The Curious Transformation of Orry Hunt

From morning until evening Orry Hunt felt a tightness in his chest. It wasn't, he determined, a heart attack. This feeling was something different. It was a tightness that gnawed inside his gut and threatened to erupt, like a stream of bile, through his throat cavity and out his mouth. But the feeling was only temporary. It lasted a moment.

Still, he knew something was wrong.

He felt so foreign in his dingy two-room apartment as if he didn't belong here. Unfathomable dreams haunted him until he awoke, trying to recall what they meant.

After he had them, he seemed lost in a world of perpetual fog. He'd take his easel to the state park and paint, just to forget that strange sensation. Painting helped him lose the feeling of otherworldliness. Even so, the subjects he painted and the people ambling through the park to smell the roses all seemed caricatures in a twilight zone.

His conversations with his landlord and the welfare office where he picked up his check felt disjointed. They seemed to look through him as if he had no physical substance.

Everyone he met seemed polite enough, but still...

The only reality was his canvas.

He had lots of finished works scattered through his dingy apartment. Painting was a love he had ever since he drew his first cartoon as a child.

There wasn't room enough to hold all his canvasses, cramped against the south side of his flat. He took them to art exhibitions but sold few. At the park, he set up a makeshift booth so he could reveal his works to visitors. Most of the park goers never paid any attention, nor expressed any appreciation for his style.

The recliner creaked as he shifted his weight to let his eyes adjust to the murkiness, even as the sun streamed through the curtained windows. Broken furniture and hand-me-downs made up his living space. Anything he might find useful, discarded on someone's front lawn, made a home in his apartment. He couldn't afford the latest furniture.

Evening news broadcasts seldom made any sense to him. World conflict, the latest stabbings, robberies, and disputes rarely registered in his mind or drew his sympathy. But it did worry him every time he went outdoors. Too many weirdos were out stalking through the streets. They appeared so polite, yet they had a second life, like Russel Williams and Robert Pickton. He felt out of place in the world. A world filled with greed, corruption, and confusion.

Orry shivered. He felt cold, but the summer sun was out. He felt frozen to his Lazy-Boy. He didn't see the usefulness of getting up to do some calisthenics.

He had spent the last hour in his thoughts. The paperback on his lap held no interest. But Dan Brown was a prolific writer with a lot of accolades for the Da Vinci Code. Orry couldn't help but be jealous of the man's success. He craved the same kind of recognition. But the world hadn't noticed him or his art.

Through his open window, he heard the bustle of traffic on Bryson Avenue. Rushing pedestrians passed beneath his second-floor window without paying attention to the artist who might as well be dead.

He felt that way. Except for the landlord, nobody would discover his dead corpse until it had decomposed into dust. The world moved blindly on, and he was blind to its activity. The city jungle kept moving while he remained in limbo. Orry sighed. There wasn't much point in languishing in depression, he realized. But he found more comfort in spending half a day in bed than get active. He forced himself to get out when the sun shone. He'd drive to find a new park where he could set up his easel to paint. Once he was into his art, he lost himself with every brush stroke.

The light from a lowering sun cast bleak shadows into his apartment. The crimson walls had the effect of bathing his digs in blood. It only helped enhance his feeling of depression. He had, at times, considered slitting his writs, but he was more afraid of the pain than watch his life gush away. He had a bottle of sleeping pills, but thus far, the bottle remained unopened n his medicine cabinet. As if guided by some ethereal force, his hand appeared to freeze whenever he decided to make an end to his disparate life. His face in the bathroom mirror reflected disgust at the prospect. He knew there was something more to living than mere survival, but he hadn't found his real purpose.

Was there anything beyond creativity?

Orry rose stiffly. A raid into his fridge turned up a few potatoes, wilted celery, and shriveled onions. Hardly anything to even make a decent soup. That's when he turned to KD. Cheap, it filled an empty stomach. That was dinner, with a few thawed veggies to make up for lack of essential vitamins. His bottle of multi-vitamins was all that gave him the energy to survive.

As he boiled the macaroni, the fumes of traffic assailed his nostrils. It seemed that his place was some kind of magnet that drew in foul stenches from the street. It gave him headaches. Bryson was a significant artery between suburbia and the towers of the big city.

The macaroni on his plate didn't appear appetizing, but he forked up a spoonful and chewed rapidly. The sunset reflecting off the wall gave his lace tablecloth the color of blood. He'd have to get to the grocery store and bone up on bread, milk, and cheese. It would his last expenditure before the month was out or what was left from his welfare check. Fruits and vegetables were more expensive than a diet of hamburgers and cola.

He was a forgotten entity, the square peg in the round hole.

He kept telling himself that things were not all that bad. He had a roof over his head, with whatever cash remained to purchase a few paint tubes of oil. Without a hobby, he really would have taken those sleeping pills.

