The Day that Bubba Died

I knew there was trouble on a Wednesday evening in early November. Creaking made me raise my eyes from my book.

“That doesn’t sound right,” I said to my husband as he settled into his recliner for an evening of relaxing.

“Yeah, I noticed that my chair is sticking a little bit,” he responded. “I’ll look at it tomorrow. It’s probably an easy fix.”

Watching him pick up the remote control, I felt a comment starting to form in the recesses of my brain. While my husband is often handy, I knew that furniture repair of a magnitude that involved multiple moving parts might be beyond his scope of expertise. The chair wobbled and he glanced my way as I frowned.

“It’ll be a quick, simple adjustment,” he assured me.

To my credit, I kept quiet.

The following day, I came home at lunch to find my husband huddled unhappily on one end of the sofa.

“My chair is broken,” he announced gravely. “It’s more than I can fix.”

“Well,” I said smoothly, “let’s have some lunch and then I think that we will need to go furniture shopping.”

My husband meekly nodded and rose from his spot. Both of us knew the importance of the moment.

For most couples, furniture purchases involve planning and thought about form and function for interior design and consideration for their budget. Fortunately, our household is light years beyond those ideas when it comes to my husband’s seating. Few things in our marriage are as central and important as my husband’s recliner.

“Wow,” my daughter said years ago when I brought home the La-Z Boy recliner.

“It’s for your father,” I proudly announced as I ran my hands over the oversized cushions

“It’s kinda big and bulky,” she said wrinkling her nose. “You might as well nickname it Bubba because it sort of looks like you gave up on decorating the hearth room.

“I didn’t give up decorating,” I responded indignantly. “A recliner is just essential to our marriage.”

She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes, but I knew the truth. Of all the furniture in our house, my husband’s recliner was destined to become an object of central importance. Out of reverence, the family did lovingly name the chair Bubba and considered its presence fundamental to domestic tranquility.

With the importance of this history in mind, we arrived at the local furniture store that afternoon knowing exactly what we needed. Everything was fine until we walked in the thinly stocked showroom and gulped. There were hardly any recliners ready to purchase.

“The pandemic has really affected our supply,” the sales lady told me. “I don’t think that I have larger chairs in stock that are the same brand that you currently have. It will take me twenty weeks to get inventory delivered.”

Fear started to grip my stomach. Getting a new recliner was paramount. We couldn’t leave the store without a Bubba replacement.

“Show me everything,” I commanded.

“I do have one,” she said, leading my husband towards a grouping of large chairs. “But I can’t really sell this recliner. It’s our showroom model.”

My husband sat down and leaned back in the heavy leather chair. He shut his eyes as he spoke. “Since we lost Bubba, this would be a wonderful way to ease that loss.”

I silently nodded and my eyes pleaded with the sales lady who now looked stricken. Behind her mask, her eyes grew misty.

“Let me go talk to my manager,” she said.

As she walked away, I suddenly realized that she thought that our Bubba was a real person. I started to go after her to explain, but then I glanced back at my husband. His eyes were shut in contentment. I was torn between honesty and marital comfort.

“Good news,” the sales lady said when she returned. “My manager said that you can have it.”

The recliner was delivered the next day. My husband has since spent many happy hours in his new chair over the holiday season. It may have been our best purchase of 2020.