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She stands, prim and beautiful in the morning sunshine, and lingers. So what. In the park behind where I draw I hear the mowers drone like a hive of bees freshly disturbed, I smell the cut grass green, fresh and reminiscent of glad spring-times. The sugar maples show the first green of expanding leaves; while, the forsythias lose their sunny yellow flowers, to grow green, It is still brisk at eight am; although, by the end of the day my leather jacket will be carried home.
Looking toward at the avenue, a green Jetta slams into a screech avoiding a near collision, Thinking of the accident a shiver shot through the warmth of the leather jacket. I am a portrait artist, and she, she is my muse. Juliet I discovered her name having needed to take the bus at times and stuttered out a hello.
”Hi Juliet,” I said inaudibly to her; although the times I have mustered the courage to nervously say hello, and have felt opaque ,as my cheeks turn a pink the shade of a Rembrandt self-portrait. I have been told ,by my few friends, I do have a bit of wit. The committee inside and I cannot ever agree upon something to say. It is always there: lurking, waiting, and brooding.The committee waits and laughs, as I comment about the weather, after which I die inside realizing, what I have done. I have just told the woman, I would be at pains to feel some intimate connection with, how I feel about the weather. Could possibly become more trite.
“Shut up you crazy bastard,” it says, “she is obviously above you.” I listen to this insanity,staring at my shoes.
She is ready for the world: she stands in her business suit, with the business skirt, the expensive business hair cut and usually an all business look on her face. She frowns at her watch, as if it offended by its job. She at times smiles to herself. I want to be a part of that internal parody, I imagine going on in her head. There are those moments she just smiles and the wind blows the naturally clean fragrance of her hair, I wait for. I breathe them.
“Stupid.” I’m shot down by nothing more than the sage of lunacy telling me to be quiet. I blow it again. Her bus arrives she climbs aboard and my heart says you will never have any guts. “Coward!”
The next morning starting the day: I wake up, hit the shower, and started my coffee. My paintings adorn the wall. Failure, the committee judge calls me! The hot rivulets run sluicing, down my body. They cannot ever seem to clean my mind. I shave, trying not to see my eyes, I look at my body, and the scarred deformed leg from the accident. The aroma of coffee wafts to my nostrils, smelling rich and strong, I wish I were.
I grab my art kit and easel,for my living. Taking my long walk to the park a red work truck passes sparking memories of the accident. I remember the ride; yet retrograde amnesia robs the memory of the impact. My mother’s hair shines, like spun gold, in the sunlight, of the dying summer.
“Aren’t they feeding you at that expensive college of yours Robert,” she inquires, eyes like diamonds? So alive. “When you ate at home your cheek bones didn’t look like they could cut glass,” with a frown, she declares. Feeding people made her happy. “Would you like some ziti there is some leftover from last night, how about a hamburger, some cake it’s still fresh, how about a glass of milk, at least a glass of milk,” the words pouring from her mouth. Her offers were relentless.
“No mom, the cafeteria only serves tofu, bean sprouts and veggie burgers.” I’m living off Mac and Cheese and Ramen; along, with what you send,” I came back, laughing. “ I could see my father laugh, in the rearview mirror.
“Leave him be Gina you liked me lean and mean in my twenties.” My father laughed gruff hands on the steering wheel.
“It was the only way I could have you besides I’ve fattened you up over the years.” My father was anything but soft. I was the soft one. I don’t remember anything else after I woke up in the ER in a daze, coming in and out of the gray. Watching green clad marathon running doctors and nurses, with red hands holding in my life. Before I passed out I felt a sharp pinprick and slipped into the dark abyss. Two days later I woke minus two parents. Accompanied by the birth of the committee.
The summer fades into fall as I head for the bus stop. Juliet and I started a relationship.I mean to say we would have conversations that were over five minutes. The committee would mostly go, during the summer.
Bruce arrived, “ivy league of art to street artist your wasting talent. People care I care we’d help you get back in school.” I couldn’t face him as tears welled in my eyes.
“All right,” I replied in a split second of clarity.” aaargh the committee screamed your arts mundane, and so are you. I know my art isn’t anything special.
