Sarah Beckett - Installment 1

Sarah Beckett - Installment 1

A Chapter by ChristianThinker

Sarah BeckettThe soul is an unseen entity. This is agreed upon by most of the world’s cultures and religions. The existence of the soul is seldom debated by any but the most nihilistic and disillusioned. There is wide disagreement as to the purpose, meaning or state of souls but all who agree to recognize the existence of such also agree that it is not an object that can be seen.  Sarah Beckett believed otherwise. She believed, with firmness and resolution, that she saw her soul routinely upon entering the living room of her small Lower East Side apartment. Her soul, she was convinced, hung on her living room wall, housed on a rectangle of canvas stretched tight across a hardwood frame. 

     She had created this painting with its abstract forms of hard-edged geometrics juxtaposed with amorphous amoeba shapes rendered in brilliant and luminous tones of Sunny Orange, Parrish Blue and Chili-Pepper  Red accented with subtle highlights of Jasmine Green and in the far distance of the left hand corner just a small drop of Deepest Ebony.  She hadn’t been aware, in the 18 months it took to create this painting, that she was daily releasing her soul into it. That realization came one day after it had been hanging in her apartment for a week or so. She stepped into her living room as a ray from the sun was breaking through her windows and washing the painting with soft light. She stood transfixed at what she had created, unable to continue her steps, unable to look away for fear that the moment might fade and never return.  As she stared at the painting her breath stuck in her chest and refused to be released. She could feel a warm wave of emotion rising within her , causing her eyes to tear. The tears brought a new and beautiful perspective to the vision and as the colors refracted through those tears she collapsed to the floor where she wept convulsive sobs of gratitude and joy at the privilege of having created something of such deep beauty and meaning. Since that day, she had regarded the painting as the resting place of her soul, and at times, as her soul itself. She kept it cleaned, faithfully dusting it gently every Monday, Wednesday and Friday and was ever alert for signs that the sunlight might fade the colors or yellow the canvas. It was, after all, her soul for which she was now caring.
      
     This peculiar belief concerning her soul was not the only oddness afflicting Sarah Beckett. She had never been able to find a place for her peculiar colors amongst the oriental carpet patterns of any society so she retreated to the fringes and chose to bury herself in their thick, taupe threads. Her colors didn’t fit there either but at least she wasn’t disrupting the pattern and the fringes were thick enough to hide her obtrusiveness. She had barely escaped high school society with her mind intact, college was simply a four year repeat of the same with occasional stops at an oasis which might seem welcoming at first but always later revealed a pattern to which she was expected to add. Which was the more painful experience, she had often wondered, to face rejection beyond all hope to or allow yourself to believe that you had finally found your spot only to be rejected again later? 

      After College,wearied by both experiences, and certain of their continuance if she stayed in her backward hometown, she set of for New York City with the hope of making a living as an artist. At that time, she had thought how providential and fortuitous her lack of friends had become. No one had ever asked her to go to a movie or bowling or ice skating or a prom or anything else. As such, she had saved every scrap of money she had made since she began doing odd jobs at the 12. She had never spent money on a prom gown or a fancy hair-do. She had even made the decision to avoid make-up both for purposes of both frugality and anonymity. And so, she set off for Manhattan with her mother’s blessing and prayers, a healthy bank account, a surging sense of relief at having escaped the suffocating bonds of small town life and, fairly unknown to her, a storehouse of scars and pain that would be traveling ahead, prepared to meet her wherever she landed.    
     
     Sarah Beckett had arrived in New York City roughly 18months ago with plans of becoming a vocational artist. In that time, she had learned to navigate the subway system without a second thought. She had learned the locations of the closest and least expensive art supply stores, the bakeries that sold the largest and moistest blueberry muffins. She had also learned that artists of talent and skill are as common in Manhattan as pick-up trucks were in her hometown. She had secured her apartment before leaving home by using an internet service and was pleasantly surprised that the apartment had been even better in both size and location than she had imagined it would be. It was, nonetheless, very pricey. The savings with which she had left home dwindled rapidly in the first 12 months of her occupancy. At that point she found it necessary to find a job. She looked in the art field and even had a few promising interviews but always, she found herself suffering from her choice to pursue a Fine Art degree rather than a Graphic or Design degree. She considered her knowledge and passion for art and artists to make her a perfect fit for a docent position at the Metropolitan but she was not hired. She believed she was passed over because her plain looks and rural-American demeanor made her unremarkable compared to the cultured and exotically beautiful applicants from foreign countries and larger cities.  After several of weeks of job seeking with no results, she decided to lower her expectations. She found a job as a counter girl at a bread shop on the Upper East Side, an easy train ride from her apartment. It certainly wasn’t the kind of job you brag about to the people at home but bragging had never held much appeal for her.  It was 40 hours a week that helped to keep some money in her bank account and kept her close to the museums that housed the art which nourished her spirit and her dreams.
      
