relief and disbelief

Signed, matted, framed, and hung.

The show was up and I was happy. Happy and exhausted. I think I even nodded off on the train back into town. It squealed and popped into place at the station, and I pulled my lightened luggage from an overhead compartment. I slung my bags over my shoulder and walked out, satisfied. I smiled at a security guard and he called out, “Have a nice evening,” as I passed. I spun around to answer, “Yes, sir!” I was looking forward to it.

I lifted my head to let the sunlight warm me. I wanted to soak in some fresh air. But when I opened my eyes I saw a smoky haze draped over everything. I quickened my pace down Barnaby and the dust got thicker. It smelled like bitter earth; like someone had lit a match. A big one. And as my mind began to piece together the idea of an explosion near Thallow Flats I ran.

I felt my hips collide with my bags at each stride. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand, but the smell only got stronger as I went farther into town. I looked down to keep the dust out of my eyes, and I caught a glimpse of a gold deplume. No way.

No way was there an explosion. No way was the sky filled with dust. And certainly no way was there gold sprinkling the ground!

I stood in shock at the end of Barnaby Boulevard.

The vacant lot sunk into the ground. It held in debris and dust like a bowl. Through the thick cloud I could see the mangled asphalt. Deep cracks that ran to the opposite side of the street. I swear I could make out figures clamoring around in the ruin. Grabbing handfuls of asphalt and shoving it into bags and pockets like it was some kind of precious treasure. Just beyond the greed and debris, the old Barnaby house laid in ruin.

Never before had my eyes tricked me so well. I refused to believe it. No way was this happening. I squeezed my eyes shut.

In the distance I could hear a siren rising. A bellowing battle cry. Mark! And without hesitation I ran into the cloud of smoke and dust and confusion. Towards the woods. Towards the studio.

restless

The lightening cracked and for one moment the entire town was illuminated. The bright light consumed the living room and shadows jumped around frantically. The white light vanished, and before my eyes could adjust I was shaken by booming thunder. I tugged harder on the blanket I had wrapped around me. I pulled my knees closer to my chest and shrank down in between the couch and coffee table. This was the third night in a row I couldn’t sleep. Luckily for me the other two didn’t involved earth-shaking thunderstorms. Usually when I was up all night I could curl up at dawn for a couple of hours, but this close to a show, when the sun was up, I was up. I snuck across the cold hardwood floor and into Mark’s narrow bed. He didn’t even stir. I lied awake trying to match my own breath with his sporadic snoring. In the morning Mark handed me a hot cup of tea.
He pouted his lower lip as he asked, “Next time, can I be the little spoon?”
“Grow up!” I said, laughing, as I pushed him back.

A tiny bell rang on the top of the door as I pushed past the “Yes, We are Open” sign.
“Good morning, Karen,” I called over a pile of wrapping paper rolls and card-filled boxes. She appeared from beneath them with a pair of scissors between her teeth. Karen reached up and removed them, revealing her everlasting smile.
“Oh, indeed it is, Artie! Just look at all this new inventory! Business is really picking up. I was nervous at first, but now it seems that people do really enjoy the finer things.” Karen bubbled as she tore through boxes restocking mugs, ribbons, and cards. I found myself reaching for a bright red “#1 Grandpa” mug when Karen turned around.
“Can I ring that up for you?” She smiled eagerly and excitedly.
“It is awfully tempting, but I’m actually just here for some medicine.”

I walked through the aisles of the pharmacy until I found the sleep aids. Pouring through the fine print, I sat down in the aisle to soak it all in. Operating heavy machinery. Drowsiness. Seven to eight hours. Risk of dependency. Decreased mental alertness. Yeesh. I began to think it would be more relaxing to stay up all night. I certainly enjoyed being mentally alert. I grabbed a bottle of Painerol and a box of chamomile lavender tea. Hopefully that would do the trick. I dug around in my bag for my wallet as Karen bagged my purchase. She handed me the pink paper parcel with a well rehearsed “Have a nice day!”

distraction

It had been nearly half an hour. The stiff gesture sat lifelessly on my page. I rolled the piece of charcoal between my index finger and thumb, and deep black powder dusted off as its coarse grain curled around. Red sat across from me, appeased by a ham sandwich. His grizzled jaw twisted over his meal, but the rest of his body was still and calm. Frozen in ham-sandwich heaven, and I was frozen too.

