A Local Struggle

A heavily loved chair sat at the top of the landfill. Everyone swore the pile grew larger by the minute. It could have been the result of that town gossip that ends up being a telephone-game of exaggeration. It was in their nature; every town needs a looming threat, but the fascination with the chair was simply peculiar.

It was a dull red, like that of autumn leaves, the tattered fabric revealing cheap wood and yellow cushioning, and it topped the pile like the cherry of a dirt-milkshake. As the pile rose, it remained above all, crooked but victorious. People began to suspect the workers would remove it in the dark of night, add filth to the pile, then return it to its rightful place, all as some kind of prank. “You see this throne, high above your homes? Even your trash is above you,” they imagined the workers saying. Verifying the chair’s location almost became a game to locals. Many awoke each day hoping that it would finally be put to rest.

One morning a vulture sat atop the crumbling throne, and that is when residents had enough. Fearing the ominous sight, the upset council members invaded the mayor’s home at dinner. He looked exhausted, having followed the events far too closely with the help of his well-connected wife.

Following a barrage of arguments, the mayor finally stood, nearly knocking over his plate of Coquilles Saint-Jacques and glass of Zinfandel. “I will hear no more of this rivalry. We’ll adjust the budget and haul our waste in-state. Put an end to it.”

The landfill was soon covered and buried, and no one complained when the condos and half-acre lawns were planted on top. At dusk, the sky glowed vermillion as the sun hid its face behind the hill.