‘Traps’

Donald Patten is an artist and cartoonist from Belfast, Maine. He produces oil paintings, illustrations, ceramic pieces and graphic novels. His art has been exhibited in galleries across Maine. His online portfolio is donaldlpatten.newgrounds.com/art

Traps 

It’s a good thing no one lives upstairs now. I’ll bet this whole fucking building smells like weed.

Amy took another pull off her joint and set it down on an ornate blue and white china plate. The plate had served as an ashtray for some time, years actually, but only for weed. The plate was regularly cleaned so it looked as though someone could very possibly have eaten off it just the day before and had none of the yellow stains that might give away regular use.

 She almost never smoked cigarettes in the apartment. As long as she had been a smoker and as much as she liked it, she could not abide the smell in her home. Besides, Daniel would never tolerate it. While most of the time she would never care what Daniel could or could not tolerate, this seemed like a fair ask on his part. On the rare occasion when they had a party or a substantial gathering of people, he would concede to putting a fan in the window of the kitchen and allow smoking there, but only if the weather was disagreeable.

Her eyes felt dry and heavy, her back stiff, her arms had a slight chill and the skin was even slightly cool to the touch. She wrapped the flimsy robe tight around her and sunk a little deeper into the big orange armchair. The chair had been with her for so long, had been moved from one apartment to the next, at least a dozen times. She could feel spots where the stuffing in the cushion had loosened or wadded up, making hard knots. Springs or wires or some piece of the internal structure could be felt through the upholstery, but the chair remained a comfortable place to retreat from the realities of life for someone on the cusp of 40 years old.

She squeezed her eyes shut and held them closed tight several times, yet there was still the sensation that no matter how much she blinked the dryness would not abate, and in a sort of distant way wondered if it was possible for one’s eyelids to stick to their eyes. She certainly felt as though hers might. She lingered on the thought for a moment at what a medical anomaly that would be.

Well, the treatment is probably pretty easy, and relatively pain free.

Amused, she giggled imagining Daniel drunk and stumbling in the door to find her unable to blink. He wouldn’t believe her at first. Who would blame him? It did seem an absurd thing, eyelids stuck to your eyeballs. But eventually he’d believe her and then he’d pack her up into her car and bring her to the hospital. Once there she would regain her credibility when a doctor would tell them that this sort of thing was more common than one might realize and was easily treated with some eyedrops. He’d say something like, “oh yeah, at least a couple times a week,” or “happens aaallllll the time.”

What the fuck is wrong with me? Jesus, I’m really fucking stoned.

 She shook her head, pushed her glasses up her nose. She reached for a few loose sheets of paper and refocused on the essay in front of her. It was perfect reading for the stoner art enthusiast. She could buy into the idea of Jackson Pollock as a cubist. It was a neat idea and had a certain unique appeal to her. Just the sort of idea that seemed fringe enough that not everyone would know, but not entirely out of left field either.

 Plausible.

In any case, it was just one more idea to add to the mass of knowledge she had spent years accumulating. One more point of reference for when she started to paint again.

If…

If that ever happens.

The room was lit, but just barely, by a single small lamp, placed on the floor rather than on an end table as it should have been, wedged between the wall and the chair. A full third of its potential illumination was lost to the wall, and another third blocked out by the chair, casting a long shadow across much of the room. While the lamp did surprisingly little to actually illuminate the room, the light was blinding if the bulb was within sight, even if only in one’s periphery. Most people would find this arrangement unpleasant, but Amy thought it had a sort of gritty charm.  Yet now, stoned and uncomfortable, she began to feel the unevenness amplify as her mind fixated on external annoyances. Despite her efforts to focus on her reading, and as interesting as the subject was, she was having difficulty engaging her attention fully.

Something else was distracting her though, a nagging feeling of…what? A lack of inertia? No motivation?

Ennui

So it was, she was realizing more and more, when she read her histories and essays. More frustration. Anxiety, anger, doubt and disappointment. It ate at her, gnawing at the edges of her attention. She told herself it was going to pass, even if it got a little worse for a little bit. She would do that from time to time: obsess over some mundane nonsense only to turn her attention to some other insignificant issue. She was sure that being high only served to excite this tendency. Yet she reached for the joint again.

