A House, a Dog, and an Old Truck

By Morgan David

In 'A House, a Dog, and an Old Truck' the reader will get acquainted with Jeffrey, a mature art expert longing for a new creative start in his life after decades battling with painful memories. Jeffrey meets Stephen, an officer in the local police force, twenty years his junior. As their relationship progresses, Stephen helps Jeffrey emerge from his self-imposed isolation. In return, Jeffrey provides Stephen with safety, and helps him grow more self-confident. While they both realize that the age difference is not an issue in itself, they still remain secretive when it comes to their respective life stories. Until this finally catches up with them and events force them to open up to each other and win over their fears.

'A House, a Dog, and an Old House' is Morgan's first major literary project and is at heart an attempt to answer the question 'When is late too late for a relationship?' It addresses a range of powerful issues from betrayal, to domestic abuse and abandonment. Morgan's style is best described as analytical, with constant interactions between characters and with a good touch of humor and irony.

Morgan David is a multicultural European male writer. Born in France in 1964, he has lived abroad most of his life, from California to Denmark. He has spent years of his business life studying 'people from the inside', analyzing the drivers of human emotions throughout the prism of different cultural backgrounds and drawing parallels between ethnicities. Morgan has a keen interest in liberal arts and especially in piano music and European graphical arts. He finds comfort and depth 'in putting words on emotions' and in analyzing male-to-male relationships.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan David
• Release date: Apr 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798758049952

Morgan David

Morgan David is a multicultural European male writer. Born in France in 1964, he has lived abroad most of his life, from California to Denmark. He has spent years of his business life studying ‘people from the inside’, analyzing the drivers of human emotions throughout the prism of different cultural backgrounds and drawing parallels between ethnicities.  Morgan has a keen interest in liberal arts and especially in piano music and European graphical arts. He finds comfort and depth ‘in putting words on emotions’ and in analyzing male-to-male relationships.

Book preview

Contents

Part I

Early morning

The Farmers Market

Of Stephen

Lakefield High

Part II

The Baseball Game

Falling down

The Lumberjack

Reflecting

Police Station

A pre-dinner drink

Deciding

Of routines

Of obsession

Of a greenhouse

Of family and roots

Of uncertainty

Of connecting

Of an island

Part III

Of harassment

Of fear

Of instinct

Nightmares

Of fear again

Of indulgence

Of salvation

Of abandonment

Of maturity

Of jealousy

Of happiness

Part IV

The platinum ten minutes

Respite

Of darkness

Of windmills.................................

Just when you think things are getting better.......

Of self-preservation...........................

Of atonement................................

Of violence..................................

Epilogue....................................

Part I

Early morning

Jeffrey had always been a ‘truck guy’ as he liked to call it. One of the very first things he did when he moved to Lakefield, ME was to buy an old 1977 Chevy Truck. It came more or less with its original features from the bed liner to the factory steel wheels with hubcaps and beauty rings. Yet, the truck was literally falling apart with every mile that went by. It was screaming for some heavy-duty maintenance. The cherry-red paint needed more than a new coat. One could actually wonder if there was any paint left at all. The tailgate did not latch properly, and it was a miracle if the back bumper still held to the main body. And, forget about rolling down the right window, it was stubbornly rusted and stuck into place.

Yet, Jeffrey refused to see it. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it! he always said.

Anyway, it did the job.

The only improvement Jeffrey had conceded was a new digital radio aimed at replacing the old Motorola AM/FM set.

With a CD drive, please, Sir.

To which the used car salesman had replied, though internally only since he had to make his numbers, Who the hell still listens to CDs these days?

It was 7.00 A.M. and a radiant and beautiful August morning. Jeffrey was enjoying his twenty-minute ride to work. A routine, down Taylor Rd., then lakeside, Beaver wood, fields, corn, apple orchards, lumber... How could one ask for anything more? He was thinking about the day ahead of him, his coffee thermal mug safely wedged between his legs.

