My Chair

I was sitting in my favorite chair, just minding my own business, staring out the window at a sparrow pecking at the gravel in the parking lot when I felt a movement behind me. I turned, took one look, and my adrenaline started racing. It was Darren, one of the meanest of the orderlies.
      He reached out a fat, grubby hand and said, "Okay, Calvin. Get out. We need your chair."
      Next to Darren, Skinny Pete, who was nicer (a little), added, "It's for a meeting." He poked me on the shoulder. "You should be there."
      Okay. Two things.
      Number one. Darren called me 'Calvin,' which was a big no-no in my book. Here at the hospital, we patients (what the staff calls us, not inmates as we refer to ourselves) didn't have much, but we had our names. Sure, mine was 'Calvin,' but everyone knew I liked to be called 'Cal.' All the orderlies knew that, too. Even big, fat Darren. He was just being a jerk. The guy was a major league pain in the ass as far as I was concerned.
      And, number two, Skinny Pete poked me. Not good. I don't like to be touched. They knew that. I'm sure it was on my intake papers somewhere, and Skinny Pete had had three months to figure it out, the length of time I'd been housed at St. Pat's in the psych ward. I was being what they call "evaluated." My temper, usually controlled with my meds, had gotten the best of me when a couple of jerks hassled my girlfriend Romona. I made them both pay, one with my knife, the other with my fists. Word is that neither of them is one hundred percent recovered. Good. I should feel bad, but I didn't then, and don't now. They had it coming to them as far as I was concerned.
      Anyway, Darren and Skinny Pete wanted my chair. No way, José. My chair was my lifeline. It's made of white tubular steel, and some kind of green mesh fabric for the seat and the back, which is very comfortable, especially on my bony butt.
      I love my chair. It's where I go to look out the window into the world away from this loony bin and escape, like earlier when I was watching the birds before being so rudely interrupted by those two inconsiderate orderlies.
      My chair is where I sometimes pretend I'm in a park talking to Romona, who, for some reason, they won't let me see.
      It's where I gaze into the caverns of my mind and make up poems (like those caverns), and stories. I'm even planning a novel based on my stay here.
      It's where I can pretend that the window I look out of doesn't have bars and opens up and I can smell fresh air instead of the stale crap in this nuthouse that I'm forced to breathe.
      It's where I can let my imagination run free.
      To be blunt, my chair is my world and my life, so no, Darren and Skinny Pete won't be taking it from me.
      I feel my anger rising, my blood boiling, and my rage beginning to overwhelm me, just like when those two guys were hassling Romona. Time to act. I wasn't going to give up my chair. No way, no how.
      But as I was getting to my feet to show Darren and Skinny Pete I met business, I felt the needle. I should have known. Darren must have nailed me with it. Damn. A sedative. I knew it right away; felt the coolness enter my bloodstream. Felt myself slipping away into unconsciousness. Oblivion. My last thought was of my chair, my lovely green chair. "I need that baby," I mumbled. "Please don't take it. It's all I've got."
      I heard Darren and Skinny Pete laughing.
      "Too bad, Calvin," Darren said.
      "No way, Jose'," Skinny Peter added
      And then I was gone.