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My Aunt Phyllis was a real intellectual. Very highbrow. She had extremely high standards, as well as impeccable taste.

All you had to do was ask her; she would have been happy to tell you.

She would often exhibit a condescending attitude, which contributed to the unfortunate fact that by the time she was in her eighties, she had alienated herself from our family. No one would visit her.

No one except me.

As insufferable as I found her to be, she was still my aunt, and I loved her anyway. And because I spent my life in retail, I had the patience that speaking to her regularly required.

I would visit with her in her studio apartment once a week. Usually, I would stay for about two hours. Occasionally, I would text my son Mike when I was about to ring the doorbell; we had an arrangement. He would call Phyllis exactly one hour later, just to give me respite. It was much needed and appreciated.

Although there were always tasks to be done, my workload was kept to a minimum because Phyllis was very concerned about my health, particularly my back issues.

I was in charge of her ‘returns’ department: she would often order ‘wonderful’ items she would find online, then inevitably be disappointed in them once they arrived. I would be asked to pack them up and carry them to the UPS store.

I informed her that the post office was cheaper, but Aunt Phyllis knew better. She always knew better.

On one visit, after staring blankly at her as she dissected the formation of Israel for me, she asked me what I thought of the Presidential rocking chair.

“What’s that?” I replied, trying to awaken from a trance-like state.

“The Presidential rocker! Oh Philip, just look it up!” she insisted, her tone revealing her total disdain for my stupidity.

I told you she was unlikable.

So off to her thick, first generation Apple laptop we went. I entered ‘Presidential rocking chair’ in the search bar.

Phyllis, watching over my shoulder, was livid.

“No!” she exclaimed. “I told you a million times! You have to type www dot first! Here, let me,” she said, nudging me off of her designer dining chair.

I was a retailer. I could handle it.

The chair cost $800 from a reputable dealer. By the time I left that day, said dealer had one less rocker in stock.

The day before my next visit, I received a phone call from Phyllis. The chair had arrived.

“Henry, the doorman, was nice enough to bring it up for me,” she said, sounding quite pleased. She then informed me that she had generously rewarded him with a $2 tip for his trouble. He then told her he would require a $10 fee to assemble it.

“Absurd,” she said. “But you’ll be able to put it together for me tomorrow, won’t you, dear?”

My dreams were finally coming true!

I made the mistake of asking if it came with tools.

“Oh, Philip. How would I know?!??”

And they say there’s no such thing as a dumb question.

So the next day, a typical mid-summer’s hot and humid scorcher, with a screwdriver and pliers in my pocket, I arrived for my visit.

My back had been acting up that morning, and I mentioned it to Phyllis.

“Oh. Here are the instructions, hon,” was her only reply, handing me a tissue-thin set of assembly directions, in tiny type.

And so my work began. On hands and knees, I studied the instructions, and assembled the chair one piece at a time, one screw at a time.

An allen wrench, which I did not have, was required, so screwing together each piece, awkwardly using only a pliers, was quite time consuming.

Coming from work, I was dressed in long pants and a button down shirt. Phyllis’ windows faced west, so the sunlight was streaming in, slowly baking me. She had her terrace door shut, and her inadequate, 15 year old air conditioner, set at 78°, was on power saver mode.

I was soon drenched in perspiration. My glasses were continually sliding down my nose, and drops of sweat were falling from my brow onto the instruction sheet. My eyes were streaming and my back was aching.

Phyllis, sitting on the edge of her daybed, was becoming impatient.

“Why are you taking so long?” she asked. “Are you having issues?”

I wanted to roll my eyes, but it would have taken too much effort.

After two hours, the President’s freaking rocker was finally fully assembled.

Phyllis sat it in it, emitting a pleasurable sigh.

“It’s wonderful,” she proclaimed. “Would you like a plate of ice cream?” she offered, as my reward. “I have vanilla in the freezer…”

Oh joy. Vanilla!

I declined her offer and finally left for home. I boarded an overly air conditioned ‘L’ train that made me feel as if I had died and gone to heaven. I found a seat, and was sleeping soundly after only one stop.

During the ensuing week, Aunt Phyllis reported some discomfort with her new chair, but nothing a few seat cushions couldn’t fix.

But I had been down this road before. In fact, I lived on that road.

When I arrived for my next visit, she handed me the return authorization she was nice enough to print an hour earlier. Then she handed me the allen wrench that was in the instruction packet that she had opened before I arrived the previous week (don’t ask).

I disassembled the heavy President’s rocker, put it back in its box, then carried it, in 15 foot intervals, to the UPS store.

Then I went back to my Aunt Phyllis.

She was pleased that I had returned. I sat opposite her; she was back in her antique wooden chair. She said I looked tired, then inquired about my back. She said that she worried about me.

She rose from her chair to get me a bowl of vanilla ice cream, which I gladly accepted.

Phyllis sat down again, and began a dissertation concerning a Russian Czar who had died 100 years earlier.

I tried my best not to say anything dumb, and to seem interested, but as my eyes gradually glazed over I began to look forward to my subway ride home.