The Lazy Boy:

Now a little over two years ago, at the end of my senior year of high school, I began my end-of-year project in my Humanities class. The Humanities Project is one of those things that more or less all students at Bedford High School are aware of throughout their high school career, and it was widely believed to be an opportunity for the Humanities elite to produce something personal, original, and impressive at the end of their high school careers. As my peers and I got closer to the deadline, however, we realized how insignificant the project actually was, and how our preconceived notions about the quality of the work were actually based on a few exceptions, rather than a larger whole. Nevertheless, each student, working alone or in a group, set out on a quest for Humanities immortality, producing a wide variety or writing, artwork, video, and music to be judged by the Humanities faculty.

The Humanities Project coincided with a difficult time in my life, where I searched for a number of things: direction, motivation, inspiration, education -- and happiness. Surprisingly, this amalgam of general despair was not conducive to creative brilliance (though genius is tortured, always), and my project was lagging along. I came up with several different incarnations of my idea, all fairly impossible to actually pull of, and was feeling desperate. In either a last-ditch effort or in a moment of inspired brilliance, I decided to channel my frustration with life into my project.

Earlier in the year, in the same Humanities class, we had been assigned college essays to write, in the hope that even if we didn't end up using them, we would be well-practiced before submitting the real thing. The topic of the essay was something along the lines of, "Write about one time in your life when you have immediately regretted your actions." Flawed and regretful but lacking any major sins, I pondered for a while before settling on a simple story that had serious repercussions. I wrote about a sophomore ski trip with my family, when on the last run of the first day I decided to hike up and take a jump one more time before heading in. As fate would have it, on that jump I crashed, splintering my collarbone and resigning myself to a winter of inactivity. I spent the remainder of the trip confined to the La-Z-Boy in the condo and the remainder of high school in a deep funk.

The decision to retake the jump really had serious consequences for me, and as time went on I began to view it as the catalyst for my downward spiral into depression and general malaise. However, it my writing wasn't good enough or my teacher couldn't sympathize, because he wrote back something like, "Sorry, but I fail to see how spending a weekend sitting in a La-Z-Boy counts as a major sacrifice." Needless to say, I was angered and offended -- as I was wont to do at the time -- and I developed a grudge against this teacher for the rest of the year.

Lucky for me, the teacher made the grudge easier, as he described my essay in a conference with my parents as that of a spoiled brat and once wrote on one of my papers, "Try using your brain next time, it'll feel better." This was all great fodder for a teenager whose only coping strategy at the time was to further withdraw into his own dissatisfaction, and I stewed through Humanities reliably all year.

So, as described earlier, when it came time to produce a masterpiece up to the standards of the Humanities faculty, I was less than inspired.

However, in a moment of clarity, I decided to make the last move of my high school career be a reply to the baiting of my teacher and a confident stand as I waved goodbye to the high school that I hated so much. I personified the Lazy Boy.

I wrote a lengthy personal essay about the Lazy Boy, my alter-ego, and the cause of my feeling of malaise for the past three years or so. Both a personal healing process and a triumphant response to my doubting teachers, The Lazy Boy was a step in the right direction towards inspiration, drive, and motivation as I prepared to step into a different world.

I rediscovered The Lazy Boy in a notebook of mine this year, and found it quite entertaining to read, both on the humor of the writing and the ludicrousness of my thoughts at the time. What follows is the majority of the text from The Lazy Boy, albeit without a section I have removed because of an embarrassing poverty of ideas in that passage. My text is split into sections, between which appear quotes from the La-Z-Boy corporation, as I wrote the essay to blur the lines between my subjects -- disgruntled teenager or symbol of sloth. Anyhow, enough with introductions; enjoy.

The Lazy Boy

The lazy boy was introduced to the world around 1920 or sometime in the mid – 80’s. Accounts differ on the specifics of its creation, but it may have been the innovation of two young entrepreneurs in search of a few bucks and a new way to relax, or the offspring of two 30-ish professionals starting out in the world. It’s hard to tell.
What we are sure of is that the lazy boy changes. That is quite the best description, for it sums up all of its practicality and function. In one sense, it moves from upright to reclining – affording a higher general level of comfort – but in other ways, it shifts shape and thought and transports itself to another ideological dimension entirely. Also, over the course of its existence, the lazy boy has changed as much as any other American icon, continually reshaping itself to fit the demands of the next generation while staying true to its natural-born soul. It moved from slat-backed hard recliners of the early days onto the plaid polyester practical tackiness of the middle years, and on to the cooler-hiding, back-massaging oases of today. The lazy boy adopted different parts of existence into its form, and continues to evolve into a further expression of borrowed individualism – and a fine young man, as well.
It is hard to define the authentic lazy boy experience. Over the years there have been copies and cheap adolescent imitations, all trying in vain to capture the pure elegance of vinyl comfort – that which only a true lazy boy can provide. Something about the lazy boy is magnetic. It is either the way it looks into your eyes with simple understanding or the way it welcomes everyone into its machine-upholstered arms. An overwhelming embrace of overstuffed cushioning and the scent of leather/vinyl/leather cologne (truthfully, the lazy boy doesn’t wear cologne).
The natural smell of a lazy boy is as identifiable as the feeling of being in the company of it. It suggests something softwarmandcomforting, but at the same time something exclusive. It is inviting enough to converse politely with a stranger, but has the latent darkness to snap and leave in a fit, headed for isolation. The lazy boy is enigmatic, ever-fluctuating (again, changing), over-rebellious, hasty, yet reserved, and entirely different than anything else.

