10:00 AM
The musician who lives downstairs violently smashes at his drums every day around noon, more or less; he is about as punctual as any musician can be. The shake, the vibration, the outside cacophony of traffic noise and sirens – they are but a few of the many integral ingredients of my peculiar calling – so distant from the neat and unassuming little houses with their whitewashed picket fences, that remain deeply buried within the timid Midwest. With years of forethought, a leaden heart and an unimaginable quantity of tears, I was compelled by my very instinct of survival to desert my husband and my three children two years ago. I left them there, along those tree-lined streets, streets that once held for me such brightened hope for a contented life happily ever after. My stomach still wrenches at my crime of desertion. They are no longer my family. They don’t know where I am; I changed my name. I do not so often wonder how my children are; it is too painful to conjure. I simply could not stay in that place or I would suffocate and die.
The signature nestled strategically into the bottom right corner of all of my watercolors reads Pepper Dubois. I used to be Mary Thomson. Today, on this bright sunny day of hope and life, I will carry those carefully framed paintings, the viable products of my sweat and my painful freedom, and carefully arrange them on the sidewalk in front of the antique bookstore, my designated corner for the spring art exhibit. Anyone can show. Tourists will come, neighbors will come, people from New Jersey and Long Island will come and maybe I will even sell a painting. Someone may like my color sense, my composition, or my interpretation of some minuscule part of this greater world. A piece of myself may speak to someone as hues of violets and yellows and they will pay good green money for part of my soul. Or they will buy a picture because it matches the sofa in their living room. Either way, I will have money for rent and maybe enough for a reefer, discretely procured from the shady little guy with the handlebar mustache and bowler cap who lives under the deli like a troll, directly across the street from my apartment.
Chicken a la king, pot roast, mashed potatoes and As The World Turns propelled me here, screaming, far, far from the stifling and colorless life known to women of my era, who live and shop on a perfect Main Street, USA. Here, my neighbors are dirty poets and clean homosexuals, a drunk, a folk singer, a government sheet-metal worker and a bookkeeper – the nice newlyweds who sometimes invite me over for homemade pasta, shared from a chipped aqua bowl, eaten with the basic accompaniment of a bottle of straw-wrapped Chianti.
Saturday, April 24, 1954
10:00 PM
I sold two paintings today. I will stay here.
I have to say that this entry was a scary thing for me – it has been sitting in my post box for two days, until I could summon up enough courage to click the publish button. I have been looking online for a local creative writers’ group (one that accepts enthusiastic amateurs) or a class that I can attend to learn more about writing and gain some confidence. But my schedule is limited these days so for now I will forge ahead on my own in this enjoyable pursuit of creative expression.
Okay, I really really like this. I think the only thing that slowed me down was the first line.....possessed the floor was too hard for me to get through. After that it is great. I find it fascinating. Did your parents eat pasta from a chipped aqua bowl? I somehow see them in here, but not sure...good job, Lin. glad you pushed publish button! I also really like the way you say pay green money for part of my soul. it occurs to me that you could write a really good story from artist's eye. love alice
ReplyDeleteHi Alice,
ReplyDeleteAaaaaaah! And the first line is so important. Do you think that simply “shook the floor” is better? Sometimes in trying to think of a better word, maybe the simpler choice is more effective. I have trouble with that sometimes. Thank you for liking this story.
About my parents…they lived in Greenwich Village as newlyweds. According to the story, we had an Uncle Auggie (Nona’s younger brother) who lived in the Village and when Nona heard that he was moving out, she sent my dad over to snap up the apartment. Apparently it was hard even back then to secure a place to live! I heard many stories from my parents about their colorful neighbors. And, after one of the springtime art exhibits, my father decided that he could “do just as good or better” so he bought some oil paints and he discovered that he did have talent. I still have some of his early attempts stored in my basement. I will never get rid of them. But I think that Uncle Auggie met with a sad end.
Love, Linda
Lin, I have some Uncle Auggie stories too...will tell you next time we talk. love, al
ReplyDelete