I’ll chill out eventually…

She never smoked as much as she had been recently, and her drinking had picked up as well. Most of her life she had only had a passing interest in getting stoned, but the stagnant regularity of her routine left her with a growing boredom and more and more the answer seemed to be getting high. It didn’t help that Daniel smoked all day, every day. He was enjoying her newfound interest and actively encouraged her substance intake. At least it made the usual shit more interesting.

Well, sometimes. I think “tolerable” is more the word I would use. It amplifies the minutiae of the banal is all. Or maybe those are the things we should be noticing all the time.

She let the pages drop to the floor with a sigh. She couldn’t think or concentrate through the haze in her brain. It was as though she inhaled the smoke directly into her skull, gathering, increasing in density until it became a fog so thick that signals would no longer be able to navigate a way from one nerve to another. The cognitive fog cast a shade over the already dark room. She didn’t like this feeling of uselessness and was surprised to be overcome with a feeling of disgust for letting herself become so… pointless?

That is exactly the word. Pointless. There is no point to any of this. It all leads nowhere. What the fuck am I doing?

She went to the bathroom and studied her bloodshot eyes in the mirror, blinking constantly to fight back the cloudiness growing in from the edges of her vision. Tears welled up and she marveled at how the redness around her irises made the blue of them deeply vivid. She found the faucet handle and turned it all the way to the cold side. When the water met her eyelids, her head cleared a bit. She rubbed her eyes and looked again in the mirror. Seeing the redness recede and her cheeks flush made her feel a touch more composed. She pulled her long, curled mess of hair back into a loose bun, sighed and strolled back into her studio.

Studio, office, whatever…

Standing there in the sparsely furnished room, surveying the gathering dust on her drafting table, boxes of art supplies and reams of unused paper, she suddenly and surprisingly felt lucid in a way she hadn’t for some time. As though she had willed away the effects of the half-burned joint and the fog of ennui. And she felt worthless, but no longer hopeless. Anxiety was giving way to possibility. It was weak, but it was there. She knew that if she didn’t seize this sensation it would retreat into the hazy recesses of her brain.

I’ll start now. If I don’t, I know where this will end up. I’ll get more and more out of practice and I’ll be too scared to start again. I’ll just keep putting it off. I have to do something. Even if it isn’t very good. Pointless isn’t worthless. Now, while I’m alone. Daniel’s not here to distract me. Now!

            Amy walked swiftly to the kitchen to retrieve another beer. Alcohol didn’t have the same tranquilizing affect the pot did.

            At least not nearly as bad.

            …and it would loosen her up a bit and help break down her reluctance.

 And she was reluctant. Almost to the point of fear. She didn’t want to fail, to try to produce something of value and have it fall short, which she knew was likely, almost a certainty, especially after all this time. But she knew that this was like building a fire. She had a spark, now she had to gently and deliberately tend to it. It would require all her attention, for a time. But, if she did it right, if she could keep this focus, she could build that fire and maintaining it would require only the occasional stoking and fuel.

 I’ve been giving up ground inch by inch to my own complacency. Not every failure is obvious. But I’m going to stop now. If I’m going to fail, it’s going to be a spectacular failure of action, not a weak fizzling of laziness. It’s the best time. What the hell else am I doing? Sitting around all the time getting stoned and reading. Sleeping all day. I hardly work. Music… I need music!

Jackson Pollock painted to music.

            The conviction of the truth of this thought was so insistent, it demanded action. She selected a record from the line of them against the wall, carefully pulled it out of the sleeve and placed it reverently on the turntable. Her skin tingled as the pops and fuzzy crackling of the needle on the spinning record floated out of the single ancient speaker. The music started suddenly with a jolt of guitars and drums. Even expecting it, she was briefly startled. She turned the volume up as high as she could without making the music clearly audible outside the building. She really had no idea what that threshold was but made a guess anyway.

            It’s a good thing no one lives upstairs.

