Sarah Beckett

     The soul is an unseen entity. This is agreed upon by most of the world’s cultures and religions. The existence of the soul is seldom debated by any but the most nihilistic and disillusioned. There is wide disagreement as to the purpose, meaning or state of souls but all who agree to recognize the existence of such also agree that it is not an object that can be seen.  Sarah Beckett believed otherwise. She believed, with firmness and resolution, that she saw her soul routinely upon entering the living room of her small Lower East Side apartment. Her soul, she was convinced, hung on her living room wall, housed on a rectangle of canvas stretched tight across a hardwood frame. 

     She had created this painting with its abstract forms of hard-edged geometrics juxtaposed with amorphous amoeba shapes rendered in brilliant and luminous tones of Sunny Orange, Parrish Blue and Chili-Pepper  Red accented with subtle highlights of Jasmine Green and in the far distance of the left hand corner just a small drop of Deepest Ebony.  She hadn’t been aware, in the 18 months it took to create this painting, that she was daily releasing her soul into it. That realization came one day after it had been hanging in her apartment for a week or so. She stepped into her living room as a ray from the sun was breaking through her windows and washing the painting with soft light. She stood transfixed at what she had created, unable to continue her steps, unable to look away for fear that the moment might fade and never return.  As she stared at the painting her breath stuck in her chest and refused to be released. She could feel a warm wave of emotion rising within her , causing her eyes to tear. The tears brought a new and beautiful perspective to the vision and as the colors refracted through those tears she collapsed to the floor where she wept convulsive sobs of gratitude and joy at the privilege of having created something of such deep beauty and meaning. Since that day, she had regarded the painting as the resting place of her souls, and at times, as her soul itself. She kept it cleaned, faithfully dusting it gently every Monday, Wednesday and Friday and was ever alert for signs that the sunlight might fade the colors or yellow the canvas. It was, after all, her soul for which she was now caring.
      

     This peculiar belief concerning her soul was not the only oddness afflicting Sarah Beckett. She had never been able to find a place for her peculiar colors amongst the oriental carpet patterns of any society so she retreated to the fringes and chose to bury herself in their thick, taupe threads. Her colors didn’t fit there either but at least she wasn’t disrupting the pattern and the fringes were thick enough to hide her obtrusiveness. She had barely escaped high school society with her mind intact, college was simply a four year repeat of the same with occasional stops at an oasis which might seem welcoming at first but always later revealed a pattern to which she was expected to add. Which was the more painful experience, she had often wondered, to face rejection beyond all hope to or allow yourself to believe that you had finally found your spot only to be rejected again later? 

      After College,wearied by both experiences, and certain of their continuance if she stayed in her backward hometown, she set of for New York City with the hope of making a living as an artist. At that time, she had thought how providential and fortuitous her lack of friends had become. No one had ever asked her to go to a movie or bowling or ice skating or a prom or anything else. As such, she had saved every scrap of money she had made since she began doing odd jobs at the 12. She had never spent money on a prom gown or a fancy hair-do. She had even made the decision to avoid make-up both for purposes of both frugality and anonymity. And so, she set off for Manhattan with her mother’s blessing and prayers, a healthy bank account, a surging sense of relief at having escaped the suffocating bonds of small town life and, fairly unknown to her, a storehouse of scars and pain that would be traveling ahead, prepared to meet her wherever she landed.    

     

     Sarah Beckett had arrived in New York City roughly 18months ago with plans of becoming a vocational artist. In that time, she had learned to navigate the subway system without a second thought. She had learned the locations of the closest and least expensive art supply stores, the bakeries that sold the largest and moistest blueberry muffins. She had also learned that artists of talent and skill are as common in Manhattan as pick-up trucks were in her hometown. She had secured her apartment before leaving home by using an internet service and was pleasantly surprised that the apartment had been even better in both size and location than she had imagined it would be. It was, nonetheless, very pricey. The savings with which she had left home dwindled rapidly in the first 12 months of her occupancy. At that point she found it necessary to find a job. She looked in the art field and even had a few promising interviews but always, she found herself suffering from her choice to pursue a Fine Art degree rather than a Graphic or Design degree. She considered her knowledge and passion for art and artists to make her a perfect fit for a docent position at the Metropolitan but she was not hired. She believed she was passed over because her plain looks and rural-American demeanor made her unremarkable compared to the cultured and exotically beautiful applicants from foreign countries and larger cities.  After several of weeks of job seeking with no results, she decided to lower her expectations. She found a job as a counter girl at a bread shop on the Upper East Side, an easy train ride from her apartment. It certainly wasn’t the kind of job you brag about to the people at home but bragging had never held much appeal for her.  It was 40 hours a week that helped to keep some money in her bank account and kept her close to the museums that housed the art which nourished her spirit and her dreams.
      

