Musical Chairs

Phoebe’s game turned out to be exactly as stupid as everyone had feared and exactly as necessary as she had promised.

She stood first, stretching both arms toward the ceiling as though she had just finished a Pilates class instead of several glasses of bourbon. She was petite, compact, and restless, dressed in tight black leggings and a fitted black athletic top with a built-in sports bra. Her jet-black hair had been cut into a stylish bob that framed her face, making her look considerably more put together than anyone had a right to look after midnight in a cabin in the woods. When she stretched, the hem of her shirt lifted just enough to reveal the swirl of colorful tattoos trailing along her torso. She caught Joey looking.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“You’re hot.”

“You’ve seen it before.”

Joey grinned. “Still worth looking at.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes and stretched again purely to annoy him.

Rachel stood beside her and looked as though she had wandered into the woods from a considerably more expensive part of the world. Her designer blue jeans fit perfectly, tucked neatly into expensive leather boots that reached almost to her knees. Her denim jacket was tailored rather than casual, the kind of jacket that cost more than the Honda Monica had once driven on her disastrous date. Her strawberry-red hair fell over her shoulders, and when she removed the jacket because the fire had made her warm, she revealed a simple, elegant top with just enough neckline to make it clear that Rachel had never needed much help getting attention. Even dressed for a night in the woods, she looked like a model who had been asked to pretend she was ordinary.

Chandler couldn’t take his eyes away. Ross was married to this beauty and was too gay to care. He’s wasn’t bold enough or dumb enough to say it, but he wanted to tell Rachel how sexy she looked, wanted to be in her comments section of her risqué video.

Monica looked ordinary by comparison, which was exactly how she preferred it. She wore an oversized hoodie that swallowed her figure and comfortable yoga pants, the kind of clothes designed specifically for the moment when a woman had decided that nobody’s opinion mattered anymore. Her brunette hair was twisted into a messy bun, and black-framed glasses sat over her brown eyes. She looked comfortable, practical, and faintly annoyed that Phoebe had turned a peaceful evening into a sporting event.

Ross had dressed for the possibility that someone might take his picture.

His slacks were tailored to a degree that seemed excessive for sitting beside a fire, and his button-down shirt was unbuttoned nearly halfway down his chest. He looked polished even in the woods, though the bourbon had softened some of the precision with which he normally carried himself. He kept glancing down at his clothes as though already calculating the cost of replacing them if Joey spilled beer.

Chandler looked like the opposite of Ross. Blonde hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, muscled forearms, plain white T-shirt and blue jeans. There was nothing remarkable about what he wore, which somehow made him look more confident than anyone else. He had the build of a man who worked with his hands and the expression of a man who had no idea why he had agreed to this.

Joey looked as though he had been designed by a committee whose only instruction was make him impossible to ignore. He was big, broad and bearded, wearing a backwards SnapBack like an angry teenage boy who had somehow grown into a very large adult. His shirt hung open, revealing a thick mat of chest hair, and his shorts were several inches shorter than any shorts worn by a man his size should have been. He looked ridiculous.

He was delighted.

Phoebe explained the rules.

Five chairs. Six people. Cheap beer from the cooler. Music playing from someone’s phone. Everybody had to drink while walking around the fire. When the music stopped, they had to find a chair. The person without a chair was eliminated.

“That’s it?” Chandler asked.

“That’s it.”

“Why do we need the beer?”

Phoebe looked offended. “Why do you think?”

Joey lifted his can. “To make us faster.”

“To make us stupider,” Monica said.

“Same thing.”

They started.

The music played, and six adults walked in a loose circle around the fire, drinking cheap beer and trying not to trip over the uneven ground. Nobody was graceful. Ross kept trying to maintain his dignity, which only made him look more ridiculous. Monica walked carefully, already anticipating the point where someone would bump into her. Chandler moved with the resignation of a man who had accepted that this was now his life. Rachel laughed every time she looked at Joey. Phoebe danced rather than walked.

When the music stopped, all six lunged.

There were only five chairs.

Joey reached one first, dropped into it, and nearly knocked it backward.

Ross got another.

Rachel got a third.

Monica and Chandler reached the fourth at exactly the same time.

They looked at each other. Chandler shrugged. Monica quickly sat.

He sat in his wife’s lap. She wrapped her arms around him.

“That’s cheating,” Phoebe said.

“It’s not cheating,” Monica said.

“You’re sharing.”

“Then we’re both eliminated.”

“No,” Joey said. “You’re married. You share everything.”

Monica looked at Chandler. “Unfortunately.”

Chandler smiled.

A chair was taken away. The music started again.

The game became progressively less like musical chairs and more like an excuse for six adults to behave badly.

