Abstracts in an Attic

I'm eavesdropping in a bar again. This woman has an uptight sister, Barb, and old Barb's coming to visit. Barb won't stay at Peggy's. She insists on staying at The Old Creek Lodge, even though Peggy's place is "cute," it's "iconic". I suspect Peggy's place is a shithole but it's free. It probably looks like my apartment. Valerie sent the text message.

“Keep it open or close it?” The bartender placed a napkin down and set a pint of amber ale on top of it.

“Close it, please.” Valerie handed the bartender a debit card and simultaneously drank one third of her pint in one sip.

“😂😂 I love eavesdropping in on stories like that 🤣 read the text message response from Charla.

Valerie continued: They keep saying it's part of the experience, and, come on, it's Wyoming, sleep on an air mattress. I guess air mattresses are roughing it for the 50 year old set.

Tent camping is also out at our age 😂 quipped Charla. Another third of the pint consumed. Valerie was in her 40s and still enjoyed tent camping but that was not important to note because there was a second conversation taking place within earshot.

The guy next to me is kind of cute. He has a little grey in his beard. He told the bartender that he's the new bartender at The Old Creek Lodge.

Talk to him Charla chimed. Charla had always been an encouraging friend. On that note, Valerie finished her ale and set the empty glass down on the napkin.

Not tonight. I have laundry to do. I know where to find him later 😏

It was the truth but it was an excuse. Valerie did not have any interest in meeting anyone but did not want to come across as gloomy. Gloomy is a buzz killer.

“Thank you!” she called out over her shoulder to the bartender as she exited The Lantern Bar and Grill.

The wind in Wyoming during the winter impales pellets of snow into one's face with the delicacy of an airsoft gun, but it was early spring now, and the snowflakes were holding themselves still in the air long enough for each one to sparkle and vie for attention. Valerie felt like a princess living in a snow globe as she walked the three blocks back to her apartment in her knee high rubber fishing boots, her preferred footwear for winter pub crawling. She thought about how it was almost too late in the year to still be wearing them and how she would miss wearing them as they were really very comfortable.

Her apartment was a converted attic space in a historical building. As she climbed the narrow, steep wooden stairs that were no longer compliant with housing codes, her boots barely fitting on the treads, she thought how much she loved her apartment even if that old Barb woman would never want to stay there. She kicked off her boots in the entryway and smiled to herself. She kept her socks on out of necessity because the unsealed vintage wood floors were prone to giving her splinters.

The early 19th century rectangular kitchen was enclosed by four walls with a mere seven feet of worktop space against one wall which included both the stove and the sink. The refrigerator was in a space in an adjacent hallway where a closet used to be.

The kitchen was a long, narrow room, designed with the intention of holding a dining room table, but Valerie used this space as a library with a dark brown leather wingback reading chair, desk, and bookshelves. She had placed a full length mirror against one wall with a scale sitting on the floor next to it.

Valerie stood for a second in front of the mirror. “How the hell did I get this old? I can't believe I let myself get fat. That was dumb.” She laughed.

In her youth, she was small in stature, frail and pale, the epitome of the manic pixie dream girl trope, with long black hair and a goth edge. She knew men adored her but in a way that caused her unease. Back then, she didn't know what objectification meant but she knew she felt it and didn't like it. She had wanted to be liked by her peers but had been easily bullied by girls who were angry about the attention she received.

Staring in the mirror, she could not recognize the girl of her youth anymore and she did not miss her. She enjoyed the peace of living alone and the freedom of living on her own terms. She had learned to be assertive and to objectively weigh the values of others opinions, dismissing the worthless ones and holding in esteem the ones with merit and integrity.

Charla had been Valerie's defender and advocate since grade school. Charla was an indigenous girl with the strength of an ox and more assertive than an entire team of them. She did not care if anyone liked her and she could fight like a man. Charla, a devout Catholic, had married young and had been married for 30 years, whereas Valerie had embarked on a nomadic life with numerous failed love affairs, none of which held any sentimental value for her.