            She started with the paper.

 Amy had spent some short couple months working at a failing art supply store. It was failing because the owner exhibited none of the aptitudes one may need to run a business. He was controlling, short-tempered and a terrible manager, speaking down to his staff at every opportunity. He showed more contempt for his customers for taking up his time than interest in taking their money. He inspired no respect in his small staff, all of whom he paid very poorly. So, most of them swiped a tube of paint here, a sketchpad there, a misplaced paintbrush every now and again and maybe, just maybe some canvas that “didn’t show up with the shipment” in an attempt to makeup the shortfall in their monetary compensation. Amy took paper. She took a lot of paper.

Paper bordered on something like sacred to Amy. Good paper is something artisans crafted with meticulous care. Paper is responsible for the advancement of civilization; the recording of laws, thoughts, ideas on the nature of existence and being, divine inspiration, grand gestures of love and disdain, imaginations accessible to billions, and untold numbers of works of art and learning. Amy wondered often at the number of lost pages that could contain unseen truths and beauty, an unquantifiable tragedy. Humanity owed a lot to paper and the weight of this history was always in her hands when she went to make a mark. She knew that this played some small part in her hesitation, a feeling that whatever she might put on the page ought to be worthy of the contribution that flattened wad of cotton has made to the world.

Tonight though, she didn’t let herself stop to consider the weight or texture, after all, she had wasted enough time already. She tore open the closest folder and pulled out a blank sheet. With a forced sort of theatrical conviction, she slapped it on the surface of her drafting table. She yanked off the delicate robe, balled it up and tossed it into a heap on the floor. With a bit of self-conscious melodrama, she shoved the frayed cuffs of her sweater up to her elbows.

Paint?crayon?pastel?char…Charcoal! Perfect! Back to the basics. No erasers. The most primitive of methods! Walk before you run, or crawl before you…oh what the fuck ever… This is how I’ll do it. Nothing pretentious, just simple, naked, honest. Nothing to use as a crutch, no hiding behind concept.

She rifled through the box of charcoal not caring that her hand had quickly turned black from dust of years of jostling and storage. Very much the opposite really, she felt quite empowered by it. And while the sensation of her nails scraping against the sticks and the hollow, metallic clattering of the sticks colliding was on its surface physically unpleasant, there was a certain romantic charge she got out of it.

The sounds of the stick scraping across the paper yielding to a smooth hiss as the point of the charcoal stick rounded off, the vibration across the rough paper surface, the smell of paint and turpentine rising in the room like a slowly filling bath from the boxes and drawers of supplies she had upset in her search for the right medium. All of it satisfied her somewhere deep in her chest. Guitars howled and shrieked, and drums rattled somewhere in the periphery of her consciousness.

 Every so often Amy stepped back to view the gradually sharpening image. She pulled her sweater over her head, dropping it straight to the floor. Dark streaks crisscrossed her forehead as she brushed hair away with blackened hands. As yet, the sketch had little discernable form, and all she could really understand was something to do with train tracks and skyscrapers. Lines upon lines, overlapping curves and uneven grids. The most complex forms of human achievement depicted most simple and understated.

“Hey babe, that looks amazing!”

Amy jumped with a start. What time was it? How long had it been? Surely not so long that Daniel would be off work yet…

“Oh, hi. What time is it? Are you off already?”

“No, I just swung by to grab some records.” Daniel did in fact have a dozen or so records under his arm. “You should come up. Everyone’s there.”

“Yeah, maybe. I dunno, I’m really into this right now.”

“Okay, yeah, well if you change your mind…” He hastily closed the distance between her, gave her a perfunctory kiss on the forehead, turned on his heels and walked out in a couple long strides.

Amy stood there for a time, bewildered. It seemed the moment had been broken and her attention shattered. She felt the pull of her friends and the seduction of the easy thrill that always went with staying up far too late and drinking a little too much. Without summoning it, the image of Daniel slapping the bar jovially across from Doug wiping tears, Justin reeling and gasping, Janie and Adrienne leaning against each other, teetering precariously on their stools as the whole lot of them laughed deep intruded into her mind. The laughter was a light that glowed like a halo around them, golden and radiant. Warming. All of this was there and gone in an instant, followed closely by the usual sleepiness.

