The (Lack of) Adventures of Recliner Man

  

Carolyn J. Rose

He doesn't wield a hammer like Thor, could never draw a bow like Hawkeye, and can't transform like the Hulk. But Recliner Man, armed only with a universal remote control and often wearing nothing more than pajamas, can travel the globe, steep himself in current events, jump back to days of Noir, or click forward to views of the future.

When he's not channel surfing or reading, Recliner Man relies on a unique set of superpowers to discourage assaults on his Citadel of Comfort. Forget the ability to hear sounds miles away, Recliner Man has the ability to not hear sounds emanating from within a few feet of his eardrums. Coupled with that is the ability to not see dust, disorder, and/or discarded clothing.

Procrastination is also in his skill set, as is the ability to wipe out memories. No name, occasion, or appointment is too vital to remain embedded in his brain cells.

Although his IQ is high, Recliner Man's mind can be muddled by rearranging furniture, reordering contents of kitchen cabinets, or reshuffling items in the refrigerator. His focus will blur if the mustard jar is moved to a lower shelf. He'll peer and blink and grope, unable to grasp it. 

Change the order of knives, forks, and spoons in the drawer and he'll suffer temporary paralysis, hand poised above the cutlery tray, a plaintive whine escaping his lips.

And just as Superman's physical powers can be drained by exposure to kryptonite, Recliner Man can be weakened by household chores no matter how trivial. Flash a paper scribbled with penciled tasks such as taking out the trash, vacuuming, or sweeping the patio, and Recliner Man trembles. Feet dragging, he'll exercise every ounce of willpower to accomplish a job, but immediately slumps into a restorative recline.

Like some superheroes, Recliner Man has a dog with superpowers. Sprawl, a black and white mutt, can levitate from Recliner Man's lap and spin in a tight circle. The resulting tornado of hair disorients and disarms an approaching enemy.

​And Recliner Man's foes are legion. Anyone who knocks or rings the bell and expects him to rise and trudge to the door. The postal worker who delivers mail to a box a hundred feet away across wet grass that soaks his slippers. The trash collectors who require containers be rolled to the street in view of neighbors, thus requiring Recliner Man to shuck his pajamas and don clothing.

And then there's me, his wife, his prime nemesis, his archenemy. I drain his powers by writing lists, rearranging furniture, storing grocery items down a flight of stairs, and making appointments that require leaving the Citadel of Comfort. And should I find my strength waning, I summon my ultimate superpower: the ability to find Recliner Man amusing.