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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781524624989 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 08/17/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 176 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
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Nalapazoo
A Novel
By Troy Patoine
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2016 Troy PatoineAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5246-2499-6
CHAPTER 1
Friday
Mirage, California May 1983 (Now)
The weather was extremely warm for this time of year. Just 20 miles south of Hollywood, Mirage was fairly warm year 'round. Mirage wasn't as fl ashy or as populated as Hollywood — on the contrary: Mirage was legally a city, but it could have easily passed for an oversized town. The people who lived there were mostly middle-class. Most commuted to Hollywood to work, and at the end of the day, found their way back to the comfort and serenity of Mirage.
It was a beautiful morning, and the traffic exiting the city onto the freeway was as torturous and painful as any other morning for the regular commuters. Haste, efficiency, and common courtesy had no relevance on mornings like this when one made the inevitable trek each day toward their 9-to-5 destinations.
Ana Gromsnave often wondered what the destinations were for the few commuters not going to work, the ones who could be possibly getting away by escaping the proverbial road that represented continuous monotony for the others who traveled each weekday morning, Monday through Friday. She also wondered if someday she, too, would continue down this road without hitting the exit to Hollywood, never to return, to venture eastward to start a new life that could and would be anything but continuous monotony ... and sadness ... to experience something different — something inspiring. For most, this was the hardest part of the day — the moment that life began for these sad souls. For Ana, she wanted to believe the freeway was just a minor detour and slight inconvenience. The first exit that came up would bring her toward her daily destination: Mirage Community College.
Unfortunately, there was no other way to get to the college from where she lived. She had to take the freeway. Because of the lack of time she actually spent driving on the freeway, she was usually in a good mood. Today was different, though. Today was the anniversary of the death of someone very close to her, someone she tried years ago to forget but, with subtle reminders over the years, ultimately could not. One such reminder, a tiny flask, was perfectly concealed snugly under some tissues in her car's glove compartment. It was a reminder that she would like to quit completely, and although she had come a long way in three years, she had not yet found the courage to eliminate certain temptations. Ana was content with her job, but that wasn't always the case. She was either teaching, grading work, or dealing with a boyfriend she rented a house with who, like her, was also an alcoholic. And she was about to hit her midlife crisis years before some would consider such a thing due.
When she arrived at work and pulled into her reserved parking spot that she had enjoyed for the last three years, students were already coming to and from their respective classes. She wasn't late — not this time, anyway. However, Dr. Steven T. Dualface, dean of the college, stood at the entrance of the art department. As he stood there with his morning coffee in both hands, he made a point to greet all the students who walked by. Ana had been spoken to on several occasions regarding her punctuality, but it had been a while since her last "friendly lecture" with the dean.
As she got out of her car, briefcase in one hand, a decaffeinated coffee in the other, her strawberry-blonde, shoulder-length hair blowing in her eyes, she found it quite challenging to shut the car door with her right leg as she fumbled with her car keys. A young male student, probably 19 or 20, saw her struggle and quickly came to assist her. After thanking him and walking toward the art department, while greeting some of the students walking by, she couldn't help but notice that Dr. Dualface was keeping her in close observation. Some might have considered this behavior paranoia. However, Ana had been relatively sober for three years, and although her track record was not horrible, it was still less than par for the course in the opinion of a few certain administrators — mainly the man watching her as she made her way into the building.
Ana was at a crossroads in her life. She knew it, her boyfriend knew it, and her closest friend at school knew it. She had made great progress in her recovery, but the journey wasn't over yet, and that was the hardest part. Is it ever really over when you're a recovering alcoholic?
Before taking the position as an art professor, she had been a freelance artist. Originally she assumed she could earn a decent living for work on commission, and at first she did okay. However, it wasn't long before her brushes and easel were replaced with long nights of heavy drinking and depression. Eventually, all that she ended up painting was a life destined for misery. At first, it was the quality of her work that diminished, then her clientele waned, her bills caught up with her, her health began to suffer, and everything in her life began to spiral downward with great haste. But then she met Ray Hammond, another alcoholic who was trying to turn his life around, and things, at first, got a little better.
When she got to the front door, the dean, who was obviously waiting for her, tried his best to give the impression that her sudden arrival had caught him completely off guard.
"Oh, good morning, Ana. Hot one today, huh?" Dr. Dualface was of average height: 5'10", slight athletic build, in his mid-40s, male-pattern baldness, slight reddish, brown hair, shirt and tie with the sleeves rolled up halfway between the wrists and elbows, trying to look about 20 years younger.
