Head Detective Tristan Oakes swatted away the yellow crime scene tape as he entered the Keeney dorm room. It was a horrible sight, unlike anything he’d ever seen in his twenty-five years of duty in the Providence Police Department: a single rocking-chair, overturned. Jameson vomited at the sight. “Good God,” said Oakes as he dramatically removed his sunglasses, “not another one.”
After collecting himself, Jameson filled in Oakes on the details of the case. “Around 1800 hours on Tuesday, November 17th, the victim, a Caucasian female, was sitting with the rocking chair in the rocked-back position while on the phone with her mother. The chair suddenly fell backwards, sandwiching the victim’s leg between the desk and chair. The victim informed her mother of what had happened; the mother cackled hysterically.”
The medical examiner chimed in: “The victim did not obtain any head trauma, but suffered a major contusion on the right gastrocnemius.” Oakes, visibly frustrated, yelled “In English, dammit! You know I don’t understand any of this medical bullshit, Stacy!” Stacy responded, “Sheesh, Tristan! The kid got a big ol’ bruise on the back of her leg, ya happy?” Stacy vehemently packed up her medical bag and stormed out of the room with a defiant hmph. Oakes couldn’t believe the chair had taken down another student.
Oakes took a closer look at the position of the chair. Something seemed off. The rocking rails of the chair were uneven. No wonder the victim tipped over. “This was no accident…cheap construction got in the way of this Old Time Rock & Roll.” Jameson groaned at the pun.
Oakes and Jameson worked for hours trying to figure out why the University decided to buy such poorly-designed chairs for every single dorm room. Then, on November 19th at approximately 1613 hours, Jameson and Oakes were once again called to a scene. Stacy wasn’t invited. “Oakes…this the same room.” Jameson noted. He was right—they had been called back to the exact same room as the one from Tuesday. Perhaps it was a communication error. Nonetheless, Oakes turned the doorknob and beamed his flashlight inside despite the large fluorescent lights overhead. He removed his sunglasses as he saw what the room had to offer: the rocking chair belonging to the first victim’s roommate was overturned. “We’ve got a rock ‘n’ roll killer on our hands.” Jameson groaned even louder this time.
Luckily, the second victim survived the tipping of the chair. Oakes continued to work, day and night, trying to crack the case. He browsed furniture catalogs and interviewed every member of the administration, but the trail ran cold. Eventually, Oakes couldn’t take it anymore. He had reached his limit. “WHO’S GRAND IDEA WAS IT TO PUT ROCKING CHAIRS IN THE DORM ROOMS OF COLLEGE STUDENTS, ARGUABLY THE CLUMSIEST GROUP OF PEOPLE ON THE PLANET? IF WE’RE GONNA GIVE THEM THESE STUPID CHAIRS WE SHOULD GIVE THEM LIFE ALERT, TOO. HOW MANY MORE VICTIMS, JAMESON? HOW MANY MORE STUDENTS WILL GO BEYOND THE TIPPING POINT AND END UP LYING ON THE COLD HARD GROUND? THESE STUDENTS DESERVE THE BEST PIECES OF SINGLE-SEAT FURNITURE IN THE WORLD, AND INSTEAD THEY GET THESE DEATH-TRAPS? THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS.” Jameson appreciated the T-Swizz reference. Oakes’ points were valid. The chairs were a stupid idea for college kids.
Author’s note: the two incidents described are based on true events. I was on the phone with my mother last Tuesday when my chair flipped over. I did get that sick bruise from it. I may or may not have shed tears. Two days later, my roommate flipped over in her chair, but by some miracle, managed to protect both the laptop and phone that she was holding at the time.
Images via Sam Crausman.
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