didn’t want to drive home until I’d calmed down because I had a feeling that would just be a recipe for road rage. I decided to go to the most calming place on campus I knew: the library.
My preference, both as a student and now as a contract employee of the college, was to hole up in the very back of the library. It was where the old and obscure books lived, and few students ventured back there. It was quiet and serene, the perfect place to read or just have a momentary escape from the world. It was my safe place. So I went there, hoping I could lose myself in a book.
It didn’t work. I picked up one of the classics, an old, worn hardcover that I’d wanted to reread for a while. But I couldn’t concentrate on it. The longer I sat there staring at the words on the page, the more worked up I became. All I could do was replay the encounter with Clancy over in my mind and fume about the way Mark was screwing me over all because he was threatened by me.
Clearly I couldn’t be alone with my thoughts.
As I left the library in a huff, I remembered a snippet of a conversation I’d had at the party Hayden had taken me to. I hadn’t been able to concentrate on much that night given the state I’d been in, but I did vaguely recall something about an impressive art collection just off the entrance to the library.
It wasn’t all that hard to believe I’d never noticed it despite spending nearly a decade at the college in various capacities. I was a creature of habit, frequenting the same places and not really taking the time to explore. Besides, every time I left the library my nose was pretty much always buried in a book.
Art wasn’t my area of expertise. Occasionally my sociology courses had touched on it. Years earlier I’d taken a class that had explored the connection between art and oppression in 20 th century America. It had been interesting and I’d enjoyed looking at photos of the artwork, but that was more because of the social messages conveyed within the pieces.
I’d never been the type to just wander around an art gallery just for the hell of it, but now I found myself wanting to be a part of Hayden’s world.
He said he wasn’t interested in art, but he was nonetheless immersed in it on a regular basis thanks to his career. I wanted to understand him. I wanted to see things through his eyes. And curiously, just from thinking about Hayden as I stepped into the room that housed the college’s art collection, I could feel my body relaxing.
It was the end of the day on a Friday. As was to be expected, there was no one else around. I was glad. I took the opportunity to slowly walk around the quiet room with my hands clasped behind my back, savoring the stillness. I’d pause in front of each piece that hung on the wall, reading the title and trying to imagine what the artist had been thinking when he or she had taken the brush to canvas.
The collection was nice, though it wasn’t as expansive as I’d envisioned. When I came to the last painting, I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I looked around the room and spotted a door hidden away in the corner. I opened it, thinking maybe there were additional displays in adjoining rooms.
Instead of being greeted by more paintings hung on walls, I found myself in the dark. “Oops,” I muttered as I stumbled over something. I winced when there was a small crash right at my feet, hoping I hadn’t inadvertently destroyed anything. Feeling along the wall, I located the light switch and flipped it on.
As it turned out, I’d merely knocked over a mop that had been propped against the wall. It seemed I was in a storage room of some sort. I was about to leave but then something in the corner caught my eye. Something was carefully wrapped in brown paper, but it was torn in the corner. I could see that beneath the paper was a painting.
Curious, I pulled back the corner so I could get a look at
My preference, both as a student and now as a contract employee of the college, was to hole up in the very back of the library. It was where the old and obscure books lived, and few students ventured back there. It was quiet and serene, the perfect place to read or just have a momentary escape from the world. It was my safe place. So I went there, hoping I could lose myself in a book.
It didn’t work. I picked up one of the classics, an old, worn hardcover that I’d wanted to reread for a while. But I couldn’t concentrate on it. The longer I sat there staring at the words on the page, the more worked up I became. All I could do was replay the encounter with Clancy over in my mind and fume about the way Mark was screwing me over all because he was threatened by me.
Clearly I couldn’t be alone with my thoughts.
As I left the library in a huff, I remembered a snippet of a conversation I’d had at the party Hayden had taken me to. I hadn’t been able to concentrate on much that night given the state I’d been in, but I did vaguely recall something about an impressive art collection just off the entrance to the library.
It wasn’t all that hard to believe I’d never noticed it despite spending nearly a decade at the college in various capacities. I was a creature of habit, frequenting the same places and not really taking the time to explore. Besides, every time I left the library my nose was pretty much always buried in a book.
Art wasn’t my area of expertise. Occasionally my sociology courses had touched on it. Years earlier I’d taken a class that had explored the connection between art and oppression in 20 th century America. It had been interesting and I’d enjoyed looking at photos of the artwork, but that was more because of the social messages conveyed within the pieces.
I’d never been the type to just wander around an art gallery just for the hell of it, but now I found myself wanting to be a part of Hayden’s world.
He said he wasn’t interested in art, but he was nonetheless immersed in it on a regular basis thanks to his career. I wanted to understand him. I wanted to see things through his eyes. And curiously, just from thinking about Hayden as I stepped into the room that housed the college’s art collection, I could feel my body relaxing.
It was the end of the day on a Friday. As was to be expected, there was no one else around. I was glad. I took the opportunity to slowly walk around the quiet room with my hands clasped behind my back, savoring the stillness. I’d pause in front of each piece that hung on the wall, reading the title and trying to imagine what the artist had been thinking when he or she had taken the brush to canvas.
The collection was nice, though it wasn’t as expansive as I’d envisioned. When I came to the last painting, I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I looked around the room and spotted a door hidden away in the corner. I opened it, thinking maybe there were additional displays in adjoining rooms.
Instead of being greeted by more paintings hung on walls, I found myself in the dark. “Oops,” I muttered as I stumbled over something. I winced when there was a small crash right at my feet, hoping I hadn’t inadvertently destroyed anything. Feeling along the wall, I located the light switch and flipped it on.
As it turned out, I’d merely knocked over a mop that had been propped against the wall. It seemed I was in a storage room of some sort. I was about to leave but then something in the corner caught my eye. Something was carefully wrapped in brown paper, but it was torn in the corner. I could see that beneath the paper was a painting.
Curious, I pulled back the corner so I could get a look at
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