     She would arrive each morning at 5AM. The bakery’s owner, Mr Boulanger, had been working since 3AM mixing the dough and proofing the bread, readying it for baking. She learned how to use the long handled wooden peel to place the risen loaves in the large flat bottomed oven. With some effort , she learned to deftly remove the baked loaves using the same tool and place them in the softening cabinet. Every morning by 5:30AM the air in the store was thick with the warm, yeasty smell of baking bread and rolls. She relished the 30 minutes between the moment the bread began to bake and the moment the front door opened to customers. It was quiet, warm and beautiful, a tiny sanctuary of coziness in a city of millions. At 6AM, the door would be unlocked and in just a few minutes the store would fill with its first customers of the day, typically the commercial customers buying in quantity for restaurants and cafes. Their orders would be in the process of being bagged by Mr Boulanger and placed on the big multi shelved carts that separated the counter from the baking area. It took only a few weeks for Sarah to begin to recognize each customer by sight. She began addressing them by the names of their respective establishments. “Good morning Bruno’s” she would say to the man with the long red coat who picked up the loaves for Bruno’s Café, or “How are you today, Trattoria?” she would inquire of the man with the sloppy jeans who came after the rolls for Trattoria D’Ile. They seldom responded with anything more than curt smile and that was suited her quite well. It allowed her the opportunity to appear friendly without having to endure the excruciating uncertainty of actual conversation. The rush for commercial orders would abate by 7AM and then the commuters would begin to flood in. These customers wanted single loaves or single rolls. Many were regulars, either daily or several times per week, Sarah also began to memorize their orders and was often able to have their selection ready before they approached the counter. She would greet them with a warm, if distant, smile and quickly send them on their way with their choice of bread.  These were her mornings for many months. She had walked unknowingly into the numbing and insulating comfort of routine in the midst of a city renowned for its chaos and tumult.
      
     Around 2PM each day, she would leave the bakery with a loaf or bag of rolls that had remained unsold for the day. She knew that after she left, Mr. Boulanger would dispose of the unsold bread, taking it to dumpster behind the building. She had often wondered to herself why he threw away all the unsold bread instead of giving it to a shelter or food pantry. One afternoon, with no prompting from her, he offered a story.  He had begun to prepare the unsold bread for disposal a little earlier than normal. As she watched him stuffing the bread into garbage bags he said, “I know you’re wondering why we throw it away every day, Am I right? Am I right?” She was uncertain how to respond without offending him so she just gave a shy, and, she hoped, meaningless, smile of assent. “Can’t take a chance with my family’s future”, he continued as he stuffed loaves and rolls into bags, “Know a baker in Jersey who used to give all his leftovers to one of them homeless places. Turn out that one day a little set-screw had gotten loose and fallen off his dough mixer right into a loaf. Baked it right in. Some bum at the shelter gets the loaf with the screw, bites into it and cracks a tooth. Bum sues the baker and the guy ends up having to sell everything he had to pay off the bum and the lawyers. Had a nice house, nice car and now his family’s in a little flat and taking the train. Lost everything. Works at a casino now serving drinks for a couple bucks an hour and tips. Can’t take that kind of chance with my family’s future, so into the dumpster it goes. The bums find it there anyway. Bet there’s two or three of them out there waiting right now.”  Sarah nodded at Mr. Boulanger as sign of understanding and hoped he didn’t notice the hot red blush that she could feel rising in her face. She was surprised and slightly ashamed at her own lack of understanding of the complexities of such things and embarrassed that she had, silently, judged him as being either clueless or selfish. It had seemed so simple to her. People need bread, you have bread you don’t want, give it to the people who need it. She had no idea that a seemingly simple act of kindness could be so risky and dangerous.


© 2014 ChristianThinker


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Added on February 21, 2014
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Author

ChristianThinker
ChristianThinker

Syracuse, NY



About
I always see a lot of things. Often, I write about what I see. Sometimes I let other people read what I've written. Seldom am I brave enough to stick around until they've finished. more..

Writing