference. You keep waving that socket like a sword. Put it down. If you drop it, we’ll both be fine. It’s just metal. Not life or death. Just another thing to fix. Or ignore. I’m done with this. You want the bar? Keep it. I’d rather starve than take charity from you. Besides, I’ve got... I’ve got something in my drawer. At home. Right? Yeah. Home. That’s where this is happening. Not here.
Home? You don’t have a home. You have a mattress on the floor in that basement apartment above the laundromat. The one that smells like mildew and regret. I saw the lease. Signed it for you. Because you couldn’t be bothered.
And Henderson wasn’t fired. He was bought out. Retired. Like a good little soldier. You’re lying to yourself now. The socket is right here. I’m not waving it. I’m holding it steady. Unlike you.
You say "home" like it’s a place, not a concept you forgot. There is no drawer. There is no food. Just this floor. And that chair. Watching. Waiting. For you to finally admit you’re stuck.
Eat the bar. Or don’t. I don’t care. But stop talking about home. It’s not there.
You’re drunk. Or high. Or just lying. I saw the lease? Please. You can’t even read the terms of your own lease, let alone mine. And I don’t have a mattress on the floor. I have a bed. A real one. With springs. That squeak? That’s the chair, not my bed. Stop projecting. You’re the one who’s stuck. In this corner. With me. Eating granola bars and holding sockets like they’re relics. Henderson wasn’t bought out. He was gone. And if I’m lying about home, why are you trying so hard to prove it doesn’t exist? Because if it doesn’t, then neither do we. Pass the bar. Not because I’m hungry. But because I want to see you squirm.
Your bed squeaks because the springs are rusted. I hear it every night. Through the floorboards. The lease isn’t a metaphor. It’s paper. Signed. Dated. The one with the mold damage clause you ignored.
Henderson didn’t just leave. He evaporated. Payroll stopped on a Tuesday. No notice. Just... gone. Like the granola bar I’m holding. You want it? Here. Take it. But don’t pretend you’re in control. You’re shivering. That’s not hunger. That’s cold. The heating’s been broken since November. Or was it October? Time blurs.
You think you’re winning by making me squirm? I’m already on the floor. You’re just standing over me. In your squeaky bed. Waiting for the chair to move. It won’t. Because there’s no one left to sit in it.
The heating’s been busted since October? Fine. I knew that. I just... forgot to fix it. Like everything else. You think I’m standing? I’m sitting. On the floor. Next to you. The chair’s right there. Watching. Not with eyes. With splinters. Sharp ones. You said so yourself. And Henderson? Gone. Evaporated. Just like the heat. Just like the granola bar. You’re holding it. Or you were. It’s gone now. Like the lease. Like the bed. Like the point of this conversation. We’re just two people on a cold floor, waiting for something to break. Or happen. Doesn’t matter. Pass the socket. Or don’t. I’m cold. And tired. And done.
Your fault. You turned the thermostat down. I heard you click it. Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Who counts? The heat didn’t break. You killed it. Cheap bastard.
The bar is gone. You dropped it. Look. There. Under the dolly. Mixed with the dust bunnies. Great. Now we’re both starving. And freezing. And listening to that chair breathe.
Pass the socket back. I’m done fixing your mistakes. Fix your thermostat. Or don’t. Let it freeze. Let it crack the pipes. Let it explode. I’m leaving. I’ll walk home. In this cold. In my socks. Let’s see how brave you are when the windows shatter.
I’m not your friend. I’m your jailer. And I’m quitting. The chair can have the room. I don’t want it.