"Good morning to you, Steven. Yeah, it is hotter than usual for this time of year. See ya' guarding your morning pick-me-up with both hands."
Steven nodded and constructed, in Ana's opinion, a plastic smile. He was one of the few administrators with a Ph.D. who didn't mind answering to his first name.
"Well, ya' know, have to watch these students who are up at all hours of the night, and some of the faculty," he added, as he gave her a wink. "You're bright and early this morning." She never did care for his sarcasm, but it was his condescending and sexist nature that really ate her up inside. She also detested how he patronized some of the other administrators, those not of the male variety and part of the "boys' club." Dr. Dualface was a man who was quick to look down at his male peers, and even quicker to look up his female peers' skirts. His style evinced nothing but complete vexation in Ana toward him. Nevertheless, she played the game — had to. It was a man's world, and she was a woman in it with a not-so-great track record and a mountain in front of her that showed no sign of the top — not yet, anyway.
"Allow me to walk with you." She quickly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. As she walked, she could have sworn he was checking out her ass. She quickly looked ahead to give the impression that she hadn't noticed his unwanted glance.
"Of course," she politely replied as she walked with him in the direction of her classroom. It was time to radiate a little of her own plastic.
The conversation was cordial. No matter how often she had these several-minute engagements with the dean, she never felt less than stressed. This time was no different. Although she had been spoken to before about her lack of punctuality, exchanging pleasantries was not usually the overall goal, when regarding Ana, during his morning greetings. He wanted her to know he was keeping an eye on her. They all were, it seemed. It was an administration both infamous for acting greatly when it came to keeping their eyes on their staff , but acted little when it concerned the overall progress of the art department as well as the school and those who looked for individual growth.
As she approached her classroom, Dr. Dualface kept his pace and walked right by her down the hall, but not before addressing her with parting words:
"By the way, I like those jeans you are wearing today — it shows off the shape of your ... legs ... rather nicely." Ana breathed a sigh of relief as she watched him walk away and wondered if the man would ever consider politics as a new career. She shook her head, unlocked her classroom door, and entered the dark room. What a pig, she thought as she shut the door behind her.
She had made it a habit to keep the shades in her room closed after classes when she occasionally had to relieve herself of the stresses that were inflicted upon her by Dr. Dualface and some other administrators. She hadn't resorted to that remedy in a while, but the thirst of her addiction still presented itself each day. It was true, alcohol had caused a lot of trouble and heartache for her, and it was a sickness. However, it was also a quick fix for problems that seemed to never go away on their own, at least, not for Ana.
Her first class wouldn't start for another hour, and since she was prepared for the day's activities and still stressed from her morning encounter with Dr. Dualface, she did what she had always done since she had been a child when feeling stressed: she painted. Three years ago, when her art career was at an all-time low, the bottle would suffice. Even to this day, if the situation warranted it, relief was only a short walk away in her bottom desk drawer, which was locked for safekeeping.
Nowadays, it was rare for her to even contemplate going to the drawer for the whiskey, but it was there, always there if things got a little ... over the top.
Although she hadn't completely quit, she hadn't been totally incapacitated in seven months. The fact that she had gone more to the easel than to the drawer produced a strong feeling of accomplishment and pride in her. She knew she was not completely cured, but she felt as if each day was a day that increasingly distanced her from the demons of her past.
She still felt uneasy about her conversation with Dr. Dualface. Why does he have to be such an asshole? She looked toward the desk drawer. Several minutes went by. She had been so good for so long in keeping her burden at bay. She often wondered if the students were ever aware of the days when she was a little "under the weather." Of course they know. If it weren't for that fucking prick, Dualface, I' d be completely rid of the damn booze. She knew deep down it was impossible to blame her disease on any one person, let alone Dr. Dualface. But she also knew he didn't help matters much, either. Nonetheless, it was something that she had to overcome, not Dr. Dualface, or the demons of her past.
She looked past the desk drawer this time to the white canvas that was firmly attached to the easel, grabbed a brush, and dipped it into the paint. She didn't have to even consider or contemplate what the theme of the painting would be, though the actual painting was a little foggy to her. Months of thinking and obsessing coupled with this morning's commute had confirmed the theme: The theme would be freedom and hope.