I turned the page again and laid out his spine, his shoulders, his hips. Nothing. This time too loose. I wiped the lines away with the palm of my hand. It came up black. And down again with a growing urgency.

Spine. Shoulders. Hips. Wipe. Again and again.

My paper became saturated. I turned to the next page and the pad cracked under the tremendous weight of my anxiety. I peered at Red and saw nothing. I searched him: his posture, his form, the shadows he cast. I squeezed my eyelids closed and searched myself, but all I found were two red dots, then one green one. I touched the charcoal to the paper and it failed me.

I rolled the sketches back under the cover of the pad. I flicked the diminished piece of charcoal onto the concrete path and rubbed my strained hands against my thighs. I decided to go home, seeking solace in a nap. Or was it so close to dusk that I could sleep until tomorrow? Either way, I gathered my things. And before I could get them into my bag they flew out of my hands. The blackened cigarette case, a few pencils, and my exhausted drawing pad scattered onto the ground. Reaching for my things, I looked up to see what had struck me. Miranda. Her messy bun bounced in time with her frantic stride. The distracted girl didn’t stop to apologize, she just kept running. I wondered if she even knew she had hit me. If she knew how many hours I had spent on those drawings that now sank into a muddy flower bed. But then again, I didn’t even know.

Two wooden pencils dropped again from my hand. I rose from my knees and started running. My chest pulled me while my untrained legs followed. My feet shuffled around in my loose shoes. I kicked them off. I kept running. My stride lengthened. And as I pushed forward I wondered where I was going.

the studio

The sunlight tickled my eyelids as I lay on the hard-wood floor. I sat up quickly, scattering the pile of matt boards that I had been up cutting the night before. I had a show coming up, and I was at the point where the best sleep I got was on top of my work. And I must have been out cold because there was a note taped to my forehead.

Morning, Sunshine!

I’m in the studio, so bring me some breakfast.

XOXO

-Your Mark

His reckless handwriting ran across the old receipt while lopsided, ball-point hearts whirled around his name. I smiled. This was his type of joke. He wasn’t my Mark, and he hardly ever XOed me. But he got a kick out of the whole platonic roommate thing we had going on. In the evening he would swing the door open with a robust “Honey! I’m home!” scaring the bejesus out of me every time. But the breakfast he was serious about, so I grabbed some fruit, and a bagel, and fixed a thermos full of Earl Grey, and I headed out to meet him.

“The studio,” as Mark called it, was more or less a shack where he could work without neighbors complaining about his tribal drum and battle cry records. He had lived with the volume turned down for too long, and it was beginning to get to him. His shack in the woods was a godsend. He could cut loose. He could turn it up and move to it. His own personal rhythm.

It was faster than mine.

As I walked along Barnaby I wondered what time it was. The sunlight was so diffused by the overcast sky that it was hard to tell how long the sun had been up. I passed the run-down parking lot and turned right. As I headed into the woods, I began to hear Mark’s unruly tempos rising. “Right at the rotting stump, left through the briar patch, clockwise around the big oak,” another one of Mark’s jokes was the quality of his directions. But this time it wasn’t funny because I ended up in the back lot of an old, worn-in house. I realized my mistake and started to turn back when I was captivated by the dozens of sporting balls that decorated the patchy lawn. I leaned down to grab the abandoned baseball at my right foot when I heard the screen door creek and snap. My heart jumped and my fingers came loose of the red stitched seams. The baseball rolled until it hit the porch as I raised my eyes to apologize for trespassing. He wore small brown shoes, tied with tired fingers, and loose brown slacks. His hands hung at his hips holding an empty mug, and his shoulders curled heavily over his timid chest. Thin, gray hair was combed flat against his head, and long, untamed eyebrows wisped around his deep, wet eyes. I rambled off apologies and I even offered him some tea, but while he was staring straight at me, he hardly seemed to recognize me. I finally shut up.