     She would arrive each morning at 5AM. The bakery’s owner, Mr Boulanger, had been working since 3AM mixing the dough and proofing the bread, readying it for baking. She learned how to use the long handled wooden peel to place the risen loaves in the large flat bottomed oven. With some effort , she learned to deftly remove the baked loaves using the same tool and place them in the softening cabinet. Every morning by 5:30AM the air in the store was thick with the warm, yeasty smell of baking bread and rolls. She relished the 30 minutes between the moment the bread began to bake and the moment the front door opened to customers. It was quiet, warm and beautiful, a tiny sanctuary of coziness in a city of millions. At 6AM, the door would be unlocked and in just a few minutes the store would fill with its first customers of the day, typically the commercial customers buying in quantity for restaurants and cafes. Their orders would be in the process of being bagged by Mr Boulanger and placed on the big multi shelved carts that separated the counter from the baking area. It took only a few weeks for Sarah to begin to recognize each customer by sight. She began addressing them by the names of their respective establishments. “Good morning Bruno’s” she would say to the man with the long red coat who picked up the loaves for Bruno’s Café, or “How are you today, Trattoria?” she would inquire of the man with the sloppy jeans who came after the rolls for Trattoria D’Ile. They seldom responded with anything more than curt smile and that was suited her quite well. It allowed her the opportunity to appear friendly without having to endure the excruciating uncertainty of actual conversation. The rush for commercial orders would abate by 7AM and then the commuters would begin to flood in. These customers wanted single loaves or single rolls. Many were regulars, either daily or several times per week, Sarah also began to memorize their orders and was often able to have their selection ready before they approached the counter. She would greet them with a warm, if distant, smile and quickly send them on their way with their choice of bread.  These were her mornings for many months. She had walked unknowingly into the numbing and insulating comfort of routine in the midst of a city renowned for its chaos and tumult.

      

     Around 2PM each day, she would leave the bakery with a loaf or bag of rolls that had remained unsold for the day. She knew that after she left, Mr. Boulanger would dispose of the unsold bread, taking it to dumpster behind the building. She had often wondered to herself why he threw away all the unsold bread instead of giving it to a shelter or food pantry. One afternoon, with no prompting from her, he offered a story.  He had begun to prepare the unsold bread for disposal a little earlier than normal. As she watched him stuffing the bread into garbage bags he said, “I know you’re wondering why we throw it away every day, Am I right? Am I right?” She was uncertain how to respond without offending him so she just gave a shy, and, she hoped, meaningless, smile of assent. “Can’t take a chance with my family’s future”, he continued as he stuffed loaves and rolls into bags, “Know a baker in Jersey who used to give all his leftovers to one of them homeless places. Turn out that one day a little set-screw had gotten loose and fallen off his dough mixer right into a loaf. Baked it right in. Some bum at the shelter gets the loaf with the screw, bites into it and cracks a tooth. Bum sues the baker and the guy ends up having to sell everything he had to pay off the bum and the lawyers. Had a nice house, nice car and now his family’s in a little flat and taking the train. Lost everything. Works at a casino now serving drinks for a couple bucks an hour and tips. Can’t take that kind of chance with my family’s future, so into the dumpster it goes. The bums find it there anyway. Bet there’s two or three of them out there waiting right now.”  Sarah nodded at Mr. Boulanger as sign of understanding and hoped he didn’t notice the hot red blush that she could feel rising in her face. She was surprised and slightly ashamed at her own lack of understanding of the complexities of such things and embarrassed that she had, silently, judged him as being either clueless or selfish. It had seemed so simple to her. People need bread, you have bread you don’t want, give it to the people who need it. She had no idea that a seemingly simple act of kindness could be so risky and dangerous.
      