We actually do sell cup-holders you know, Sir, the car salesman had mentioned.

Well, they did not have those in 1977, why should I buy one? Jeffrey had answered.

The radio was tuned to his favorite channel, WBQA.

Hey, the Goldberg Variations! The 1955 Gould recording on top of that, he thought. Well, you either love that hypochondriac of Glenn Gould or you hate him, and don’t we love him?

A blue flashing police light appeared in his rearview mirror, and a short siren beep followed. He checked in the mirror, and it was a police car following him, signaling for him to pull to the side of the road.

What the hell! Who dares do this in the middle of Bach’s Goldberg Variations? Jeffrey said aloud. This should be forbidden by federal law. All right, Jeffrey, stay seated, your hands at a ten past ten on the wheel. This has to be some form of misunderstanding, he continued out loud.

The police car stopped twenty feet behind him. A policeman slowly walked towards Jeffrey and carefully checked the rear of the truck.

Sir, could you come out of the vehicle, please, Jeffrey heard. There’s something I want to show you.

He opened the door, unbuckled, and heaved himself out with his left hand, but not without grumbling, Damned, this bout of sciatica is definitely not over.

Being stopped on the road was definitely turning his mood for the worse, and he was getting ready to face some steroid-inflated over-tattooed cop looking like a gay porn star and wearing a hormone-inducing uniform or a doughnut-fattened order-bureaucrat who needs his quota of tickets before the end of his shift.

Jeffrey was often Mr. Grumpy in the morning. He saw any interference in his sacred routine as rude at best. Inexcusable at the very least.

Well, much to his greatest surprise the man Jeffrey was looking at was actually everything but a cliché. With thick and short curly black hair, a gracefully defined and lightly tanned angelic, yet manly, face, dark brown eyes that shone under long lashes and stared unhesitatingly at him and a closely-shaven angular chin, Officer S. Sanchez—what the name tag indicated—must have been five-five or five-six. Jeffrey was himself close to six feet, yet he felt smaller, simply smaller.

They both stood still, facing each other, for a few seconds. The moment was not awkward. They just looked at each other without any form of defiance. A plain unhindered need to see who the other person was. Yet, neither of them understood what was happening.

Jeffrey slightly tilted his head to the left, the way he usually did when his mind took control over his body, when he became professor Goofy, when he became the man, whose body was there but whose mind was floating somewhere in a Lalaland of wonderful thoughts.

Stephen pulled up a shy smile, and a range of tiny wrinkles showed up on his forehead. He squinted. He had to readjust his mindset in a heartbeat. One minute he was on duty going through his morning work routine, hoping to get this done quickly and hit the coffee shop for his morning cup of J. The next minute, he was standing speechless in front of someone he did not know. The man standing in front of him must have been in his late to mid-fifties, he was elegantly dressed in a neatly pressed light blue shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, pale beige chinos and a dark green braided leather belt. The graying hair on the side of his face was impeccably groomed. He wore his reading glasses in an unconventional way, not exactly on the top of his head but pressed on the forehead between the eyebrows and the hairline, the way air pilots wore goggles in those old black and white movies. He thought—and smiled internally at the same time—that it made him look like Charles Lindbergh or Amelia Earhart.

Sir, are you aware that your back bumper is ready to fall off any time now? This could be dangerous, Stephen said, as he walked Jeffrey to the back of the truck. Clearly the bumper was seriously contemplating committing seppuku any time now.

I can’t understand. This truck has been perfectly functionable since 1977. I’ll have to complain to the car-dealer, Jeffrey replied.

Officer Sanchez smiled at the man’s comment.

By now, Jeffrey’s art-expert eyes were literally fascinated by the thin, adorable wrinkles showing up on the side of Stephen’s eyes and by his regular white teeth. 

It’s OK, Sir, but you have to get this fixed for your own safety. I won’t write a ticket. I will just report that you’re going to take care of that bumper. Now, may I see some ID please?

