The Fine Art of Monotony

Bee bee beep...bee bee beep...bee bee beep….the alarm sounded on this dreary Thursday morning. What is it about Thursdays, so close to the weekend but yet, so far?

Bee bee beep...bee bee beep...bee bee beep...I could see the frost on the windows and had no desire to leave the comfort of my warm bed.

Bee Bee Beep...bee bee beep...bee bee beep...I slowly rise, more to just make the noise end than the desire to begin this day full of mundane meetings and phone calls.

Ignoring the unfinished painting in the corner, I head directly to the coffee machine in hopes of finding the will to face the day. Yesterday's less than friendly interactions with angry customers, which led to angry managers, left me less than thrilled to return. The smell of the brew as I showered renewed me. I dress in slacks and a wool sweater as I sipped black coffee. It warmed my spirit and I started to gain the resolve to go in. Armed with a to-go cup, I grab my peacoat and head out the door. As I walk the few blocks to the bus stop, I ponder, after four years of art school, how did I end up here? In a job that has sucked all the passion out of me. There was no creativity in what I am doing. Answering calls and emails and helping others succeed, with a constant promise of my time coming. I haven’t even painted in months. I get home late every night and just want to sleep to wash away the monotony of the day.

The bus screeched to a stop as I approached the corner, my chariot awaits. I boarded and was assaulted by the acrid smell of body odor mixed with exhaust. I found a seat near the back between a small old woman dressed in a raincoat and hat and a large smiley man who was encroaching on my space.

I sipped my coffee as I took in my fellow passengers. The usual crowd. The high heel and pencil skirt-clad administrative assistants and paralegals on their way to their various offices. The young, saggy pants, headphones- wearing teens on their way to anywhere but school. The suits on their way to …

OUCH…the large man beside me hit my arm as he rose to exit the bus, causing me to spill my scalding drink on my lap. I jumped up and shook off the excess liquid onto the dirty bus floor. Great, now my crotch is wet, at least the pants are brown so I don’t have to worry about a stain today. My manager is already disappointed with me on a daily basis, I don't need to add heat to the fire.

I turned to take my seat again and found that it was now occupied by a man in a dark grey brimmed hat. I looked around to find another seat and found the bus was now completely full. I took a deep breath and took hold of the grab bar as the bus accelerated to the next stop. I bounced down the street sipping my coffee trying not to spill...again.

I watch for a seat to open with no luck. Every time someone stood up, the seat was taken by a new rider. Up in the front, I hear a baby crying. The man in the hat hummed loudly. The small old woman got off at the next stop. I start getting eager to get to my office for the first time today. I feel a bump as the man in the hat exits the bus. I mummer, “Sorry” out of habit, and attempt to retrieve my seat only to find a small black book. I pick it up and turn to find the man has gone as the bus starts to speed toward the next stop. I pick up the book and take my seat, now wedged between a young girl with a backpack on her way to school and a curious looking, very pink, middle-aged woman.

I inspect the book to see if there are any clues as to where I can return it to its owner. It is just larger than my hand with an intricately embossed black leather cover. On the back cover, there is an engraved apple. I turn it over and open it up. There is an address written on the inside of the front cover, 465 Huntington Avenue. I flip through the pages and find they are filled with sketches. Amazing artwork with the most amazing details.

As the bus slows for the next stop, I get off before the owner gets too far behind. I reach for my phone and call the office to let them know I was ill. I didn’t want to go in today anyway. I’ll disappoint my manager tomorrow.

I exit the bus and get my bearings, corner of Parker and Ward. I walk back in the direction I came on the bus, through a sea of black-clad workers. Searching the crowd for the man in the brimmed hat, I approach the stop where he exited the bus with no sign of him. I stop at a small cafe for a coffee refill and to figure out my next step.

As I sip, I study the small book at a table by the window. Page after page, filled cover to cover with the most beautiful drawings! People, landscapes, animals. The owner was a master of art. I glance out the window and see it, a sign that says Huntington Ave. I pull out my phone and search the address on the cover of the book, 425 Huntington Ave....Museum of Fine Arts.

