Thursday, September 24, 2009

The Hidden Recliner


The break room in the south wing of the library has one table with four chairs around it, one treadmill and one elliptical donated by the rec center, an old, pre-HD big screen tv that gives you a headache to watch, and two—I repeat TWO—lazyboy recliners. When I go into the break room each day I have from these options to pick where I will eat my lunch. If I am eating something messy—like a sweet onion chicken teriyaki Subway sandwich—I opt for the table. If I am eating a nice, sedate cheese sandwich and chips from home, I will settle into one of the lazyboys. Did I mention they rock? As in, back and forth?

I confess, I have never tried to each lunch on the treadmill or the elliptical, but I’ll let you know what happens if I do. It should be interesting. (AND counterproductive.)

The one recliner is positioned, naturally, in front of the tv. But the other one—the one I prefer—is tucked away in a corner, behind a shelf filled with books the library is getting rid of. Because of where it is in the room, and the nature of the chair—it kind of swallows you when you sit—a person sitting in that chair is virtually invisible to anyone walking into the break room. (I say virtually, because you can see a leg or detect a slight rocking motion if you are actually looking.) This is especially true if you are a smallish person, like me.

All of these circumstances have more than once added up to a unique and delightfully awkward situation. Let me illustrate. Yesterday, I enter the break room, and finding it empty, I slip into my favorite place: the “hidden” recliner. I eat my food, I rock back and forth a little bit, I read…etc. A few minutes before I leave, one of our tech guys comes in. I know he hasn’t seen me, because…I just know it. He’s over by the sink rinsing something out. Who knows what. He seems pretty intent. He’s concentrated and unselfconscious, the way a person is when he thinks—when he knows—he’s alone.

What am I to do? If I stay absolutely still, maybe he will leave and never know I was here. That’s a perfectly respectable option. But what if he starts humming or talking to himself (as we sometimes do when we “know” we are alone) and then sees me and feels dumb, and then I’ll feel dumb for being all secretive? There is no easy answer to this.

I decide to make my presence known in as natural a way as possible. I get up, trying to be as obvious as possible, crinkling my bag, walking normally, etc. I do everything short of yelling. “Hey! I’m here! Don’t be alarmed.” But so “alone” was this guy that only when I pass within the range of his peripheral vision, does he notice me.

I think he jumped like a foot.

I didn’t bother making any kind of explanation or apology. What would be the point? “Sorry you didn’t notice me and I scared the poop out of you?” No.

So you see. Eating in the Hidden Recliner is a risky proposition. I sometimes ask myself whether the benefit of eating privately and comfortably outweighs the social cost (i.e. the possibility of awkwardness). Maybe, maybe not. But awkwardness aside, it really is quite funny to see people’s reactions when they suddenly know they’re not alone.

3 comments:

Hansel said...

I'm totally laughing--and thinking, hum, that someday you're going to hear something icky from that hidden recliner (like a FART) or see something icky (like someone picking their nose or wedgie). Gross and sort of . . . well . . . insanely funny.

We all know what we do when we're alone.

Hum, must keep us updated! (it's mary, not slacker john)

Unknown said...

i would choose the hidden lazy-boy too! try the treadmill next time for a post-lunch way of saying "hey, i'm in here too!"

Amanda, Curtis, Ellis, Hugh, Rhys, Graham, Sylvia said...

The recliner needs an little sign you can slide in place that says "Occupied." Then you can really treat it liked a locked bathroom, complete with reading material.

Transition

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