Jeffrey pulled out a monogrammed Italian crocodile leather wallet and handed his Driver’s license.

You from California?

"I recently relocated here to Maine. Well, that’s like two years ago now. I need to drop by the DMV and get this license updated.’

OK we’re fine here. Just make sure you get this taken care of, OK?

I will, Officer, I will.

Where are you heading?

Downtown Lakefield.

Is that where you work?

Yes.

And...where is work?

Lakefield High.

Jeffrey felt he had to answer the officer’s questions not only because he was asked to do so by a police officer but also because some nagging feeling told him they would probably cross paths again. He had never been too keen on trusting intuition since it was a bunch of biased crap as he liked to put it. He was not one to ever answer questions about his private life. It was called private for a good reason.

Yet, he was answering. It seemed to Jeffrey that they were both being polite and courteous to delay the part where Jeffrey would have to drive away.

OK, Sir, I’ll let you go. Have a great day and remember to take care of that bumper, please.

I will, Officer.

Jeffrey stammered something that sounded like Goodbye and sat back behind the steering wheel. As he drove off, he looked in the mirror and saw the policeman turn around and watch him drive away.

Do they always do that? he wondered.

The Farmers Market

Like so many other American cities, Lakefield had chosen Reconversion. The old water-powered sawmills by the riverside, a stone’s throw from the city center, had been turned into a fancy Farmers Market. Newly relocated middle-class families could reminisce about their Boston or Portland lifestyle while enjoying Spanish serrano grilled sandwiches, outrageously-priced Belgian mussels with fries, over-chilled Australian Zinf and local organic brews. The hall itself was a well-thought-through project. The old saw wheels and planer were still in motion to the greatest amazement of younger kids. Well, at least for those who were not essentially obsessed with posting the moment on TikTok rather than enjoy the real thing. The food selection was all what America could expect today, from seven-dollar lattes with a sophisticated smiley face artistically drawn with Hershey’s chocolate powder on the milk foam to fancy West coast-style Dim Sums based on the principle that Sushi is so yesterday. Signs on the food selection competed in political and lifestyle correctness from truly vegan to lactose and gluten free or locally sourced.  No plastic containers, only recyclables, of course.

Be the place as it was, Jeffrey had taken a liking for a few good stores, especially The French Cheese Store.

Now, cheese was something Jeffrey had grown abnormally—his friends even said ‘pathologically’—fond of in the late eighties’ while studying at the Louvre Art School in Paris. He had become quite an expert in his own way and could spend fortunes on the right St Marcellin (Please not too ripe, it’s for dinner tomorrow only), Comté from the Savoy region (Is it slowly-aged or is it one of these scandalously artificially accelerated aging things they dare call Comté?) or Brie de Meaux (I want some pieces of straw at the bottom, please leave some of the straw, that is where the bacteria live).

The store assistants knew they were dealing with a connoisseur. They called him ‘Osama-Bin-Cheese’ or ‘Adolph-von-Lactose’ and dreaded the days when he came by. To be honest, the man was a handful. Well, more like ten handfuls actually. The staff even had a shift system into place. I had him last week. It’s your turn, today. He could literally spend a whole hour selecting cheeses for the week ahead, while patient, or lesser patient, patrons waited in line. Yet, he was a top customer and literally spent a fortune each time. He was a pain and knew everything about cheeses. Literally everything. No contest.

It had been two days since that ravishing Officer Sanchez, whose eyes had left such a deep impression on him, had stopped him on the road to work. And if—as the expression goes—eyes were indeed the mirror of the soul then his soul was sort of troubled and he hated that. Come on, men our age are over that phase, Jeffrey, he thought. It’s all about retirement plans and warm woolen socks when you go to bed from now on. You should know better.