I finish my cup and head for the door. It had been years since I was at the art museum. I never have time for things like this anymore. I cross the street, walk up the grand stairs, purchase my ticket, enter the building, and smile. Not a customer service smile. A real smile, that I felt spread through my whole being.

I spent the day immersed in beauty. Sculptures and paintings, instruments, and ancient collections. Feeling the emotions of the artists, the colors, the brushstrokes, feeling the passion reigniting within me. Almost forgetting about the mystery that brought me to this location, I enter the final room where the Son of Man was on display and before it sits the man in the hat. From where I stand it seems almost a mirror image. A bowler hat before a bowler hat. I remember the embossed book. The apple! I walk slowly across the room and clear my throat as I near him so as not to startle him. The silence of the room was palpable.

“I think this belongs to you,” I say as I hold out the small black book. He doesn’t look away from the painting, just stares straight ahead.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” he says in an accent I can’t quite place.

“Quite,” I reply, studying the masterpiece myself as I take a seat beside him. “I am so happy you left your book on the bus this morning. This day has been such an unexpected pleasure. I haven’t spent the day at the museum in years! You are quite the artist yourself by the way.” I hand him the book.

“Thank you, I dabble a bit.,” he said, taking the book and returning it to the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’m happy to have it back.”

“I wish I had the time,” I say with regret. “Ever since I finished art school it’s just been work, work, work. Today has shown me that I need to make time for my artwork.”

“I’d love to see your work, some time,” he hands me a card, “feel free to stop by.” He stands up and walks toward the main hall. “Thanks again for returning my book.”

I glance down at the card, Omena Art Gallery. I turn to find the man gone. “Thank you,” I murmur to the empty room. I sit a while longer to study the masterpiece, an urge to create growing inside me.

I hear someone approach from behind, “Excuse me, sir, it is closing time, please proceed to the exit.”

Shocked it was so late, I rise, nod at the usher, and head toward the bus stop. My head swimming with vibrant colors, my hand aching to hold a brush again, ideas crowding my imagination. The bus glided to a stop before me and I stepped on board. Before I knew it I was at my stop. I practically ran home and went directly to my studio, or as some might call it, spare bedroom.

Only stopping to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich I spent the night painting. Canvas after canvas I paint. Creating the most beautiful scenes.

As the sun begins to rise I finish the best work of my life. Sitting in awe of my own creation, I felt the heat of the sunrise touch my sweaty back. I head to the shower to relieve my achy body, I'm definitely not 18 anymore.

I head to the kitchen, open my laptop and press send on the email in my drafts with the subject line, Resignation Letter. I can’t spend my life being unhappy. I will eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the rest of my life if I can just paint.

I brew a cup of strong coffee as I study the card from the mysterious man. I dress in jeans and a v-neck tee with a cardigan and gather my best work. I arrange a ride from the app on my phone. Too much bulk for the bus today.

The man was sitting behind a grand cherry wood desk when I arrived at the gallery. “I hope you were serious when you said you wanted to see my work,” I laughed nervously.

He smiled and greeted me warmly and escorted me to an empty wall. “Yes, please!”

I hung my paintings on the wall of the gallery. It felt like such a huge accomplishment. Simply hanging a canvas on a nail, I would never forget this moment.

“I think they are wonderful,” he said. “Would you leave them here for a while?”

Surprised at the gracious offer, I accept with more enthusiasm than I care to admit. I fill out some paperwork with my contact information, shake his hand and walk out into the sunlight.

I want to walk. To feel the breeze on my skin, the sun on my face. I feel so free and complete for the first time in years. I walk through the park, before heading toward the bus line. I board the bus and head toward home.

As I walk in the front door, my cell phone rings.

“Hello,” I answer.

“I’ve got some good news,” said the voice on the other end, “I have sold some of your paintings.”

Dumbfounded, I sit on the couch, speechless.

He continued, “the gentleman just left and wondered if you have more. He loves your work and wants a whole series. He paid $20,000 for two you brought in today and would like at least 4 more. I think this is the beginning of something big.”

Still unable to speak, he asks, if I am still on the line. I grunt some indistinguishable remark, my cheeks wet with joy. All of my dreams were coming true. It was everything I had ever hoped for, and it all started with a bus ride and a book.