A Little Help

Every so often I find myself looking back. Back to those seemingly legendary “good old days” where I was a kid and my parents took care of me. To my high school days when I realized my dream of becoming an artist… but then coming back to the reality that I didn’t put any effort in honing my craft or style until NOW. The relief I felt from finding my dream was apparently so great… I didn’t feel like actually practicing. Now in my thirties I at least felt like practicing and even had an idea of what my style is like. That said, practicing when you’re a kid and practicing when you’re an adult are very different things. As a kid you just draw. As an adult there were those ever present responsibilities you had to live up to… the doubts about pursing the life of an artist... the nagging feeling of “ah, why didn’t I practice sooner?!” … as well as the exhaustion one feels after coming home from a long day’s work... this and more always seemed to haunt me. For most this might lead someone to depression and for a time I admittedly was… But I am at least happy to say I am over this… I looked in my heart of hearts and, after reconfirming that I wanted to be an artist… I practiced just that. Art. That said, practicing such things in the life of an adult is a challenge… and sometimes almost insurmountable…

It was 11 P.M. when I got home from my cashiering job. Gotta love how retail turns you into a punching bag that can’t fight back. Granted at this point I was probably more of a “nuke” instead of a “punching bag” at this point. Just your friendly neighborhood nuke that, on occasion, was on the receiving end of a few jackasses with sledgehammers. One man even cursed me out at the register for giving him back exact change. Believe me, the desire to “go nuclear” was strong… and I probably would have if my coworker friend hadn’t intervened. Despite my efforts at staying calm I found out my face was beet red and I was apparently giving off heat. Having barely survived my shift without exploding I found myself just barely crossing over the threshold into my apartment.

Dragging my feet I looked around to find the mess I had been “growing” the past few months. A living room table seemingly buried in bills and old letters. Books and magazines everywhere… a couch with old food stains… and do not even get me started on the kitchen (really, don’t, it’s awful. Period.). I know I should clean but I was possessed and felt compelled to spend as much time practicing my art as I could. Sooner or later I’ll probably end up croaking and the authorities will find me a hoarder of filth. I could even see some random cop talking to the coroner looking over my mess of an apartment:

“Holy hell, what a dump. What was this guy’s deal? Drugs?”

“Worse,” said the coroner as he flashed a light in my dead eyes.

“And what’s that?”

“Art,” he said as he lifted my body off my desk with some of my rough sketches underneath.

Yeah, I know I should clean my place up… but AAAART! So once again I find myself sketching at my desk for three hours, eating dinner, showering, and fell right into bed. Come morning I’ll awake to the same messes, maybe at least wash my last bowl so I can have a bowl of cereal, and then head to work at 10. Even in my head I could hear myself sigh and say, “if only I had a little help,” before having another dreamless night’s sleep.

When all is said and done, 6 hours sleep is not a great amount. As such, I awake with a start to my alarm clock and my eyes seemingly stuck half open. Getting up from the bed, I walk my apartment as if I was wide awake. Having lived here for a year now I could, and have, navigated it in my sleep. That said, this morning was different.

Just as I was about to grab myself a dirty bowl from the very top of dirty dish mountain… I found myself almost falling over. For, when I expected to find a bowl, I found nothing but air. Receiving a blow to my stomach in the process. Now FULLY awake I got a better look at the kitchen. The mountain of dishes were gone. The counters white and immaculate once again. Almost as immaculate as the day I toured the apartment. There was not a speck of filth anywhere. Same could even be said for the stove. The stains from the boiling tomato sauce were gone. Same for the bits of pancake batter that fell out when I flipped it… and I didn’t quite catch it right. Even the spilled oil from when I was in my “tempura phase” was nowhere to be seen. Did someone break in to clean my apartment? Have I been sleep… cleaning? To be on the safe side I head to the living room to check the front door. But before I could even check the door, though, I was about to freak out… for the living room, too, was also clean.

For the first time in months I could actually see the living room table. Two neat piles of bills and letters were stacked at one end of the table. That said, I got reminded of the fact I used the horrific floral tablecloth mum had given me. It was at this moment I almost felt the table was better off covered in bills and letters… but it was only for a moment. Feeling a sense of refreshment at the tidied table I then go about checking my front door. It was still locked and there were no signs of a break in. Just as I was considering the possibility of sleep cleaning I then heard a familiar sound coming from the bathroom… so I headed there... but how could this be?

I mean, sure, I’ve done it tons of times before… but even if I was sleep cleaning… the washing machine wouldn’t STILL be running, would it? It was with this mix of confusion and fear that I headed to the bathroom. As I got closer I felt relief at confirming the sound of my own washing machine… but at the same time I could not help but worry about who, or what, I was going to find in my bathroom… So I tried to walk as quietly as possible as I approached the bathroom door… trying to hear for anything besides the washing machine. Making sure to stay still and listen with every lull the washing machine made.

In the end, no matter how I strained my ears, all I could hear was the washing machine. Now in front of the door I was just barely able to make out a rattling noise… but I just chalked that up to some of the magazines I had in the bathroom. I do tend to leave the bathroom window open, after all. So it was with this that I steeled myself, got my hand ready to grab the door knob… and quickly opened the door.

I did not see anything at first but I noticed in the corner of my eye something moving on the floor. In the next instant my eyes looked down… and with a mix of fascination and horror… I found everything that I ever drew… be it either the drawing of the “Homunculus Man” or of the renaissance inspired maiden bathing at the river… had left the pages I drew them on… were moving about… and were now all looking right at me. Were I not so out of sorts I might have screamed and run away… but then I remembered how much cleaner the apartment was… and looking closer I could now see that all my drawings were working as a group to fold my dried clothes. All while a second load of laundry was being washed.

“Di… Did you clean the apartment?” I asked the living drawings as I pointed over my shoulder... to which they all nodded.

“O… Oh… cool… thanks so much,” I added. Here, while it was difficult for some (sorry “Sad Man”), I saw that some of them smiled warmly at me… and I replied in kind as well. Looking at the time I saw that I only had 15 minutes before I had to leave for work and said:

“I need to grab some breakfast and head to work but… let’s talk when we get back… that okay?” to which all of my drawing lifted an arm. Though I could not quite make it out but looking to Homunculus Man, whose hand was actually big enough for me to see, I saw he was holding a big thumb’s up… and I took this as an “okay.” Without any hesitation I went to the kitchen, poured some milk and cereal, pretty much inhaled it, and then left for work. All the while trying to reason what I had just seen but also mulling over the question… how am I going to sell any of those?