Jeffrey pulled into the parking lot across the Farmers Market and headed towards The French Cheese Store like a merciless Scud missile locked on its target. He dutifully started terrorizing the poor junior shop assistant, explaining scientifically how a Petit Grangy can in no way be compared to an Époisse.

First of all, because both should never be kept at the same temperature. Second, because it is a crime against all commonly accepted cheese ethics rules to store it in full daylight. Third, and perhaps most importantly, because it should never—and I am saying never, as in never, never—be kept next to any form of blue cheese since everyone with basic and decent cheese knowledge knows that the bacterial floras hate each other. Now, did I make myself clearly understood here?

He had just paid for the cheese and was explaining to the now fully traumatized assistant that he would come back later during the week for a serious cheese re-stocking when he suddenly heard a somewhat familiar warm male voice say, So you know everything about cheese, then?

He turned around and Officer Stephen Sanchez continued, Hello again.

Stephen was standing in front of him, wearing neat tight-fitting yellow chinos and a navy-blue polo shirt. Jeffrey noticed that the color coordination was basically right but... Here, the mind of art history Pr. Belmont dashed away somewhere else in a pure defensive reflex. He reflected that Raphael often used a similar Renaissance color palette with blue azurite, ultramarine or indigo. The yellow of his pants was probably one shade too light. A Naples yellow, orpiment or lead-tin would have been more becoming.

To which his supervising inner voice replied, Jeffrey, stop being so nerdy and look at those eyes, those eyes.

Are you OK? Stephen asked with the sweetest inquisitive expression. Lovely wrinkles showed up against at the corner of his eyes. His body language clearly left Jeffrey no escape route. He stood tall keeping his shoulders back and his feet slightly apart.

That’s right. You’re the police officer who stopped me on the road two days ago. I promised I’d get the truck fixed, but I haven’t had time to get it done yet, Jeffrey muttered quasi inaudibly.

I know you will, but I’m not a cop today. I’m just Stephen, he said, extending a hand, smiling...and what a smile it was.

Stephen? I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry. Your cheese turn is next.

I’m not here to buy cheese. I came here to run a few errands with my tyrannical big sister. I saw your truck outside. I thought I’d look for you, actually...I felt I had to. But perhaps you could educate me about cheese?

Some other time perhaps. I have to go.

Stephen stood in the way. He was determined.

I’m not letting you go like that again you know? His voice went up one tone in strength. Stephen’s hand was now firmly resting on Jeff’s right forearm...

Jeffrey thought that it was not an unpleasant feeling. Far from that, actually. A tingle, a warm body contact, like the brush of a painter softly caressing a canvass.

Damn, why did this have to happen? he thought.

Well, I can’t, I’m busy. Already regretting his tone of voice, Jeffrey went on. "I am sorry, I haven’t had coffee yet. I’m grumpy when I haven’t had coffee. Actually, I am always grumpy. I am a grumpy old man. You have to forgive me."

Wanna grab coffee together, then? Stephen insisted, getting one tiny step closer.

I can’t, I’m in a hurry. Some other time...perhaps.

I don’t like rain checks, Stephen said, suddenly smiling in a way that stopped Jeffrey in his tracks.

Please not that smile again. Such a beautiful smile.

I have to go. Goodbye.

And Jeffrey walked away torn between shame and incomprehension for his own behavior. He was angry at himself, thinking that he was indeed a pathetic grumpy older man.

Well, he knew too well why he was running away.

Of Stephen

And that’s it for encounter number two , Stephen thought feeling like a neglected man. He was angry and felt he should have run after Jeffrey to make him understand... But to make him understand what? He had stopped hundreds of drivers on the road. That was just part of his job. This usually resulted in anonymous cases, computer ID checks, more bureaucracy, more paperwork, and more tickets.

But this time, things were different, although he could not fully comprehend why. He wished he was better with words. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself, but he was tempted to drop by Lakefield High and approach Jeffrey. Lakefield High was a large school and chances of otherwise bumping into Jeffrey were very slim. He would have to look for him cop-style and that would come way too needy. He had fetched his niece Manuela at Lakefield High literally hundreds of times, and he had never stumbled into Jeffrey even once. But then, even if he had met him, what could he have told Jeffrey?