The beer disappeared quickly. Their steps became less coordinated. Phoebe began deliberately smacking Ross’s butt as they walked. Joey retaliated by pretending to trip into her. Rachel flirted with Chandler purely because Ross was watching, and Chandler, after years of being the quiet one, surprised everyone by flirting back.

“Careful,” Monica called.

Chandler looked at her. “What?”

“You’re flirting with a newly single woman. I heard divorcées are wild in bed

He smiled. “I know.”

Ross watched Rachel laugh with Chandler and then, instead of becoming angry, laughed himself. It was strange. The jealousy that might have existed under other circumstances had been washed away by bourbon and stupidity. Rachel caught him watching and gave him a playful look.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I married you.”

She smiled. “Then you’ve seen it before.”

Ross laughed.

Phoebe looked around the circle.

“There,” she said. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“What?” Joey asked.

“You’re all having fun.”

“I’m always having fun.”

“No, you’re always making noise.”

“Same thing.”

The music stopped.

Everyone charged the chairs.

This time Rachel sat on the chair while Phoebe landed sideways across her lap.

Rachel shrieked. She played Phoebe’s butt like bongos.

Phoebe laughed.

Joey tried to squeeze onto the same chair and nearly crushed both of them.

“Get off!”

“There’s room!”

“There is absolutely not room!”

Chandler was laughing so hard he missed his own chair.

Monica grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him down beside her.

“Sit!”

“I am sitting!”

“No, you’re falling!”

“I’ve got it!”

“You don’t have it!”

He fell against her. She caught him with his face buried in her chest. For a second they stared at each other. Then they both started laughing.

The game continued.

Theee chairs.

Six people.

All chairs would have to be shared.

Nobody cared anymore.

They had stopped competing and started improvising. They sat on arms, laps, each other’s knees. They grabbed one another. They shoved one another away. Boobs were groped; asses were squeezed, dicks were yanked. Joey tried to occupy an entire chair by himself and was defeated by Phoebe, Monica and Rachel collectively. Ross’s carefully tailored shirt acquired a beer stain. Monica’s glasses slid down her nose. Chandler’s white T-shirt clung to his body with beer like he had just participated in a Wet T-Shirt Contest. Rachel’s expensive boots were covered in dirt, her top pulled down enough to reveal the color of her bra. Phoebe’s black shirt was splashed with foam. Joey somehow managed to get beer in his beard.

He considered this a victory.

“One chair.”

Everyone stared at her.

“There are six of us,” Monica said.

“I know. There can only be one champion.

“One chair?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t work.”

Phoebe smiled. “That’s why it’ll be fun.”

They circled the fire.

Six people.

One chair.

The music played. They drank. They danced. They laughed.

For those few minutes, nobody thought about divorce lawyers or hidden bank accounts or secrets that had been carried for years. Nobody thought about the nanny or Italy or the woman who got away. Nobody wondered whether a marriage could survive another year. Nobody wondered what happened when a person stopped loving the life they had built.

They were simply six drunk friends in the woods.

The music stopped.

They all went for the chair.

Joey reached it first.

Then Phoebe.

Then Chandler.

Then Monica.

Rachel threw herself onto the pile.

Ross followed.

For one glorious second, all six of them occupied the same chair.

Then the chair broke.

There was a sharp crack of wood, followed by a collective scream, and the entire group disappeared into a heap on the dirt.

Beer flew everywhere.

Joey landed on his back.

Phoebe landed on Joey.

Rachel landed against Monica.

Chandler rolled into Ross.

Someone’s shoe flew through the air.

The broken chair lay beneath them in pieces.

For half a second there was silence.

Then Joey started laughing.

It was enormous and uncontrollable.

Phoebe joined him.

Then Monica.

Then Chandler.

Rachel tried to sit up, looked at her ruined jeans and the beer covering her jacket, and lost whatever remained of her dignity.

Ross was laughing too.

Really laughing.

Not the polished laugh.

Not the social laugh.

Not the husband laugh.

The genuine one.

They lay in the dirt around the remains of the chair, six grown adults covered in cheap beer and leaves, laughing so hard that none of them could get back to their feet.

It was a stupid game.

An unbelievably stupid game.

And that was precisely why it worked.

For a few minutes, they did not have to be the people their lives had required them to become. Ross did not have to control anything. Rachel did not have to plan anything. Chandler did not have to make a decision. Monica did not have to organize anything. Joey did not have to manufacture chaos.

Phoebe had done it for all of them.

The fire burned.

The bourbon waited.

And the six of them laughed in the dirt like they were young again, before the marriages had become complicated, before the secrets had accumulated, before every choice carried consequences.

For one brief, drunken moment, the fork in the road disappeared.

There was only the fire.

Only the laughter.

Only the six of them.

And that was enough.