Woman Seated in a Chair
Manchester is a city with solid lines, the vestiges of a bygone mill town. Brick mills line the Merrimack River, repurposed as yoga studios, apartments, taprooms. There remains a 19th century feel to the place. For that reason, the city seems as if it is building on something it no longer is, attempting to fit a square within a circle. Now, with the arrival of hip bars and restaurants, there is a small pulse on Elm Street. Still, the homeless and the addicted dot the sidewalks, proving that in some places the town is rotting from the inside out, like a blackberry growing mold. As with many other New England cities, the source of the rotting has not been identified—the problem gone too long without remedy. If you grabbed the city in your hand you would notice that it is a useful thing, but it would leave unexpected rust on your palm.
The city is unforgiving in Winter. College students are looking towards break, though they have time for a few more nights of drinking—riding the mechanical bull at Manchvegas, slurping down one dollar domestics at Whisky 20’s, or eating away their hangover at the Red Arrow Diner. Thrills.
Matt is tucked away in the threshold of an abandoned bank, the granite walls his only protection from the wind. The walls comfort him. He has claimed this spot—better than the dumpsters, trash cans and stink of nights previous. He is drunk. If he speaks he will slur, but he doesn’t speak because he is alone. Guilt makes a person feel fake when they smile, he thinks, his thought murky as if emerging from a puddle. The lady, tomorrow I need to see that lady. Blessed mother. He slips a nip of Fireball from his pocket and slugs it, flicking the empty plastic bottle onto the sidewalk. It clatters and slides to a halt on the curb. The cinnamon whisky warms his throat, his stomach. He feels relief—the relief of taking a piss. His face is hidden by shadow, his legs covered by his sleeping bag and tattered backpack. An angular light spills over the sidewalk from the storefront next door. Ah, I miss the color, the damned color. No color now. No goddamn color anywhere. A few more nips and he will fade into a deep sleep—not restorative, but fitful sleep, haunted by muted nightmares. He takes another nip from the top pocket of his backpack. He twists the small bottle around to examine the label.
“Good ol’ Jack,” he says aloud, with a voice that isn’t his. Can’t beat oxy, but better than oxy. Anything better. This is all tough love. Tough love and no color.
A car horn sounds on Elm Street, startling him. He wants to scream for silence, privacy. Impoli, ils sont impoli! His eyes slide upward to see the car, to take stock of the bastards interrupting his meditation. He bursts into laughter, his cracked teeth jagged like a city skyline. In the triangle of light shining on his belly, his stomach moves with the laughter. Sickening laughter. Then he cries. Tears that are warm, as if the warmth holds a trace of his soul, proof he is still there. Love dies hard, doesn’t it?
Two young male college students pass through the warm light of the storefront next door. They are encased in Chelsea boots, Patagonia jackets, blue jeans, the confident fog of a four-drink buzz. Matt spots them through the haze of a tear. They appear as if in watercolor. This amuses him. I could paint you; I could paint everything you are. He reassures himself.
The boys notice Matt muttering a half-thought. They see his sleeping bag, the pocket of his hoodie.
“Poor bastard, guy must be freezing,” one says to the other.
Am I freezing?
“It’s a mental health problem you know. They self-medicate. I saw a documentary on it. They self-medicate because we closed all of the mental institutions. It’s an easy problem to solve. I don’t know why we just don’t do it.” The other quips back, his solution as sure as his boots, his jacket, his jeans, his buzz. They are consumed by the black night. Matt falls into troubled sleep.
. . . .
Harsh morning light leaks onto Elm Street. A street sweeper swishes and hums. Hung-over middle aged men and women stand in line at the coffee shops. College students sleep, but when they wake up they will get bagels. They will soak up the night in bacon grease, dining hall eggs, coffee, and Adderall. The morning is perfect for contemplation: dogs do not bark, wooden heels do not click along the sidewalk, mail has not yet been delivered. In this peace Matt awakens—sober. Sober as hell.
Fuck. He turns inward to hide his face from the road, a desperate attempt to evade reality. Light warms his sleeping bag. He is moist with morning dew. His clothes and hair are damp. The sidewalk is on him. Yawning, he examines his environment.
At this moment, across the street, a financier stands watching Matt from behind large panes of glass that act as walls for his office. In winter, the financier feels as if he works in a snow globe, though he is not sure if he is a centerpiece or a prisoner, the saved or the damned. He observes Matt scan the street, roll his sleeping bag, then stuff it hastily into his backpack. The financier is dressed in a crisp blue suit with a snow white shirt. His starched collar cuts into his neck. Somewhere in the cavernous office behind him, a printer warms and shuffles, preparing to spit out paper. The documents on his desk are strewn about like frazzled hair. He thinks: These scum. Leeches. They know what they’re doing. Why the hell would he work when he can just collect unemployment. Sickening is what it is.
Matt gazes down Elm Street. He sees the street sweeper turn a corner. A scratch ticket blows in the wind like tumbleweed. He notices an empty nip of Fireball on the curb, just below his shoe. The concrete reality of the morning coupled with his sobriety saddens him. He yearns for the fluidity of night—time with rounded edges. He draws in the frigid air. I need to see the lady today.
Like a specter Matt fades down Concord Street. He is drawn by a certain pull, a tug towards something higher than himself. He twists his head around to read the City Hall clock tower. Ten o’clock. Perfect. On Pine Street he passes Saint Joseph’s Cathedral, a mass of brick, aged bronze, stained glass, and soaring spires. A statue of the Virgin sits graciously, the Messiah attentive on her lap. No one is in the church, the doors are locked, the light is out.
Closer now: a right onto Orange Street, the route of the pilgrimage known like the lines on the palm of his hand. In front of the museum a modern sculpture stands firm in the shape of a mutated red “X” or “K.” Through the front window, Matt sees Nancy sitting at her desk, head down in concentration. Matt opens the front door, drawing stares from the Museum staff. He hurries to Nancy.
“One student ticket please,” he lets out anxiously.
“May I see your student ID?” Matt fumbles through his backpack and retrieves his friction-smooth University of Vermont ID, expired five years.
Nancy feigns validating the card. She surveys his broken face, his desperate blue eyes, tousled hair.
“Students are free today, let me print you a ticket,” she announces.
The ticket machine hums and spits out a lanky receipt. Matt clutches the pass and enters the gallery. He speeds past Renaissance and Baroque art, a room of modern photographs, a serene statue in-the-round.
Finally. There it is. Matt approaches slowly, his eyes beholding the portrait as one sips their morning coffee. He does not hear or think or feel—he only sees. Before him is Picasso’s “Woman Seated in a Chair.” She listens to him, she is sorry for him. Her skin is lavender, her hair black. One of her eyes sees him straight on, the other looks East—in a moment of weariness or fright. He inches closer, analyzing her distorted body, her legs and breasts triangular. The chair she sits on is striped tobacco brown and mustard yellow, in the shape of an upright bass. She is seated and standing simultaneously. Anticipatory and present. A black stroke of paint symbolizes her lips. To Matt they appear pursed, as if her mouth is thinking. He inches closer to see the brush strokes, then he takes a few steps back to see the forms. The perspectives.