      Many afternoons, she would leave work and head downtown with her bread in hand stopping at the Green Market on Chambers Street near the Tweed Courthouse to pick up some sharp cheddar cheese and fresh cucumbers. Between the bread, cheese and cucumbers, she would be set for dinners for a week. She was not a consciously healthy eater. She just had simple tastes and frugal leanings. She would occasionally augment her diet with a cherished Blueberry muffin. She kept the muffin splurging to a minimum since they were $5.75 each. Often times, those splurges would occur on Tuesday afternoons.  Tuesdays were the day she made herself haul her art portfolio to almost any gallery who’s owner would agree to view it. In the course of 18 months of this exercise, she had received little in the way of encouragement and quite a bit in the way of brutal disparagement. Her work had been referred to as “naïve… and not in a good way”, “immature”, “not yet fully realized”, “stunningly derivative” and perhaps worst of all “cute”.  She would hold her composure through the Gallery owners’ critiques only by focusing on the promise of a fresh blueberry muffin when it was over. She would then leave the gallery and head to the subway, all the time chastising herself silently for not focusing on paintings smaller than 20x16, at least they would have been easier to schlep from gallery to gallery. She would take the subway south to 4^th St and rush to her favorite muffin shop. As she approached the counter each Tuesday the chatty girl with the vintage style cat’s eye glasses would see her coming and reach automatically for a blueberry muffin and bag in which to place it. “Here ya go Sweetie, $5.75 but you already know that.” Sarah wondered how this girl could remember HER out of the countless number of people she must serve on a daily, let alone weekly, basis. It never occurred to Sarah that she was a singularly unique figure with her 3’ by 3’ black vinyl portfolio carried over her shoulder by its strap, the tan and plaid LL Bean barn coat that kept the wind and cold at bay but was less impressive at blending in with NYC style and eyes swollen and red , not from crying but from the exertion of suppressing tears.  “I tell ya, if I didn’t know what day it was, and between you and me sometimes I really don’t, I’d always be able to tell it was Tuesday the minute you walk through that door.”  Sarah struggled for a polite response “thank you” seemed inappropriate and unwarranted, “wow” also seemed an ill fit for the moment.  Feeling poorly prepared for conversation, Sarah simply managed an “okay”. She winced the minute she heard the sound come out her mouth. She had intended it to be a sound that said “I hear you and acknowledge what you’ve said” instead it sounded more like “ Okaaaaay - Whatever YOU’RE about!” The chatty girl defended herself “Well, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, just that you’re pretty regular here”.  “I’m sorry” offered Sarah as the girl handed her the change from a $10 bill. “I just…” her voice trailed off as she realized that any defense of her response would take longer than the moment allowed she simply repeated, “I’m sorry. See you next Tuesday?”  The counter girl replied with a mimicking and exaggeratedly sarcastic “Okaaay!”
      

      In the time it took Sarah to walk the several blocks to her apartment, she had already worked into a thorough and pummeling self-chastisement over the incident in the muffin shop. She had only meant to criticize herself for her innate awkwardness and lack of preparation in not having a standard, all-purpose response readied for such situations. However, the chastisement had gained such momentum by that point that her mind pushed onward to negative criticisms of everything from her choice of hairstyle to her inability to speak up when her 8^th grade English teacher had asked students to choose a book for a book report (Melissa Candler had quickly raised her hand and chosen “Bridge to Teribithia, the book Sarah had wanted to do, she instead got stuck with “Lord of The Flies”, Melissa Candler would have had a perfectly appropriate and charming response to the muffin girl and which would probably have resulted in becoming BFFs with the muffin girl and receiving free muffins for life). By the time she had climbed the stairs, unlocked the door to her apartment and fought her portfolio over the threshold, Sarah was exhausted. Even the critical voice in her head seemed to have needed to take a breather. She plopped the folio down in the nearest corner and plopped herself into her desk chair, coat and all. She turned on her computer and opened her email. Seeing that she had received nothing of importance, she began the task of messaging her mother to recap the events of her latest attempt to woo a gallery into showing her paintings. She had crafted many, many of these emails. She was quite good at them now. They always read (with minor variations to lend some authenticity) something like this..

Dearest Mother –

Trusting that all is well at home. I took my paintings to another gallery today. The owner really liked my paintings (it was a little embarrassing, the way he gushed over them) but said they weren’t quite the right fit for his clientele. He did give me the name of another gallery to try. I’ll call them this week and see if I can get an appointment for next Tuesday.  All else is well here, I’m warm, well fed and happy. I’ll call on Sunday Afternoon.

Love you-

Sarah

     The utter deceit of the email further shriveled her already crumpled heart. She left the desk and headed for the comfort of the futon in her living room. She grabbed her well-worn wool afghan and wrapped it tightly around her body as if its tightness might somehow bind up her splintered spirit. She settled firmly into the corner of the mattress/cushion and drew her knees up to her chest, under the afghan. She stared into the rapidly increasing darkness of her living room, focused on nothing. The criticisms in her head were once again beginning to pick up steam, a train of negativity, just leaving the station. Lumbering and sluggish at first but carrying within itself the assurance of both speed and power once it had the opportunity to gain momentum. She didn’t try to battle against her thoughts, choosing instead to prepare herself for the inevitability of an evening spent in well-earned self-loathing and the promise of a long cry that might be exhausting enough to prove cathartic. She even considered enabling her mood by getting up and starting a station on Pandora, she had one that played a mix of the saddest ballads by Taylor Swift, Christina Perri, and a heavy dose of Sarah McLachlan, each song bearing the common thread of feelings of loneliness, inadequacy and weariness at being misunderstood or unappreciated. Even the contemplation of the fact that she had created a station glorifying pathos shamed her and amplified her feelings of weakness.   
     
