Flash Fiction: Ottoman Empire
By Sarp Sozdinler
I watched Backrooms and
walked out of the theater, somehow, inspired by not the whole premise of
infinity or yellow walls or the vast corporate nothingness but by the furniture
store in the film, which probably says something messed up about me, or about
my understanding of entertainment; other people watch a movie about infinite
rooms and probably go, Ah, yes, the horror of modern existence, the quiet
terror of our lives’ architecture without any real exit, the screaming
fluorescent maze of late capitalism, etc. I watched the movie and the first
thought that popped in my head was: I could sell ottomans for a living. I could
open a store called Ottoman Empire that only sells ottomans. Chairs, couches,
sectionals, dining tables, bed frames—no thank you, too much empire. I wanted a
small empire. A foot-level empire. A plush, square, morally neutral empire over
here in Mill City, where every customer who walked in would have to immediately
accept the simple fact of our brand mission or leave. My girlfriend said it
sounded classy but stupid. I did not take it as an insult. If anything, I
pictured our showroom stretching farther and farther into oblivion, like the
infinite backrooms in the film, aisle after aisle of ottomans in velvet,
leather, corduroy, fake cowhide, real cowhide for the freaks, retail ottomans,
cocktail ottomans, tufted ottomans, ottomans shaped like cubes, eggs,
mushrooms, little sleeping dogs. There would be one employee, me, wearing a
nametag that read sultan, sitting on the only chair on the premises, because
chairs would not be for sale. Customers would say, “Do you have anything
besides ottomans?” and I would say, “Look around.” They would say, “Can I sit
on this?” and I would say, “I don’t know, can you?” like any sultan worth his
salt would. The genius of the store would be that no one really needs an
ottoman, but everyone can be convinced they are only one ottoman away from
becoming the person in their dreams. I wanted that for people. I wanted to sell
them the promise of rest without offering any real rest. That’s commerce, baby.
That’s America for you. Halfway through explaining this to my girlfriend,
though, I realized my Ottoman Empire would almost certainly kill me. Rent would
kill me. Inventory would kill me. Turf wars in distribution would most likely
destroy me. Anything could go wrong. My margins, my insurance, my health. A
child might hide inside a storage ottoman and might be lost forever. His
parents might sue me to my bare bones. Maybe that was the real horror, after
all. The ultimate fever dream, the dreading void of an endless abyss, like in
the movie. I imagined myself closing up the store one night and seeing, past
the last row of ottomans, another row I didn’t remember ordering, then another,
and another, all stretching into a warm beige eternity. I’d walk toward them
with my little key ring, calling, “Hello?” like an idiot sultan. No one would
answer. Of course, no one would answer. The fluorescents would buzz. The
ottomans would loaf about like livestock. Somewhere very far away, a customer
would shout and ask if we sold loveseats. I would reply, “Absolutely not,” and
keep walking into a fully upholstered afterlife.
Sarp Sozdinler is a writer based between
Philadelphia and Amsterdam. His work has found places in Electric
Literature, Kenyon Review, Shenandoah, Wigleaf, HAD, Flash Frog, Pithead
Chapel, X-R-A-Y, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. His stories have been
selected or nominated for anthologies including the Pushcart Prize, Best Small
Fictions, and Best Microfiction. He edits the literary journal The Bulb
Region.