She wasn’t tired or exhausted, but the abrupt interruption of the flow state jarred and disappointed her and she just felt weary. So quickly all the doubt came back, and she knew that this time there was no recovery. Suddenly aware of what she might look like, she trotted to the bathroom and again peered into the mirror.

Her face was a mess of charcoal smudges. Tiny dots shown where the dust settled into pores on her forehead and nose. Almost-clean lines followed the contours of her cheeks where tears had cleaned them. She couldn’t recall crying and wondered if she had just not noticed or if the persistent dryness she felt in her eyes had caused them to water. Large strands of hair had fallen out of the knot, splaying out from her head like solar flares from the sun. Wisps stuck to her forehead. The front of her shirt was marked with grey smudges as well.

While it seemed far to late to concern herself with the idea of cleanliness, Amy turned on the faucet to wash her hands. No reason to get any more charcoal on her clothes after all. The sight of the grey water running down the drain was surprisingly pleasant. The amount of it and how long it took to clean her hands thoroughly seemed to remind her that she had accomplished something, marginal though that accomplishment may be.

With clean hands she loosed her hair from the knot. She shook her head and her hair fell into a sort of lofty halo. The mirror was starting to fog over. She peeled her clothes off and in doing so became aware of the musty odor coming off her. It wasn’t yet offensively sour, but she did notice that she was unable to easily recall her last shower. Happily, the fogged mirror saved her from seeing her naked body in the mirror.

I can hate my body some other time.

She pulled the curtain back. The metal curtain rings made an abrupt screech as they slid across the bar. Steam poured out from the shower. She inhaled deeply as she stepped in.

The hot water was invigorating, and she felt sober, or sober enough. Only in the warm stream did she realize that she had been cold. Maybe cold wasn’t the right word. She had worked up a sweat after all, but there was a chilly clamminess that had been with her. The drafty, old apartment often meant that fall and winter would have an attendant chill throughout, no matter the ambient temperature inside.

 Feeling again clean and refreshed she turned the water off, stepped out and dried herself with a clean towel. She brushed her hair, enjoying how the brush glided through the long, curly strands smoothly and without much resistance from tangles and knots. She didn’t bother to wrap the towel around her to retrieve some fresh clothes. Amy had little compunction about walking around the apartment naked and never gave much thought to if any neighbors or passers-by could see.

The bedroom was fairly spartan relative to the eclectic potpourri of furniture and artwork that decorated the rest of the apartment. A queen size bed sat on a frame with no head or foot board in the middle of a long wall opposite the door, flanked by two small tables that did not match. One was a wide but short end table meant to go next to a couch while the other was very much it’s opposite: a tall stand with just enough room for the small lamp which sat upon it and a glass of…whatever.

In the corner to the left of the door was another lamp that stood about four feet tall. The paper shade, the obvious focal point of the lamp, was an uneven geometric shape with several sides of all different sizes. A foot switch turned it on and off and it gave off a bright pure white light that could illuminate the entire room. The light built into the ceiling did work but the bulb had burnt out years ago and was never replaced, nor was it missed for that matter.

Along the wall to the right of the door was a simple, but large dresser and a metal rack for hanging clothes, all of which were Amy’s. The top of the dresser was a heap of clothes, makeup, jewelry, CDs and cassette tapes. A small boom-box style stereo lay half-buried under the mess. Several strips of electrical tape kept the cassette deck face affixed to the rest of the unit, a trivial detail since the stereo gave off a perpetual soundtrack of indie-rock, jazz and blues from a local public-access radio station. The floor was worn hardwood and random heaps of books, clothes and shoes rose up like foothills to the bed and dresser, increasing in size and number closer to the furnishings. Fluffy tufts of dust clung to the edges of most anything on the floor.