HELL, HE MUMBLED, I’m thirty-five years old. I’m supposed to be able to handle these things. What’s wrong with me?

He was now back at home, feeling despondent and mad at himself at the same time. Stephen had never been a school-book example of self-confidence and hitting what seemed to be a glass wall between Jeffrey and him was painful. He felt rejected and at the same time he felt empowered. He decided not to give up, not this time. Enough was enough. Rejection was not an option, not with Jeffrey. Not in this day and age.

He was offloading the trunk of his Toyota Tacoma parked in the garage way of his sister Maria’s three-bedroom house, East Lakefield, with what seemed like enough shopping bags of produce, dairy, meat and seafood to feed a family of ten for a whole month, when it was only three of them, Maria, her thirteen-year-old daughter Manuela, and himself.

Five years ago, when the Ranger chapter in his life reached a new high in terms of abuse and neglect, he eventually found refuge and comfort in the ordinary suburbia family life of his sister. Who needs anything fancy and exclusive when all you need is someone who cares, someone who is willing to listen and someone who will not hurt you? Even if that means going to church once in a while, making sure to keep the toilet seat down and being forced to watch endless episodes of either Martha Bakes or Martha & Snoop or Martha Stewart Craft. There is always a catch.

What, what’s wrong with you? Are you sick? Not feeling well? I’m sure you’re not eating properly these days. I can see you’ve lost weight. When are you going to listen to me and eat a hot lunch every day? Has this Ranger guy been harassing you again? Are you overworked? I knew it, let me talk to that Lt. Stew of yours, and he’ll hear a thing or two from me.

That inquisitive outbreak of questions tolerating no answer, that ultra-protective Sherman tank of unconditional love was his sister Maria, a.k.a. Sis. Five-foot-one of love and choking care, Maria was the defensive shield of the family. Petite and lively, she was the good older sister on a constant God-given protective mission, a karma, an unconditional dedication. 

Talk to me, Estebán! She always called him by his Spanish name. It is Ranger again, isn’t it? Talk to me, tell me!

Well, I would talk to you if you let me do so.

Don’t you talk to me like that, Mister. I am still your older sister. Now, what is wrong, Estebán? Maria said, waving a finger at him. Never a good sign, nope.

There’s nothing wrong, and I am eating properly, Sis, he said as he grabbed the bags from her hands I just need some time to think, that’s all.

Well, thinking is not always a good thing to do. Trust me. When John started cheating, I dropped him off the rollcall. There was not a lot of thinking to do.

Indeed, Maria was the good sister, the diamond-crowned angel in the family vault of their Chilean family chapel, the slow-burning incense on the marble altar next to family silver-framed adorned icons, the Pietà of compassion, grief and love. She was like one of those church votive candles that seem to burn forever. Well, more like a box of ten heavy-duty candles actually. She meant good, just sometimes too much good, and she could choke Stephen with her mother-hen instinct. Yet, she was resilient and when her husband of ten years started running after younger suicide blonde bimbos with longer nails and bigger hooters (verbatim Maria), she showed him what the door was for. We may believe in God, but we are not idiots, she used to say. She was hurt, much deeper that she let it out to be. They could probably have worked it out, but she reasoned that Manuela and Stephen came first. Her life as a grown-up woman would have to wait. She had since managed to combine a demanding job as a nurse at Lakefield Hospital, her role of mother of a growing cell-phone-obsessed teenager and protection services for her brother Stephen.

