Party Crashers

What in the world does a lawn chair on roller skates propelled across a cornfield by a fire extinguisher have to do with the art of fiction? The question arguably answers itself a little more than halfway through—I didn’t actually see the connection myself until “cornfield.” And so there it is, unfolded, on the move, asking to join. Why not invite it along?

It may not even be corn that’s been shorn down to the dirt—maybe it was wheat, or soy. The fact-checker might find out by asking the photographer, and if the photographer doesn’t know, the fact-checker might zoom in on the detritus left behind by the harvester and then connect with some agriculture department at a university, or an actual farmer, and ask them.

Come to think of it, looking closer, it isn’t entirely clear if the lawn chair is moving forward or, more likely, that the roller skates have failed to gain any purchase whatsoever on that dirt, so that the fire extinguisher, balanced somehow on the back of the chair by its handle, is simply expectorating fiercely, backward, the chair facing east on a spotless morning somewhere in the Midwest—judging by the angle of the shadow, the flatness of the field, and the fact that the light is more pale blue than reddish.

Whose skates are those, anyway? Four of them, mind you, the boots identical, which means they were either repurposed from some debasing circus-like performance involving a trained goat or dog (skates look to be about size 7 at most) or borrowed from the twins who live on the farm. Could be brothers, or sisters, or a brother and sister. Either way, this has all the marks of something Dad cooked up.

No, it was Mom. Definitely the mom.

Actually, it was the chair’s idea. That’s it, yes, the chair itself, who we know as Chair, who has had enough and wants out. Chair doesn’t even belong here—never has, and has been miserable ever since this epiphany—What am I doing here?—not unlike the crushing enlightenment, the horrible wakefulness, that comes with the loss of innocence. Chair doesn’t belong on a farm somewhere in the Midwest at all, surrounded by so much nothing. It has been living without, depleted, for years, and thus seeks to find its true home: an actual lawn, for Chrissake. A beach would be even better.

Could it be, though, that the chair has arrived? And that the fire extinguisher, rather than a tool for emergency, is going off in celebration? They’re outside, after all—what’s the harm? I can say from experience that setting off fire extinguishers outdoors is more than a little thrilling; at least, it seemed that way to us at the time, me and a pal, both of us fifteen or so, when we took a break during a miserable summer job at a construction site—we were doing demo at a torched Wendy’s—and, being teenagers, thought it would be fun to have a fire extinguisher battle, like jousting. And so off they went—ssshoooff—stuffing the clear day with whatever that substance is, like the hot fog on the Mekong in those scenes from Apocalypse Now, like a fog gone rogue. I can attest that setting off a fire extinguisher for fun produces a remarkable feeling of hooliganish freedom. Setting the chemical concerns aside, and ignoring the inevitable cleanup, cranking a fire extinguisher when you’re not supposed to defies some vague but deeply embedded protocol, like pulling a fire alarm when there’s no fire, and it makes a great noise, and can be mesmerizing if you happen to be outside and can watch this cocktail of pressurized junk bloom open, an ephemeral bit of natural performance art, depending on what the breeze is doing.

Could Chair have been impulsive enough to pull off this whole action by itself? Is Chair the only anthropomorphized object here? Perhaps Chair and Fire Extinguisher escaped together? Or, back to our original premise, are working together to escape the farm? This makes sense, and it wouldn’t be all that surprising to learn that the skates were in on it too. A plot to rival The Day the Crayons Quit.

We have a choice, then, of what kind of story to tell: a nail-biter where Chair and Fire Extinguisher convince the Skates (troublemakers, always game) to help them get off that farm—make a break for it, do or die—but don’t actually get very far. The farmer spots them (hard not to, should’ve waited for night) and scoops them up and tosses them back into the barn or garage or storage unit where they came from. End of story.

Or, more appropriate for this occasion, they’re just a little late to the party. Even better: They’ve crashed it. The odds of someone getting hurt have gone up, but we don’t get together often, so we might as well roll with it. Fire Extinguisher is schoooofffing as they pull up (he might be a little drunk already, though it’s hard to tell with him). And the Skates, well, they can get rowdy, but they don’t mean any harm. It’s really great to see them, actually. Delighted they’re all here. It’s time to crank this thing up.