God Rob, how can you say that.”Juliet asked, after hearing our conversation? “I know a little bit about art your portraits are ever intriguing, and I’d love to see the paintings.”
Was this really coming out of her mouth,” I wondered? The expression on her face I’d never seen before: I’d seen Kindness, I’d seen her alluring smile, her disturbed, now I saw a sense of empathy in her eyes, perhaps something more.
“Rob are you there buddy,” Bruce inquired? “I called the school, and told them to cancel my classes. “ We need to take a ride.”
“You’ll never do it,” the committee spoke. I just ignored it as I was accustomed, when it wasn’t that bad.
“Scared,”Bruce asked as we rode in silence over the bridge out of the city? We drove into New England. It took about an hour to arrive at our destination. The trees had not begun the fall change; yet, I was going to. We arrived, on the appealing grounds, of the campus,a nice euphemism for the nut house grounds, I instantly realized this was way out of my league. Bruce saw the look of worry on my face.
“It’s all right,” he said reading my mind. “Rob once your okay you’ll pay me back, your work is good enough for the gallery. People on the upper east side still pay big money for someone with your extraordinary skill to paint their likeness, their vanity has no bounds.” Bruce smiled and pulled into a spot. “This is the best psychiatric hospital I know,” he said. “ I never told you why I’ve always had a soft spot for you Rob,” He stated. “ My brother died at his own hands from what I think you may have,” he spoke softly, with introspection. “My only hope is that you get better, and realize you’re not alone,” he opened to me.
I looked at his sad eyes and said, “I’m so sorry Bruce I never knew,” I spoke with that awkwardness of finding out something so depressing there are no words, for it. “ I guess we should go in.”
Inside the decor was up to date and expensive, it was comfortable seating for those who knew no comfort. Bruce kept it together: helped me register, made sure I had my art supplies, wished me well, and said he would stop by periodically to visit. We embraced in a hug that expressed the gamut of feelings pouring through us like a dam had broken.
The ward was set up like a dormitory. I had checked in anything that could be a danger to anyone, this included most of my art gear. I guess taking a life with a pen would truly prove the old maxim of it being mightier than the sword. Though painted in earth-tones there was a coldness to the ward that comes from hearing the door lock behind you; though the cage is shining, it is still a cage. I looked around at other patients; some with glazed eyes, others pacing, more than a few talking to invisible voices. Of the latter I hoped these voices more of friend than foe. Eventually, after meeting with Doctor Wiesmann, who explained how they would treat me, and taking my history, he diagnosed me as Bipolar. I feel into the routine of the hospital: the wait in the med line, watching for the occasional someone needing to be restrained, looking forward to cheeseburger day, working on my art, my talks with Dr. Wiesmann and my occasional visit with Bruce.
A point came, when some of the fog lifted from my mind, the committee became ad hoc only meeting on the occasions when I felt under sever stress. The Doctor told me he found the right combinations of meds and said I should be released soon. The look on my face of fear prompted his telling me he set up follow up care with a good Doctor in New York, and that my illness was very manageable with the people around me who cared. On Bruce’s last visit He asked when I’d be released I told him this coming Friday.
“I’m going to lend a friend my car to come get you I have something I can’t get out of,” Bruce said, while running his fingers through his thick brown hair. “She’s sweet and I’ve gotten to now here well since you been in here. New friend.” he stated.
“That’s fine I could even take the train back if its to much trouble,” I said.
“No problem at all I think you’ll enjoy her company, she has had her own struggles with depression, and understands.” He spoke as beginning to leave. we embraced in a,pat on the back man, hug.
Friday Came slowly, check out time, was even more lazy. I gather all my worldly possessions, and they unlocked the door and unleashed me into the late September afternoon, as I had been there a month. I stood in the sunny day and saw Bruce’s Hybrid red Camry roll up. I saw the trunk pop and took it as a clue to put my things away. I opened the door, sat and I was shocked.
“Hi Rob,” She said, an aura of light enveloping her head. “ The place still looks the same as when I was treated. “You look good.”
“ Hi Juliet,” I replied, with a look of relief on my face. The committee was away and I finally felt a part of something better.