Protection services? Nobody could have foreseen the tragic course Stephen’s life would take. As a matter of fact, in the beginning, everything looked innocuous, even banal. The boy Stephen was grew into a normal teenager. A teen who loved baseball more than anything, then into a younger male in touch with his feelings. Stephen never really had a problem growing up as a young gay adult. There was never any real question here. He did have a couple of rambunctious late teen years, as Maria used to call them. A little too much drinking and partying at times, casual sex with a few too many guys but nothing earth-shattering by today’s standards. School was never really his thing. He was a C+ student. Well, more like a C or a C- to be honest. He was just a normal kid growing into a young man. He simply needed time to adjust and a chance to find his way.

And that chance came when he got admitted to the Police Academy in Fairtown. He started settling down emotionally and physically. The Academy became the second home where he could find himself and understand what part he was to play in this world.

At heart, he was a good younger man, too much of a good man perhaps. They made easy prey for predators and that was where Ranger came into his life. Stephen was twenty-five years old. 

Ranger was a hormonal tornado, a juggernaut of self-confidence, a giant of alpha male-hood, a man without the simplest shadow of analytical abilities, without doubts, without the faintest understanding of self-criticism. A man who tolerated neither opposition nor disagreement.

And that’s where everything went wrong and nearly crushed Stephen to pieces.

Ranger was thirty-two years old at the time and was already on active police service. He took Stephen by storm, impressed him with his self-confidence. He blinded him. That is what predators do. Infatuation can be lethal. As for Stephen, the more dazzled he became, the less he knew who he himself was.

Ranger got Stephen recruited into one of the neighborhood precincts in order to own him. Stephen did not see through the plan. Ranger got him to move in with him. Stephen fell into submission. Ranger knew more, achieved more and decided more. Reversely, Stephen grew increasingly weaker and irresolute.

Maria witnessed a slow unredeemable downfall. Five years where Stephen gradually faded away. He stopped smiling. He would not visit on weekends and remained evasive when asked a question on the phone.

What could he have told her anyway?

Could he have told her how much Ranger relished putting down an always more subdued Stephen who was simply and desperately trying to be loved?

And how about the abusive sex? The more abusive it was, the more it turned Ranger on. And Stephen put up with it. Why? You will never find better than me, was Ranger’s undignified line.

Not to discard the side-springs, which Ranger started lining up on an industrial scale and which he no longer cared to hide when at the same time he unfairly kept blaming Stephen for being flirtatious.

Could Stephen have told Maria about domestic abuse? About the time when a drunken Ranger threw him against the furniture in a bout of rage, and how Stephen ended up at the hospital with several broken ribs explaining to the doctor that he’d fallen down the stairs, a simple domestic accident, doc.

Stephen had started believing that Ranger was right about him, that his own feelings were just pieces of crap. That he was a weak fag crying all the time. That he had to put up with the abuse because he would never find better than Ranger. 

Explaining that Ranger was in fact a frustrated insecure gay man afraid of aging was not easy. Yet it was the plan truth; Ranger was a man who had chosen the easiest possible way to fix his own problems, which was to get someone else to pay for them.

Yet, Stephen probably could have tried to explain, since he had a safe place to go and find refuge.

He eventually did.

There came a point after five long years of abuse when he realized he had to go back to the quiet Chilean Chapel of love called Home. He knocked on the door one evening around dinner time. His facial expression said it all.

He never left.

It took weeks, months of patience, but he finally found his way back up to the surface of the troubled water his life had become. He got himself transferred to Lakefield central. His professional records were excellent. The Force in Lakefield was lucky to have him.

Yet, he was like a wounded dog. Unconditional love heals only slowly when it is betrayed. Maria watched as he slowly found a new balance in his work and in his family life. He became the father Manuela no longer had. He rarely went out, and when he did, it was mostly on business social venues such as Fourth of July BBQ parties or the usual precinct Christmas dinner. He would always drive back home early explaining that he was tired and had an early shift the next day.

Ranger tried all his tricks to get him back, from threats to promises, from lies to confrontation, from luridness to anger. Stephen stayed firm, licking his wounds.