Valerie was a list maker. She had a bucket list a mile long that she had started in 6th grade. The only list longer than her bucket list was her list of excuses. She married poorly and divorced worse off than she started. Not once, but twice. She had children she couldn't afford. Her bucket list was scheduled for, “later, when everything calms down.”

She delighted in the familiar comfort of her leather wingback reading chair and came to the realization that everything had calmed down. She was out of excuses. The controlling husbands were gone. The children were grown. She sat there consumed with the self-awareness that going forward there would not be any one to blame but herself for her procrastination and the insurmountable number of unrealized goals she had accumulated on her extensive lists.

Valerie looked across the room and caught her reflection. Holy shit, I look like Picasso's painting of Gertrude Stein. She leaned forward allowing her body to take an air of superiority and confidence in the spirit of Stein as she imagined Picasso would view Stein. She breathed in the smell of the books and the cool air entering the poorly insulated space. “I should paint a self-portrait,” she bemused.

No sooner had she said it than the excuses began. I can't draw. I definitely can't paint. I don't have space to store art supplies. I should spend my money on my children.

She poured a glass of nebbiolo and stared at herself once more. I can do this. I can be my own Picasso and a poor man's Gertrude Stein. She sipped her wine and envisioned herself defying Nazi orders in Paris. Too bad I don't have Gertrude Stein's trust fund, she lamented.

The following weekend Valerie was sitting on a barstool sipping on a 7&7. It wasn't her usual drink. One of the patrons sitting at the bar had offered to buy it for her.

A man who looks like Father Time just asked me to go dancing the two step, waltz, and anything Buddy Helm plays. Valerie sent the text message to Charla.

Charla, the forever encouraging friend, texted back: You really need to write a travel blog.

I don't get service like I used to when I was younger. I am in the weird in between.

Is that the name of the bar?

No, I'm at the VFW.

How is it?

When you get too old to wear a crop top or a mini skirt, there's the VFW. Half of the people here are reading the TV, myself included.

Valerie closed her bar tab and started the walk to the grocery store. She was craving blueberries and dark chocolate. She was a fast walker, even in knee high rubber fishing boots. She took long strides and walked with purpose. Then, something caught her attention. It was Murray Stationers, an office supply and crafting store.

She stood on the sidewalk and stared in the window as if she was trying to put a name to the face of a forgotten friend. It was time to put the excuses to rest. As soon as she stepped into Murray's, she felt a head rush and a feeling of euphoria. She felt like Snow White entering the mine filled with jewels. In that moment, she felt that she was exactly where she needed to be at exactly the right time in her life.

Valerie's arms were full. She had only intended to purchase a few items and had not grabbed a basket. The customer service representative working at the cash register brought over a cart. Valerie said, “Whoever said money can't buy happiness didn't know where to shop.” The employee gave the obligatory customer service laugh. “It's a quote from Gertrude Stein,” Valerie offered, even though she knew the cashier was not going to care.

Valerie loaded up the cart, went to the register, paid, stepped out of the store and onto the sidewalk, at which point she remembered that she had walked there and had to carry everything home. “Why am I like this?” she asked aloud to herself.

She made it home with all of her bags and then stood motionless at the bottom of her stairs, for the first time not loving their historical charm, and better understanding old Barb's point of view.

After navigating the hazards of her historical stairs with arms filled with bags, Valerie sat on the floor in front of her mirror, a cup of coffee to her right, charcoal pencils to her left, remembering that she had forgotten the blueberries and dark chocolate. Her mind raced with visions of self-portraits.

She thought about how Picasso slept in late, spent late morning hours with friends, and painted into the late hours of the night. That certainly sounded like a more worthwhile use of time than eavesdropping in bars. She took a sip of coffee and thought, I'll text Charla when I eavesdrop in coffee shops instead.

Then, Valerie took a charcoal pencil, put it to the paper, and commenced to draw one of the most unskilled, inept, and blundering self-portraits imaginable. This drawing filled her with immense joy for the sheer fact that it existed, and it was what was missing from the portrait that gave her the most joy, for this drawing was absent of any excuses.