c_zientek

Atlanta

She called in sick. This was unusual for her to do—normally, she would just ghost an employer, but she liked her boss and the crew, and the state-mandated wage kept the pile of bills on her thrift–store kitchen table to a minimum. Besides, cleaning was a no-skill, no-stress McJob anyway.

Cleaning up. That seemed like all she ever did nowadays.

The divorce cost her almost a month’s rent. Leaving that situation was probably the bravest thing she had ever done. They had drifted together passively and two years later just as lazily drifted apart. It was mostly ok. The periodic fights were intense and mutually bloody, but tolerable. Towards the end, she began to realize she needed a change, though she wasn’t sure what.

Occasionally, just to get out of her subsidized flat, she would ride on the free bus that the city provided for inner-city residents. The ninety minutes or so that it took the bus to loop back to her block gave a fair summary of the city. From the gumbo of nationalities just outside the business district to the generic blocks of bland urban revitalization at the city’s edge—all of the region’s sins were on display through the grimy bus windows.

It was the cusp of September, and the air conditioning on the bus was out of service—again. Hoping for a breeze, she positioned herself towards the middle of the bus, one seat behind a smashed-out window. The previous night’s rain left a small puddle on the faded, pale green fiberglass seat beneath the vandalized window. Or maybe that was the sweat left from the cumin-scented man that sleazily brushed himself against her as she stepped up into the bus. Or was it fresh urine?

She resisted the urge to clean a corner of the window next to her with a crumpled scrap from a discarded city paper and a bit of spit. It really wouldn’t improve anything that she saw during the ride—so why bother?

A faint chorus of sirens started to wail a few blocks away. The sound crept in the broken window and grew like kudzu until it filled the interior of the bus with migraine intensity. A small parade of emergency vehicles stopped alongside the bus, waiting for the traffic to clear. The flashing lights, overlapping sirens, and stench of diesel fumes exploded in her head. She reached up, pulled the frayed exit cord, and stepped out onto the cobblestone street.

As the noise drove away, it took her a few seconds to clear her head and realize where she was. She smiled to herself and reached into her knapsack to find a small, tattered spiral notepad she had stolen from a drugstore rack a few months back. That kind of petty thievery reminded her of her happier tween years. Not a care in the world.

***

Recently, the city bigwigs and the news media had announced that the art museum would offer free admission on days that the temperature reached 90°. She had never been to a museum, and earlier in the week, she carefully printed “go 2 museeom” into the notebook. She reached back into the bag to find the stub of a church pencil and put a big check mark next to the words. She was pleased with herself and her accidental accomplishment.

The building’s interior was dimly lit and chilly, like the frozen food aisle in the corner bodega. Walking through the mostly deserted halls and galleries, she wasn’t moved by the paintings, antiquities, or the modern art. She couldn’t make sense of any of it—everything looked like props she’d seen on TV shows or movies.

Letting her thoughts wander back to the divorce, she continued walking aimlessly until she found herself in a dark green, circular room. A few small portraits hung in the shadows on the walls. But in the center of the space, a large marble sculpture on a dais was bleached starkly white from an overhead skylight.

A small placard mentioned something about pagan beliefs and old religions, along with the name of the deity and the artist. Ignoring all that, she locked eyes with the life-sized, partially robed female figure reclining in front of her. It wasn’t the defiant stare or unashamed nudity that stopped her cold. There was something about the pale, solemn, realism of the stone that kept her frozen in place for what seemed like an overtime work shift.

Then she glanced over her shoulder, abruptly fell to her knees, leaned forward, and slowly licked the goddess’s sun-drenched feet. Her tongue slid over the ridges of the toes—five toes up—then again—five toes up. The cool white surface felt like a flavorless ice pop.

Recovering her senses, she stood up, looked around again, and was relieved to find the gallery still empty, except for the paintings that now seemed further recessed into the dark walls.

She shook her head and clutched her bag closer to her pelvis. Her hair, which had been loosely pulled up because of the heat and humidity, tumbled down to her shoulders as she hurried out of the room, out of the museum, and back out into the noisy hell of the august city.

c is a retired creative looking for ways to put off being measured for funeral clothes.

c_zientek

Atlanta

She called in sick. This was unusual for her to do—normally, she would just ghost an employer, but she liked her boss and the crew, and the state-mandated wage kept the pile of bills on her thrift–store kitchen table to a minimum. Besides, cleaning was a no-skill, no-stress McJob anyway.