The lazy boy first came to me midway through my sophomore year. We had never met, but he seemed interesting enough, and he needed a place to stay. I offered him lodging – I was at a point in my life where I was searching for some new friends and answers to old questions. Plus, I had the time.
He took to staying with me pretty quick. He was sincerely intrigued by what I was doing, and he hung around me like an orphaned puppy outside a butcher’s shop. I gave him all the best cuts of meat. He tore into whatever I gave him, eagerly devouring every minute of my time, and I was glad to give it to him. It was like feeding a monster; he had the insatiable need for time, and wouldn’t be pleasant without it. I really had no choice in the matter, I had to give it to him or risk losing him – which wasn’t something I was ready to do back then. I suppose it sounds a lot like keeping a pet, but the pet is moody, needy, and different than anything else you’ve ever encountered. I don’t intend to make it seem like the lazy boy was riding on my patience. After all, we were comrades (“partners in crime” is probably more accurate). So things continued. We were inseparable, and I traded my free time for whatever he had that I wanted.
I’m still not sure what made the lazy boy so appealing, but perhaps it was only that we shared the same interests – and a lust for rebellion. I mention rebellion only in passing at this point, but it factors often into our story. Around this time I had known the lazy boy for a week or three, but he was eager and welcoming and found ways to fill time better than anyone – or Ezra, at least. We were fast friends.
The lazy boy could make fun out of anything – or at least he possessed the quality to identify what wasn’t fun, and to avoid it at all costs. He never really put much thought behind it, but if it wasn’t fun, he wasn’t doing it. It was an effective way to live. I think you’ve really got to admire someone like the lazy boy – someone who doesn’t give a shit. I mean, there’s really something special about the person who refuses to compromise and doesn’t care that no one else will, either. There is something simply attractive about not giving a shit. It’s like, if you’re living life well without caring, imagine what you could do with a little effort. So I guess there’s always the mystique. Or at least the challenge.

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The start of my real rebellion was lazy boy inspired – I had been around him long enough that I started to think I didn’t give a shit, either. And I really didn’t. The lazy boy always had a way with words. Whenever I was told to find my voice, I think I borrowed a bit of his. It’s hard to avoid it, his influence was everywhere – I adopted his phraseology, his pace, and the attitude.
Soon after meeting the lazy boy, I was assigned to write a few thoughts on some book I had read – the details aren’t important (they never are). I wasn’t too fond of the book, but more than that, I was enraged about having to write about it. Anger is a funny thing – not in the comical sense, but the building, smoldering, overpowering, where the hell did that come from kind of funny.
So here I was in a particularly humorous state of rage, more mad to be mad than because I had to write. It was the perpetual motion sort of mad – the flames feed the fire. The lazy boy could tell the state I was in. I could tell he could, because he tried to give me a little inspiration. He probably was just as mad as I was, and he helped push me in the right direction. Needless to say, we did a good job at the writing, and I passed in the best in emotionally extreme teenage literary criticism. There is no better kind.
The writing was well received – it evoked an almost fearful response. How could one kid have so much hostility towards literature? I didn’t know where it came from, anyway, but the lazy boy and I had a good time doing it, so it was a writing style I familiarized myself with, and used widely over the rest of my career.
Being passionately enraged can be a lot of fun. This is one of the things I learned from the lazy boy – underneath all of his manifest apathy and fun-loving good-natured left-handed carelessness, he had it. By “it,” I’m not sure whether I mean passion or rage, but he had enough for a bad soap opera or a prison riot, depending on how it was interpreted. He believed in pursuing everything passionately, except for the things that weren’t fascinating enough to be passionate about. Pursuing wasn’t really in his nature, anyway.