The outer world scared Stephen, yet he gradually realized that not all relationships were potentially dangerous. They did not necessarily have to be. But who could he trust apart from Maria? For a long time, there was no dating, no flirting, and no courting.

He was beginning to miss a comforting shoulder to lean on. He did have a safe place with Maria, but it was a transitory harbor, a cove where he had anchored but where he knew he could not stay. He started dreaming about a place to share with someone. Time heals many wounds...sometimes.

Then, was it fate or luck, or was it just his brains playing tricks on him, when he stopped the old Chevy truck on the road. The first two encounters had left him longing for more. For more time with this attractive mature man with his funny way of talking about his derelict truck. For a chance to lay a hand on the man’s right shoulder and look him in the eyes. Would he be offended? Would he remove Stephen’s hand? Or would he just allow the hand to stay put for a short while, the short while that usually means I like the physical contact with you.

Stephen’s mind was now constantly processing hundreds of pictures, mixing them with hundreds of words... The movie just did not make much sense, yet.

Lakefield High

Lakefield High was a model of well thought-through architectural and environmental responsiveness. Or so was the assumption at least if you asked the principal. It was a curvy-style red-brick construction with all amenities that today’s gentrified mid-class parents expected their kids to enjoy, from a Cafetorium —basically the cafeteria doubling as an auditorium—to a media center, science and sport facilities, and so on. School management prided itself in running a school building that was attractive and responded to and was consistent with the design and context of the neighborhood. That said it all.

It had been a long day. Not that Jeffrey minded, actually, but there were so many unmotivated, slouching, and ill-mannered, young students he could try to fascinate with the invention of a new sense of perspective in Italian Renaissance paintings or with Leonardo’s genius in engineering design.

Now, you all need to understand that Caravaggio was provocative, not only because he used street people, such as hustlers and thieves, as models in a novel manner, but first and foremost for his use of light. He used light to capture form, create space, and add drama to his scenes. Paintings suddenly became realistic and, at the same time, more dramatic. Painting was never going to be the same after him. Check this Crucifixion of Saint Peter for example.

But Mr. Belmont, the first thing one can see in this painting is not poor Saint Peter being crucified but someone’s bum in yellow pants, a voice giggled from the mid row.

Which unavoidably unleashed a thunderous wave of hysterical teenager laughs in the classroom.

"Quiet everyone! Good comment, Janel. What you are referring to is actually fundamental. What Caravaggio does here is called provocation. Plain provocation. Art is also political."

OK, the intricacies of seventeenth century Italian paintings could not compete with the fact that students were tired after a long day at school and were eager to head home.

Saved by the bell.

OK, everyone, I want your papers in my box latest Monday lunch time. Otherwise, you will all understand what side Mr. Belmont was on during World War II. And that side did not speak English. Understood?

Did anyone hear him at all? It seemed that a herd of uncontrollable migrating pachyderms was rushing out of the room. This was also where Jeffrey understood that elephants cannot multitask. They simply cannot snapchat and rush out of a room at the same time. It is physically impossible.

Is this what Armageddon will look like, everyone for himself? Jeffrey wondered collecting his laptop, his books and grabbing his bag on the floor, his back reminding him that that bout of sciatica was definitely not fully over.

Ouch, ouch, ouch, he whined.

He shut the door behind him and slowly walked his way out. It was a warm late summer afternoon in Maine and he stopped on the steps overlooking the city park to breathe the fragrant and tepid air. Spruce and maple trees were a feast for the eyes of the art expert he was. Creamy white leaves with a hint of yellow and red painted a refreshing dash of illuminating colors on the dark-green manicured lawn. Definitely a nice afternoon!

He paused to reflect for a while. It seems that Lakefield was indeed living up to its promise and that he was beginning to enjoy life again, an ordinary creative and fruitful existence. L.A. had brought him nowhere but to the feeling that he was withering and shrinking, both as a person and as an artist. The complexity of a complacent existence next to a multitude rushing through the same standardized lifestyle