He bent down and reached out and grabbed the baseball I had held earlier. Then he straightened up and pitched it right to me. My reflexes clicked, and to my surprise, I caught the speeding, weathered ball. It clapped hard against my palm, and my fingers wrapped around it. I dug into my bag and pulled out an apple. I tossed it underhand to the old man on the porch. He caught it with his right hand while his left hand held the mug. He nodded to me as he rubbed the apple on his chest, and we both turned around and went our separate ways.

I clutched the baseball in my red hand as I walked back through the woods. I turned it over and flicked off years worth of dirt until a row of tiny black letters was revealed. Barnaby Baseballs. Trusted and Durable.

I dropped the ball into my bag and quickened my pace as the deep drums and high cries grew louder.

so close...

“Of course it’s me, Mr. Wilson.”

I rolled my neck back over my shoulder as I said it. I heard my key chain clink as I brushed the stray hairs off of my face and summoned a sociable smile from beneath them.

“I’ve been living down the hall from you for the past six months,” I reminded him.

“Oh, good. So yours came with the new deadbolts.”

“Well, actual—“

“You know, the locking mechanisms really are much stronger…But you can’t ever really be sure…In fact, I tend to…”

Comforting. He continued to mumble absently about deadbolts and chain-locks, and I even caught myself thinking that he could have examined my door once I was behind it. I pushed my oncoming headache back into my temple and tried to focus.

The highlights on his pupils flickered as his eyes searched for something to latch onto. Eventually they settled into a stare towards his door—421. He slowed down. The corners of his thin mouth dropped slightly, darkening his frown lines, as he rolled his lower lip between his teeth. His cheekbones sank. And there it was, in delicate graphite. I wanted to capture him in that moment. Sit him down and freeze time for a portrait. Henry Wilson—The Quintessence of Loss.

Then it vanished.

The door to apartment 421 swung open, and Jacob stood awkwardly in the frame. “I need a hand getting the trunk, Dad,” said Jacob. Mr. Wilson’s mouth lifted, and his eyes began to flicker again. He nodded to me. I finally blinked. And the color came back.

sketches

Just a few final touches remained.

I darkened the shadow across his brow and redefined the deepest crevices of his loose, twisted clothing. I blew the excess charcoal away and carefully folded all of my previous drawings back over the spiral binding. I placed the shortened piece of charcoal into my mother’s old cigarette case and snapped it shut. I slid my sketchpad into my bag, and slung it over my shoulder.

“Thanks, Red,” I said, waking my model. Red’s heavy boot pulled his sleepy leg off of the park bench where he spent most of his mid-mornings. He yawned with a wide mouth, and I smelled whiskey on his breath as I leaned in to push a modest sitting fee into his palm. “No problem, Artie,” he chuckled, accepting the sum without worrying if the portrait was a suitable likeness.

“I’ll see you later this week, Red,” I called back to him, “Stay out of trouble!” and he chuckled at that too.

I headed back home to wash my hands and put the kettle on. I looked forward to plopping myself down on the couch and closing my eyes. I was sure that when I opened them again I would be able to see in true color. But for now every thing I saw remained in shades of gray with quick charcoal contours defining each plane and deep shadow, the way letters run across one’s mind long after putting down a book.

Drawing up the numerous stairs to my apartment, my body became heavy without its second, third, or fourth cup of tea. I was glad to reach my door, and I fumbled around for my keys, when suddenly, just moments away from relaxation, and perhaps a nap, I heard that voice!

“Aretha Watson! Is that you?!”

And, unfortunately, it was me, and I was trapped.

Testing, testing...one...two

I think that I am really going to like waking up to this class. It is nice to feel intellectually stimulated...unlike last semester. bwah bwaaah (i.e. that depressing sound effect that people use in cartoons when a character gets hit with a frying pan or one of those 100 ton weights)...