The good news is that I finally got some sleep. The bad news was that when I woke up, I had absolutely no idea where I was. The first thing I remember is turning over and slipping my hand under my head. I expected it to slide in between the pillow and the mattress of a big, comfortable bed. Though why I expected that, I have no idea. Maybe it was all part of a dream that slipped away, completely forgotten once I opened my eyes. But where my hand should have been, where I should have felt the thick layer of foam on top of the mattress and the rumpled cotton sheets that still smelled like fabric softener, there was only a thick patch of grass and my wadded-up sweatshirt.
I was outside, lying beneath a rising sun with my book bag and suitcase stacked neatly beside me. There was a chill in the air--it was by no means cold, but I did find myself wearing a thick black coat I must have pulled out of my suitcase. Everything else seemed to be in the condition I'd last left it--except, of course, for me.
I wondered why I wasn't on the bus, and suddenly I worried that I'd missed the transfer. I must have. All things considered, though, the lawn I found myself lying on top of was rather nice. The grass was a nice, bright green that only barely needed trimming. Off to the side was an empty parking lot that looked especially clean. I suppose I'm used to seeing places like this filled with old slips of paper and candy wrappers and the discarded cups of fast food joints still sloshing full of melted ice and leftover Coke. So I'm easily impressed by a clean parking lot--what can I say? Anyway, the grass I woke up on was midway between the parking lot and a sprawling, flat building the color of sand. There was a mass of black railing covering the front of the building and what appeared to be a drainage ditch running in front of it like a moat.
I walked up to the edge of the ditch and its concrete slopes. There was a walkway crossing over it to the main entrance of the building, and beneath it, near where the supports met the slopes below was an archway, which covered what looked to be some kind of path that ran alongside the trench. On the far side of the ditch was another long patch of grass that stretched around the side of the building, and on top of this small lawn were several large, bare metal sculptures of insects. The one closest to me was a dragonfly.
I still wondered where I was as I followed the ditch to the main entrance. Light posts were erected around it, all of them bearing flags with the name of the building: Roswell Museum and Art Center.
Of course.
A few loose ends connected in my mind, and I started to remember what I'd done the night before. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a folded flyer. The bottom was marked with the name of the museum and the address. It was an advertisement of an exhibit that was about to close. Across the top was the title--this invisible machine. It was written in a thin, black font; all the letters lower-cased. The artist's name, Evan Grayson, was written just below in the same style. Needless to say, it wasn't the sort of headline that catches one's attention. But in my case, the picture in the very center was what drew me to it. It was the photo of a figure made up of a large amoeba-like body and several attached small cables that I could tell, even in a still photo, were meant to writhe and wave. I had seen this before. If not this, then something like it. I'd seen it back home--a person, a neighbor, maybe, from the corner of my eye. This was what I had been looking for. I knew it.
Instead of waiting on the next bus, I did the only logical thing my sleep-deprived, coffee-addled mind could imagine. I went looking for answers. I grabbed my bags and the flyer from a bulletin board on the bus station wall and started walking, with only a cheap tourist's map and the directions on the flyer to guide me.
It didn't take long. I don't remember it taking long, at least. Time sort of ran together at some point last night. Anyway, I found the museum, set down my belongings, and began to wait. I didn't care how long it would take for the place to open. I had to see this exhibit. According to the flyer, today (or at least the date I thought was today--the days were running together, too) was the last day, and I was prepared to do anything for just a look. Validated, I fell asleep on the grass and awoke with a blank slate. I was ready for a brand new day.
I was outside, lying beneath a rising sun with my book bag and suitcase stacked neatly beside me. There was a chill in the air--it was by no means cold, but I did find myself wearing a thick black coat I must have pulled out of my suitcase. Everything else seemed to be in the condition I'd last left it--except, of course, for me.
I wondered why I wasn't on the bus, and suddenly I worried that I'd missed the transfer. I must have. All things considered, though, the lawn I found myself lying on top of was rather nice. The grass was a nice, bright green that only barely needed trimming. Off to the side was an empty parking lot that looked especially clean. I suppose I'm used to seeing places like this filled with old slips of paper and candy wrappers and the discarded cups of fast food joints still sloshing full of melted ice and leftover Coke. So I'm easily impressed by a clean parking lot--what can I say? Anyway, the grass I woke up on was midway between the parking lot and a sprawling, flat building the color of sand. There was a mass of black railing covering the front of the building and what appeared to be a drainage ditch running in front of it like a moat.
I walked up to the edge of the ditch and its concrete slopes. There was a walkway crossing over it to the main entrance of the building, and beneath it, near where the supports met the slopes below was an archway, which covered what looked to be some kind of path that ran alongside the trench. On the far side of the ditch was another long patch of grass that stretched around the side of the building, and on top of this small lawn were several large, bare metal sculptures of insects. The one closest to me was a dragonfly.
I still wondered where I was as I followed the ditch to the main entrance. Light posts were erected around it, all of them bearing flags with the name of the building: Roswell Museum and Art Center.
Of course.
A few loose ends connected in my mind, and I started to remember what I'd done the night before. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a folded flyer. The bottom was marked with the name of the museum and the address. It was an advertisement of an exhibit that was about to close. Across the top was the title--this invisible machine. It was written in a thin, black font; all the letters lower-cased. The artist's name, Evan Grayson, was written just below in the same style. Needless to say, it wasn't the sort of headline that catches one's attention. But in my case, the picture in the very center was what drew me to it. It was the photo of a figure made up of a large amoeba-like body and several attached small cables that I could tell, even in a still photo, were meant to writhe and wave. I had seen this before. If not this, then something like it. I'd seen it back home--a person, a neighbor, maybe, from the corner of my eye. This was what I had been looking for. I knew it.
Instead of waiting on the next bus, I did the only logical thing my sleep-deprived, coffee-addled mind could imagine. I went looking for answers. I grabbed my bags and the flyer from a bulletin board on the bus station wall and started walking, with only a cheap tourist's map and the directions on the flyer to guide me.
It didn't take long. I don't remember it taking long, at least. Time sort of ran together at some point last night. Anyway, I found the museum, set down my belongings, and began to wait. I didn't care how long it would take for the place to open. I had to see this exhibit. According to the flyer, today (or at least the date I thought was today--the days were running together, too) was the last day, and I was prepared to do anything for just a look. Validated, I fell asleep on the grass and awoke with a blank slate. I was ready for a brand new day.
No comments:
Post a Comment