Cleaning up. That seemed like all she ever did nowadays.

The divorce cost her almost a month’s rent. Leaving that situation was probably the bravest thing she had ever done. They had drifted together passively and two years later just as lazily drifted apart. It was mostly ok. The periodic fights were intense and mutually bloody, but tolerable. Towards the end, she began to realize she needed a change, though she wasn’t sure what.

Occasionally, just to get out of her subsidized flat, she would ride on the free bus that the city provided for inner-city residents. The ninety minutes or so that it took the bus to loop back to her block gave a fair summary of the city. From the gumbo of nationalities just outside the business district to the generic blocks of bland urban revitalization at the city’s edge—all of the region’s sins were on display through the grimy bus windows.

It was the cusp of September, and the air conditioning on the bus was out of service—again. Hoping for a breeze, she positioned herself towards the middle of the bus, one seat behind a smashed-out window. The previous night’s rain left a small puddle on the faded, pale green fiberglass seat beneath the vandalized window. Or maybe that was the sweat left from the cumin-scented man that sleazily brushed himself against her as she stepped up into the bus. Or was it fresh urine?

She resisted the urge to clean a corner of the window next to her with a crumpled scrap from a discarded city paper and a bit of spit. It really wouldn’t improve anything that she saw during the ride—so why bother?

A faint chorus of sirens started to wail a few blocks away. The sound crept in the broken window and grew like kudzu until it filled the interior of the bus with migraine intensity. A small parade of emergency vehicles stopped alongside the bus, waiting for the traffic to clear. The flashing lights, overlapping sirens, and stench of diesel fumes exploded in her head. She reached up, pulled the frayed exit cord, and stepped out onto the cobblestone street.

As the noise drove away, it took her a few seconds to clear her head and realize where she was. She smiled to herself and reached into her knapsack to find a small, tattered spiral notepad she had stolen from a drugstore rack a few months back. That kind of petty thievery reminded her of her happier tween years. Not a care in the world.

***

Recently, the city bigwigs and the news media had announced that the art museum would offer free admission on days that the temperature reached 90°. She had never been to a museum, and earlier in the week, she carefully printed “go 2 museeom” into the notebook. She reached back into the bag to find the stub of a church pencil and put a big check mark next to the words. She was pleased with herself and her accidental accomplishment.

The building’s interior was dimly lit and chilly, like the frozen food aisle in the corner bodega. Walking through the mostly deserted halls and galleries, she wasn’t moved by the paintings, antiquities, or the modern art. She couldn’t make sense of any of it—everything looked like props she’d seen on TV shows or movies.

Letting her thoughts wander back to the divorce, she continued walking aimlessly until she found herself in a dark green, circular room. A few small portraits hung in the shadows on the walls. But in the center of the space, a large marble sculpture on a dais was bleached starkly white from an overhead skylight.

A small placard mentioned something about pagan beliefs and old religions, along with the name of the deity and the artist. Ignoring all that, she locked eyes with the life-sized, partially robed female figure reclining in front of her. It wasn’t the defiant stare or unashamed nudity that stopped her cold. There was something about the pale, solemn, realism of the stone that kept her frozen in place for what seemed like an overtime work shift.

Then she glanced over her shoulder, abruptly fell to her knees, leaned forward, and slowly licked the goddess’s sun-drenched feet. Her tongue slid over the ridges of the toes—five toes up—then again—five toes up. The cool white surface felt like a flavorless ice pop.

Recovering her senses, she stood up, looked around again, and was relieved to find the gallery still empty, except for the paintings that now seemed further recessed into the dark walls.

She shook her head and clutched her bag closer to her pelvis. Her hair, which had been loosely pulled up because of the heat and humidity, tumbled down to her shoulders as she hurried out of the room, out of the museum, and back out into the noisy hell of the august city.

c is a retired creative looking for ways to put off being measured for funeral clothes.

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