The Tom Cruise Chair: A Memory for My Sister

The Tom Cruise Chair: A Memory for My Sister
Written: July 22, 2011
By Wendy Kincade

Estimated Read Time: 7 Minutes (1,100 Words)

In 1983, when the film “Risky Business” came out, my mom and my sister both fell in love with Tom Cruise AND with Guido the Killer Pimp. They couldn’t say enough great things about the two new guys in their lives. My sister would have been around 15 at the time, and my mom would have been, well, mom-age. I was 24 and already living on my own. I don’t recall ever being interested enough to watch the movie all the way through, so I really didn’t understand their obsession. But it was fun to be around them when they were together, repeating lines from the movie and giggling like schoolgirls.

Over the years, the relationship between my mother and my sister became progressively strained, and most of their conversations had an undercurrent of discomfort and distrust. In spite of this, anytime the subject of Tom Cruise and Risky Business came up, it was like 1983 all over again. Mom would start by describing her reaction to having first seen Tom dancing in his underwear; how she had been mesmerized by how cute he was, and how she predicted he would go far. My sister would share her most pleasant memories of Tom’s physique before moving the conversation on to what was their most delightful shared memory—that of having “discovered” Joe Pantoliano and his hysterically funny character, Guido the Killer Pimp. For me, being around during these times was absolutely magical.

During the last year of her life (Jan 2003 to Jan 2004), my mother resided and was cared for at the Hospice Unit of the VA Hospital in Long Beach, California. In the fall of that year, word went around the hospital that a film crew and Tom Cruise were coming to the hospital to film a movie. My mother was beside herself with excitement and so she kept sending me down the hall to see if I could learn when and where all of the activities would be happening. She even insisted on taking a wheelchair tour of the grounds, hoping to discover clues.

Her numerous attempts at sleuthing finally paid off and she learned that Tom and the film crew would be arriving Saturday in the middle of the night; they would be filming for several hours; all of the areas where they would be filming would be closed off to the public; and they would all be gone before sunrise. Needless to say, Mom was disappointed. But not too much—she still got a good night’s sleep.

When I arrived the next morning, the only evidence that Tom and his film crew had been there, was an empty parking lot and a bit of trash strewn around. Mom hadn’t heard or seen anything during the night, but she was up and dressed and eager to explore the parking lot in hopes of finding Tom Cruise memorabilia. It was Sunday. It was early. I was annoyed but indulgent.

I gently loaded her into the front passenger seat of the van, and we perused the parking lot, looking for treasures. Mom knew she was being silly, but she also enjoyed pretending that we were doing important work AND that we would be successful. She had me going through trash on the ground in hopes of finding a tossed out script or something equally cool. And she had me climb up the side of several dumpsters, looking for anything of significance. But there was really nothing to be found—the film crew had done a good job of clearing the area.

As we made our final turn through the parking lot, heading back to the Hospice Unit, Mom spotted a small gray folding chair sitting under a lamppost. “Look,” she said, “I’ll bet Tom Cruise sat on that chair. Please go get it for me.” I sighed and rolled my eyes. But who was I to argue with a dying woman? I got out and brought the chair back to the van. We took the chair to Mom’s hospital room and placed it where everyone could see it. From there on out, whenever someone new came in, she would proudly (tongue in cheek) introduce them to “The Tom Cruise Chair,” and explain how we had acquired it.

The chair stayed in her hospital room for the rest of her days. New hospital staff would occasionally try to remove it, but once she explained to them the chair’s connection to Tom Cruise, they (reluctantly) left it where it was. After she died, I brought the chair home with me along with all of the other worldly treasures she had had with her during her final year. My partner suggested we give the chair to Goodwill. I said “No.” At the time, I didn’t really know why the chair was important to me.

My partner and I moved three times over the next three years. Each time we moved, she would suggest that perhaps it was time to donate the chair. Each time, I would explain to her that it was “The Tom Cruise Chair” and that I planned to keep it forever. She would sigh and shake her head. Then she’d pick up the chair and put it in the truck. By this time, I knew exactly why I kept the chair.

Sometime after the last of the three moves, I wondered why I hadn’t seen the chair for awhile. I asked my partner if she knew where it was. She thought briefly then remembered that she had taken it for a place to sit at her former employer’s place of business. I was devastated. Could she get it back? She said “perhaps,” but without conviction. I knew then that I needed her to understand why this old gray folding chair—one that had only been in my mother’s life for a few months—could mean so much to me.

It wasn’t the chair, I explained. It was what I saw in my mind’s eye and the warmth I felt in my heart each time I looked at the chair—its presence triggered the special memories I had of those times when my mother and my sister were getting along, when they were laughing and truly enjoying each other’s company.

I no longer have The Tom Cruise Chair, but that’s okay. I still have the memory of it. But more importantly, I still have the memory of my sister and mother together, eyes lit up with delight, sharing their memories of Tom Cruise, Risky Business, and Guido the Killer Pimp, and re-experiencing the special bond they had between them.