Amy crossed the room to the dresser, again keeping her eyes from the mirror. Once dressed in fresh underwear and a tank top she went back to the office in search of her robe. The idea of going out hadn’t been completely discarded. Her tall black boots were toppled over on the bedroom floor and she imagined slipping them on and lacing them up. They came up almost to her knees…

 and would go so great with that pleated skirt I have. The one that was longer in the back. And that new sweater I bought the other day. I could wear the lacy bra under it and maybe let the sweater fall off one shoulder. I could wear my makeup a little more neutral and understated but with slightly darker eyes. If I start now it will probably take me just under an hour but would be so worth it.

 She could get looks if she really put her mind to it and that was always a bit of a charge.

She picked the robe up and shook it out. The thing had been with her for so long, and if she was at home alone she was probably wearing it. Sometimes it was a cape, sometimes a towel, sometimes a cocoon. Sometimes she wore it over just underwear and a bra and strutted around the apartment, as she imagined herself as some glamourous woman of leisure; cigarette hanging from her lips or held gingerly between the tips of her fingers, a glass of wine in hand, legs crossed and dangling over the arm of a chair. She pulled it on and wrapped it around herself as one would a blanket. The robe was far too thin to offer any significant measure of warmth, but she felt warmer none-the-less. And with the growing feeling of security coming over her, the desire to seek thrills receded.

It’s so late already. Everyone will be drunk but me. I’ll probably get there, and everyone will just leave and what’s the point of sitting there and watching my boyfriend serve drinks while I sit by myself.

She sighed and resolved to go to bed.

 Not bothering to remove her robe, she peeled the covers back and slid between the sheets feeling that refreshing coolness on her legs. That was the best part, it’s all downhill from here. As soon as the heat started to radiate from her body it would be an unending dance to keep herself cool. She propped a couple pillows up behind her back and sat up against the wall. Neither Amy nor Daniel watched television and she didn’t often miss it. They both had tablet computers they would watch their separate shows on but that wasn’t much good for falling asleep.

 Most nights she would read until she dozed off. Science Fiction and Fantasy. Daytimes were for smart things; essays, classic literature, poetry, but bedtime was for escape. An easing into dreams. She always felt like she slept better when she read before bed rather than falling asleep with the tinny, empty sound of the tablet or the tethered restraint of headphones.

Tonight, she missed television though. She wouldn’t mind falling asleep to something funny. Maybe a good sitcom or sketch comedy. She wouldn’t mind being woken up later from the light and noise. There wasn’t much to do, and Daniel would be out most of the day.

She turned the lamp off and sank into the bed. She crisscrossed her fingers and laid her hands on her chest. Her hair was still damp, but she didn’t mind, it helped to keep her cool. Looking up at the ceiling of the room, she could make out small cracks in the plaster. The room wasn’t completely dark. A streetlight outside the window projected two large squares onto the ceiling on white light. The light used to be more yellow, warmer. But Amy supposed that the bulb had been changed to one of those new bulbs that last forever and saves energy. While that was all well and good, she found the new color harsh and cold. It put her in a sour mood as she lay there missing the warmth of the past.

Reflecting on the evening she wondered if she might be able to capture that same energy at another time, or would it be months again before she did anything else. She resolved to give it a try at least once a day.

I wonder what time it is.

But she did not want to look. She worried that if she looked it might somehow distract her from her current project of getting to sleep. While she lay there in bed, her anxiety grew and she became more and more restless. She felt as if she may not be able to sleep, yet seemingly just moments later Amy opened her eyes to full daylight. None of her anxieties were present in her mind as she staggered toward the kitchen to start the coffee. Her mood was upbeat, and she looked forward to a relaxing day, free of commitment.

Matthew Derouin is an author, musician and artist from Saint Louis, Missouri. A former student of philosophy, his work across all mediums is concerned with free will, the search for meaning, creativity and aesthetics, and identity. His literary work has appeared in Waxing & Waning. His art can be viewed at www.mattderouin.com or at https://www.saatchiart.com/matthewderouin. His band, Future/Modern appears on El Gran E Records out of Dallas, Texas, and can be streamed on Apple Music, Spotify and Amazon Music