Rather than hit the sack, he took to his recliner to watch the sky turn purple. He picked up his novel and began reading. He still couldn't.t concentrate.

But the forgetfulness of sleep arrived.

II

He awoke in the night, not quite sure of the time spent asleep. A glance at the dials of an old fashioned alarm clock told him it was 4A.M. on a Saturday morning.

Strangely, the depression of the previous evening had given way to a state of serenity. It pervaded through his body, a sense of hope, though his state hadn't changed through the night. There was, however, something that gnawed at him, something that needed attention.

He felt washed, clean of fear.

The street outdoors was free from the usual day noises. The shadows on his wall danced in tune with the curtains of his open window. A mild breeze blew in. He took a deep breath of unpolluted oxygen.

He decided a walk through the local park would do him good, even if it was to get some exercise. He liked a night when it was most pure and free from busyness. He felt well enough to scout the territory to find a new place to set up his easel and work on a new canvas. Somehow it didn't seem very important for him to make money as if a divine force was reassuring him that he would become a success.

He enjoyed the clarity of his thoughts. The cobwebs of the previous week had disappeared. He had the urge to get moving and feel his feet touch ground in a walk through the closest park, just outside his door.

He took a quick glance at the community mailbox to see only the usual advertising flyers he never bothered to scan through. He seldom took advantage of special deals at the many grocery and hardware stores in the city. Studying them was just a way to kill time.

His steps were light as he crossed the street and through the park gates. The streetlamps cast pools of light on an empty street. He made sure to scan the area for any signs of human activity, but the night was calm and serene. The prospect of a robbery was always present, but he had never experienced any threats to his person or his wallet. He never carried anything of value worth taking.

The park, like the street, was deserted as he walked along its graveled pathway bordered by wild rose bushes, dogwood, and lilacs standing sentinel along the path. The path was well lighted, but as he knew the park well, he could drift off the trail without fear of losing his bearings. He left the track to rest on a park bench to listen to a brook babbling its way toward Vermillion Lake, a mile distant.

As he sat merely breathing, he felt a sense of urgency. Something called to him. The crimson light of a new day was steadily painting the Eastern horizon. Despite his peacefulness, he had to get back to his feet.

With a glance at the brook behind him, he resumed the path with quick steps. Still deserted in the early morning, he saw clearly that his destination lay ahead. He wasn't quite sure what beckoned him.

The park had more than once provided a place for meditation. He had, on occasion, spread his blankets to enjoy the sights of nature and observe families enjoy their own picnic lunches on the broad lawns. Just to soak up the summer sun was reason enough for a break from the hectic pace of human life.

It was in this park that Orry set up is paintings, leaning them against the trunk of oaks and maples to let park goers get a view of his work. While he worked on his latest masterpiece, they viewed his work, but seldom bought.

They weren't all about nature. Whenever he woke up restless, he took his paints and easel. He just painted the wet streets after a rainstorm. He loved the reflection of the streetlights as they shed prismatic colors of raindrops. Those works drew some interest as the locals recognized their environment in acrylic and oils.

The only art that sold reasonably well were his eight by ten pieces. He could price them within the budgets of most people. Any work of art required labor. It wasn't about slapping a few paints together within a few minutes to create a masterpiece. But everyone wanted something for nothing down. Orry knew the cost of the work he did. The price for a finished canvas was reasonable and had to cover his overhead. When supplies ran low, and he wasn't able to afford paints, he constructed pen and ink drawings to keep the creative juices flowing. They sold.

He felt strangely exhilarated. Something just ahead seemed to whisper assurances. His lifestyle was about to change. He would discover a reason for his existence.

Time and space were meaningless.

Ahead, close to where the path ended, two oaks spread their branches above the pathway, an archway beyond which he observed a broad expanse of water, more than just Vermillion Lake. A charming patio enclosure fenced in by a border of bougainvilleas, and lilacs. The patio framed a background sea where a sailboat drifted by in a mild summer breeze. To the far right, he spied an unpainted canvas on an easel. It was begging him to reveal to the world a charming picture of paradise. He was drawn to it, the paints waiting for his touch. Orry just knew a Japanese woodblock style in color and form would make for lovely art.

He took a quick unconcerned look about him, observed a few joggers running along the creek and a group practicing Tai Chi. In this era, he was still a misplaced unknown.

What mattered was that a new dimension had opened up between the oaks, a dimension to a better world. He came to a decision. The portal would not remain open much longer. He would enjoy more peaceful times where people cared more for one another than in a world where love did not appear to exist. He felt a sense of comfort in this new world as he stepped under the oaks' cathedral archway. The blank canvas beckoned his touch as he picked up a new brush. He had stepped into new shoes, the shoes of a master of impressionism La Terrasse a Sainte Adresse waited for his first brushstroke.

Once finished, he would sign it as Claude Monet.