     She was heavily involved in the needless anxiety of deciding whether or not to move off the futon when flashing colored light began to break through her windows followed quickly by the dull thump of a dance-beat bass line. Sarah realized it must be 8PM, the time when the night club across the street bounced to life. Sarah wondered what kind of people would be frequenting a night club on Tuesday evening. “What would it be like to have friends who are so anxious to hang out with you and have fun that they can’t wait until the weekend?” she wondered.  That thought alone began to crack open the door that was holding back her tears and her eyes started to sting at their presence. She blinked a time or two and tried focusing her gaze on the inside of her room. The flashing neon sign from the nightclub caused her sparse furnishings to become partially visible in the darkness. The second hand on the oversized clock on the wall appeared to jump forward 5 seconds at a time as the room would go dark between flashes. The burlap lamp shade on her thrift shop lamp would appear with the bursts of colored light and disappear when they faded only to reappear in a different color with the next burst. The presence of the subdued but audible thumping of the bass and drum track from the music in the club gave the whole scene a surreal “Alice in Boogie Wonderland” atmosphere. She looked toward the painting on her wall, wondering if the light would reach that far or if her “soul” would remain shrouded in darkness. 
     
She tilted her head sideways and rubbed her eyes to make certain that what she was seeing was reality and not merely an hallucination brought about by her depleted emotional state. As the light pulsed on the painting it appeared to be dancing. The colored light that the neon sign brought into the room caused the colors and shapes of the painting to appear to sway, spin and jump on the canvas in time to the rhythm of the music coming from across the street.  Her soul was dancing. She felt a crushing sense of betrayal at the sight of it. How could her soul dance when she felt so alone and hopeless? How was it possible for her soul to dance when she had never experienced such a thing. She hadn’t had any real friends as a young girl. So, while she had heard tales of girls getting together in one another’s bedrooms and dancing crazily to music from their favorite boy-bands, she had never known that moment. She had never attended a school dance or even a wedding reception with dancing. She had no idea what the inside of a dance club might look like. Was her own soul mocking her for her lack of experiences like so many high school and college girls had? She pulled the afghan over her face to shield her eyes from the sight and yet, she couldn’t stop herself from peeking out to catch glimpses of the colorful show. Her mind began to race, searching for some justification for what she was seeing. She knew that it was merely the reaction of certain colors to the light being shed upon them but she also sensed that there was something more profound at work here. Maybe her was soul trying to tell her something? A thought came to her, what if, under the jumble of sadness and inadequacy and anxiety she wore, there was a dancing soul inside her that just couldn’t wait for a weekend (any weekend) to have fun? Maybe her soul wasn’t mocking her so much as advising her? Being guided by light flashing on a painting seemed, to her, as valid as sobbing alone in her apartment because of one misspoken response to a muffin girl. 
     
     She pulled the afghan down from her face and stared intently at the painting. She observed how the colors moved and pulsed in time to the beat. It was good to have something other than her debilitating emotion on which to focus. She haltingly began to allow her head to bop back and forth to the beat coming in her windows. Her shoulders followed suit and soon her entire upper body was synching with the rhythm.  She stopped all movement, freezing for just a moment then with effort and purpose, she stood up, unwrapped herself from the afghan and pulled her futon’s mattress onto the floor. She stood on the mattress, eyes fixed on the painting. Slowly, with all the gracelessness of a faun trying to stand for the first time, she began to move her feet and arms to the beat of the lights, bass and drums. Had anyone been present, they would have been unable to keep themselves from laughing. Thankfully, she was alone. She persisted in her endeavor and soon found herself able to move in perfect rhythm to the flashes and thumps and even able to accent the off beats with a head toss or fist pump. She was thankful that she had thought to put the mattress on the floor so she had little worry of her steps causing noise to the residents of the apartment below hers. She kept gazing at the painting it seemed to nod in assent toward her and she, in return gave back a nod which meant “I think I understand what you’re saying”.  Together they swayed and moved and stepped to the techno beat of the music filling the street below and seeping through her windows. She continued this dance with her soul for an hour or more when there was a momentary break in the beat.  Sarah took this as a cue to call it a night. She was winded and weary from this type of exertion to which she was unaccustomed. She positioned the mattress back on the futon frame and her pillow back on the mattress. She set the alarm on her phone for 4AM and, for the first time since she had moved into this apartment, did not pull down the room-darkening shades on her windows. She fell into bed, clothes and all and pulled the afghan to her chin. She laid her head on the pillow and recalled that earlier, she had expected to fall asleep in a pile of used tissues on a pillow damp from tears. Instead, that night, she fell asleep watching her soul dance.