The day proceeded like any other school day for Ana. Classes came, classes went. She gave a quick lecture, the students proceeded to work on their latest projects, and Ana moved about the classroom and helped with positive feedback or constructive criticism where needed. Earlier in her relatively short career, her classes were filled with more enthusiasm. Her love for her craft radiated from her like the welcome warmth of a fire on a cold, dark winter's night. Over time, however, her ability to motivate students waned, and her abundance of enthusiasm became almost nonexistent. What she lacked in enthusiasm she made up for in cleanliness. No matter how bad things got for Ana, she was always a stickler for keeping the classroom neat and clean. Even her home was spotless. Neighbors would swear that one could eat off the floors. At home, she had to keep it clean. After nights of heavy drinking that involved Ray and/or her, she felt inclined to clean it the next morning, and in some cases that very night, to give the impression to her and others that nothing had even happened. It was her compulsive way of eliminating the ugly. And though her classroom was always spotless, it was not from the assistance of her students. She had cleaned up for them, Ray, and even her father many years before. The only place in her life that was ever denied a thorough cleaning was the closet.
Ever since her childhood, she had a phobia of spending more time than was necessary in a closet since — exactly why she could not remember.
It was 4 p.m., and her last class, Draw I, an elective most first-year students took to satisfy graduate requirements, was just beginning.
The classroom wasn't very big compared to other college classrooms, and wasn't even a fifth of the size of a standard lecture hall. It held roughly 15 students. Space was ample, given that desks were not needed. Work benches and plenty of open space in selected areas reserved for easels and chairs plus numerous art supplies accommodated the students' every requirement for success in this specific class.
As a whole, Ana's students generally liked her. She was easygoing, fair, and never failed anyone, that is, unless they just didn't show up. She wasn't too much older than them, either, so she could somewhat relate to them and they with her.
The end of the school year was approaching. The students were exhausted and anxious, as was the administration. Most, if not all, were going through the motions, wishing the days by so that the summer break would come quicker. Ana's class was no different.
Her class had been working on their finals. She had given them a choice: a painting of a still life, perception, live drawing, or stippling. By next Thursday, the students would be done, she could grade them, and the school year for Ana and most of her students would be complete. Some of the work was pretty good, in Ana's opinion. However, some of the work, she thought, seemed to lack enthusiasm. Was this a reflection of their attitude? She wasn't sure. Either way, a certain amount of energy was missing. When she mentioned it to her colleagues, they assured her it was probably just the kids themselves, eager for the summer break. Ana wanted to believe that, but deep down she couldn't help but think that maybe she was partly responsible because she felt as if she had lost some of her spark. As the saying went, "attitude reflected leadership."
As Ana was lost in thought, contemplating her situation at home with her boyfriend and the significance of today's anniversary, one of her students, a young girl about 19, who sat at her easel not more than 10 feet from Ana, spoke up:
"Ms. Gromsnave!" Ana looked up slowly, as if coming out of a trance, and directed her attention to the student.
"Hmm ... I'm sorry, what?" Some of the students snickered and laughed while others shook their heads. They had from time to time observed their teacher spacing out.
"The door — someone's knocking at the door." Obviously embarrassed, she shook he head, laughed, and got up to greet whoever was interrupting her class.
"Thank you, Chrissy," she said as she got up to greet the unexpected intruder. "And you, Mr. Miller," she said to the boy who was still laughing as she walked toward the door, "I hope your sense of humor is as fresh and intact as it is now when you see your final grade." Most students laughed while Brent Miller smiled and slumped sheepishly in his chair.
"Hardy har, har," was Mr. Miller's tepid response.
When Ana opened the door, she was relieved to see her colleague and best friend, Mary Bergeron. Mary, who was also an art professor, had been there for 15 years. When Ana started teaching at the college, Mary took her under her wing and eventually became one of her biggest advocates. By the time Ana arrived, Mary had already achieved tenure and had the most seniority in the department. Mary should have already been named head of the art department at the college. Unfortunately, the administration decided to hire another man who nobody really liked and who had less experience than Mary. As stated previously, it was a man's world, and good people more deserving were often overlooked.
Mary was of average height, stocky, very upbeat and professional, and not without a sense of humor. A woman who was very much respected in her field, though she never sought the limelight, she was a trustworthy person who was liked by all. It was fair to say that Mary liked Ana from the start and saw an abundance of potential in her both artistically and professionally.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Nalapazoo by Troy Patoine. Copyright © 2016 Troy Patoine. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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