Under the Seat Cushion

by Charles C. Cole

Daniel Azura, single and in his thirties, was intensely hungry for a treat. And equally effort-averse. His fridge and freezer were empty of all traditional comestibles but condiments, almond milk and ice. He craved, mostly, sweet chocolate, of any shape or kind.

Daniel was sitting in his well-worn recliner, an apt inheritance from his late, sedentary father. He sometimes slept in the chair, in supine luxury. He often watched television and ate dinner or snacks there. In fact, he remembered a couple of brightly colored hard-chocolate nibs that had recently escaped into the space around the seat cushion.

An idea came to him that should have felt more outrageous: Dust them off; they’re fine; they’re convenient.

Daniel groped. Nothing. He reached deeper. He turned his body and shoved his head into the void. He pulled himself forward and downward. The space was larger than he expected. The place was dark, the air thin. And cavernous. He could see the remains of daylight, looking back up around his hips, but nothing through the thin pleather upholstery. He dug with his elbows until all he could see was a black void. The inner world seemed to expand the farther he pulled himself along, illogically so.

Finally, Daniel stood on some hard surface. He stretched his arms over his head. There was no underside of a cushion, no obvious way out. He squatted and slid his palms about his feet. He could feel globs of dust sticking to the warm, moist spots between his fingers. At least that met expectations. And he found one of the chocolate nibs! He rubbed the dust off against his loose T-shirt. It smelled like basement-gym satisfaction.

Though he hesitated, Daniel ate the tempting debris. For now, it was worth journeying into this dank netherworld. Maybe there were other lost treasures, not just chocolate, but car keys, reading glasses and television remote controls. If only it came with a lighted walkway toward the nearest exit sign. Where was he, exactly?

“Hello?” he called out. “Anybody here?” Of course not. He got down on his hands and knees and brushed the bare firm “ground,” finding yet another nib. Still tasty. And things less enticing, like popcorn, French fries, fast food wrappers, pens, a couple of spoons, loose change, along with wrinkled TV Guides, Reader’s Digests and Farmers’ Almanacs — at least by the dimensions.

The chair had belonged to Daniel’s father for over twenty years. There could be all sorts of things down here, if he only took the time and patience to search. For example: in his father’s barn, under a heavy canvas, he had found a legendary white 1975 Toyota Celica — without a key. If only he could climb back out, to grab a flashlight, a metal detector and a push broom, and perform a thorough search through the gloom.

If up were out, the reverse of his impulsive exploration, then he might be stuck here forever, unable to reach the seat cushion somewhere overhead. But if directions, like the exaggerated sense of physical space, were not limited to standard earthly orientations, maybe there were floppy Naugahyde walls to cling to, to follow to a seam, to another surface...

But which was the surface? Maybe the trick was staying close to where he found the lost treats. Surely, they had fallen straight “down.” While not in a precise mound, the items found were indeed close to one another. And that meant something, some truth that could lead to other truths. Then Daniel stepped on a small metal item. He reached down and came up with a key! He was ready to leave. He could come again, but it was time to cut short the visit to Dark Land. Chair Land? The world beneath the seat cushion.

Daniel felt a belt brush against his face. One night he had finished dinner and removed his belt and immediately misplaced his belt. He tugged on the end, gently at first. It was hung on something, probably the hinge to the adjustable footrest. He traversed carefully, hand over hand. It wasn’t an excruciating climb as such, and he was definitely making progress.

There was light ahead, one that grew as he approached. It was the glow from the floor lamp his mother had bought him as a moving-in gift. The lamp went with the chair like the recovered car key went to the Celica. Then he was squeezing his shoulder around the edge of the seat cushion and pulling himself out the rest of the way: a rebirth.

And a slight wave of remorse for leaving most corners of the place unexplored and leaving most things where he’d found them. What else might be there? Everyone said his paranoid father, Ken, had hid his mother’s collection of solid-gold Krugerrands. No common place could be safe or secure enough for Ken’s fears. But Daniel would not be returning to the insides of the chair, of that he was pretty sure.

Daniel looked at the key in his dust-smeared hand. It was real! And the car was still in the barn, waiting to be tickled awake. Did all recliners come with a portal to another world? Was this a final gift from father to son? All things considered, after his return to normalcy, this had been a better than average, if weird, day. Sweet.