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The lazy boy and I passed the spring in the usual way. It had been a long winter, culminating in the breaking of my collarbone (he was only partially involved) – which left me bored, isolated, and alone. It was pretty much in that shade that I lived my life from then on. I suppose the injury gave me even more time to spend with the lazy boy – as if he wasn’t constantly around already – and it was surprising that we didn’t get sick of each other all winter like that. I got sick of everything that winter.
I was cooped up inside, in a physical and mental hibernation, and the lazy boy was the only person who kept me company/sane. In retrospect, the winter was uneventful besides spending a lot of time wishing that it wasn’t winter and that I wasn’t wishing it wasn’t winter, but it was a big part of my life at the time. I remember the Winter of Discontent from somewhere. That was mine.
Although you might think the natural thing to do when stuck inside all winter is to buckle down and focus on one’s studies, I did anything but. Most of my time was spent staring either at the ceiling or out the window, depending on where my head was facing at the time. So school wasn’t exactly a big deal – I’m sure I did something at the time, but it’s probably inconsequential. Probably. It was just me and the lazy boy.
I realize I spoke of spring a few paragraphs ago, but I was sidetracked by winter. This is the way it happens, usually. The seasons. The way I get sidetracked is never usual at all. Sometimes I get an idea that must be pushed, that refuses to be ignored, that desires to be pursued to the point of exhaustion and completion, but other times all it takes is a spot of light with enough peculiarity to hold my attention for hours. I think the majority of my life – the main part, the main track – was spent sidetracked. Anyhow, I digress.
Spring was spring. There were birds and flowers and blue skies, and I sort of took the time to sort of notice all of them. I hate describing the seasons, because any recollection is forced and cliché. For all I know, that spring didn’t have birds and flowers but killer bees and 8-foot beavers that terrorized the populace with ray guns. I’m positive about the blue skies though. There were eight of them.
The spring was as boring as its description. I spent a lot of time running, and some more in the doctor’s office, but other than that, again, uneventful.
The lazy boy never came on the runs – it wasn’t his forte, as he said. Something about weak knees and exercise induced asthma. I wasn’t buying it. Either way, he never ran, so I saw him a little less. Some days he came and watched/distracted, usually on the days I didn’t feel like running. It was sheer coincidence, I’m sure. He came to the doctor’s office, though. In fact, he was the main topic of conversation. It’s fascinating how therapists focus on your friends.

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Life is refreshingly empty most of the time. It seems like a lot is happening while it’s “happening,” but then we look in the rearview and there’s a desolate road and a closed strip mall – not the exciting side of suburbia. Life passed on in this manner for me – with everything happening at once, only to be completely forgotten weeks later. I guess if it had mattered I would have remembered it. At least I hope so.

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The lazy boy and I burnt books that spring. It was definite Fahrenheit 451 territory, except that there was no loss of knowledge and well-being associated with it – nor any talking walls (again, as far as I can remember). The burning was such a release. It always is. The idea of taking everything you hate and watching its fiery destruction as if you are doing the destroying, burning with your eyes, focused intensity… is far more than therapeutic. It’s a freaking drug. I think the best thing we put in the fire was chemistry – we both hated it. I spent chemistry staring into space in silent conversation with the lazy boy. It passed the time. The chemistry books burned well, one page at a time, allowing us to watch every formula and unimportant piece of minutia dissolve into ash and heat. We purged ourselves of chemistry and school. I think that step is necessary before you can get on living again. Every week should have mandatory purging periods, where we can forget the things that keep us from being us, so we can at least live on the weekends. It’s like rehab. After the burning rehabilitation, not much changed. There were no relapses, but the mentality was still the same. Indescribable, that is.
In the summer I argued with my boss and generally wreaked havoc all over town. The arguing wasn’t really tangible, but it was silent protest, and the boss’s nagging made it obvious it was having an effect. Positive or negative couldn’t really be determined, but I often find myself in protest no matter what the consequences are.
I had a job at a day camp, giving kids dough and helping them turn it into all manners of confectionery delights – pizzas and pretzels, mostly. I was a natural. Pretty soon the routine got old (routines usually do), and the lazy boy got tired of making so much dough every day, so it was rationed. He was a natural. Unfortunately, our boss didn’t share the same love for efficiency and economy, and we drew a few complaints. The initial problem was the complaints, but the real show started when we didn’t do anything about them. Our boss couldn’t know the real story, but we sure did. So we kept on keeping on, and rationing the dough like settlers in a new world. Never compromise. That was our motto – one of many unofficial ones that never could really be applied beyond the situation at hand. We got through the job okay, but opted not to come back the next year. The environment was a little to hostile for our liking. Leaving wasn’t that hard – I’ve had an aversion to flour ever since.
The summer came and went. Interestingly, the periods of time we look forward to and enjoy the most are the ones we often have the toughest time describing. I spent the summer working and doing other things. Other things, I guess, is as vague as it gets, but it will suffice. The lazy boy was there too, but without much to avoid doing, he wasn’t all that active. Hell, all summer is is a time to be spent avoiding as much as possible. That’s why we go on vacation. To hide. It’s why summer is so useful. If we had it year round, we might be a lot less productive, but people would be much happier.
It might make me an optimist, but I believe that even the most reluctant worker starts working when there’s nothing else to do. It makes sense. The lazy boy – rather than work and confirm my theory – just went away for a while. Vacation from vacation. I guess I was too busy for him, which is funny, because it was summer, and no one’s ever busy. But I had more important things to do. Like be.

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I saw the lazy boy sparingly over the next year. He’d stop in inconveniently, just as I’d sat down to work, but other than that he wasn’t around much. He was still there to talk to – his voice is always in my head, but his influence on my life became less obvious. He still pops up with some frequency, a constant companion. He’s who I turn to when the going gets tough. As he always says, “When the going gets tough, sleep.”