Emily's Gallery

James Wall arrived to the tapas restaurant at around 7:00 pm. The night was colder than it used to be around that time of the year – mid September – maybe because it was about to rain after a long drought or maybe because that particular night was somehow special.

He sat and reviewed the menu with clinching curiosity as if he had never seated on that chair. He liked the suspense, the little details that made his regular visit to the tapas restaurant a unique experience every single time.

Habits, they say, are formed out of menacing self-awareness and in his case even more so. James carried a life full of dangerous habits and questionable company. His time, it seemed, had ran through him faster than it should have and his hopes were all like reflections on turbulent water.

His eyes, watery and weak met the doctor’s eye when he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. His nights became gradual nightmares of which he couldn’t wake up from and his ability to carry out a normal adult life degraded to the point where James found himself alone, shivering without control.

He knew that his disease was product of the irony of this, our world. Maybe if he hadn’t spent so much time complaining and being trapped by his own trivial demons, maybe if he could relive those moments he could act differently and not tempt the sadistic master of destiny. Maybe he could develop a pattern, a healthier, minimalistic conduct that would cast a defense against the Gods of luck.

Every Friday of every week he went to the very same restaurant, he examined the menu and acted impressed and delighted by all the options that were set in front of him.

The night was cold and then the place started to get more and more crowded. He used to hear the continuous banter that went on and on at the tables next to his. He could see those like him who were just passing by and being sentenced by their own mischief. But that night, he noticed a different thing, a new thing.

Across a couple of tables to his right a large group of what seemed to be work buddies had set a long table and they invited women, the count was nearly one girl for every guy, nearly – I reiterate – because there was a woman who seemed to be alone. She was there, she engaged in conversation with the others but her mind was elsewhere, or else James Walls thought.

He would start, as always with the Colombian potatoes and a glass of Duckhorn red wine. Then he would wipe his mouth twice trying to hide his aggravating shivers and follow up with a nice filet mignon, bloody but tender in the core, medium rare, like the folks use to call it.

The woman, fragile and soft mannered kept sliding her hand across her short straight hair, almost showing her vulnerable stance or her inadequacy amidst the whole situation. She carried a small purse and wore a skirt (not too short or too long) just a skirt that looked as appealing and interesting as sober. She smiled a lot too but not to catch any guy’s attention but more to fit in.

 James Knew those smiles, he understood how it felt to be dislocated from society, he knew deep down what that woman was going through and felt an urge to let her know that the Gods of luck do not hesitate to cash in all the insecurities. But he couldn’t do anything about it, his hands shivered, even more now that he was nervous and processing all those feelings at his usual table in the far back.

Hours went by and with the strike of a lightning the cold still night transformed into a loud and menacing monster. Pouring rain fell and fell as James Wall observed the soft mannered woman, and then, it happened. The girl stood up and started walking toward the exit.

“Had she arrived in a car?” James asked himself.

She walked out and started walking across the flooded street, right past James Wall’s window. He almost felt she could feel his gaze hunting her path and intentions. She just walked, soaking wet, under the Georgia rain.

He stood up, reached for his wallet and left a couple of hundreds on the table, then he rushed toward the exit of the restaurant and started following the woman.

Gargantuan explosions roared within the black sky. He could barely see her from the water that poured down his temple. He was freezing and so was she. They kept walking for at least a mile and half or two before she turned at an alley on Peach Tree Road and entered an alley. He followed and found a door illuminated by a flickering white light.

He reached for the door knob and entered.

James Wall found himself amid an elongated hall that had enormous paintings left and right. At first he wouldn’t advance for the floor was entirely covered with a burgundy rough carpet. That place seemed far too elegant for a chump like him, but there was not a trace of the mysterious short haired woman. He took his shoes off and put them next to the entrance and started walking ahead. The sublime paintings hanged adorned with the most magnificent frames James had ever seen in his life. He could even smell a unique aroma in that dark Hall of the arts.

But what was that place?

He sat at one of the benches and saw one particular painting along the hall. A painting of a field, a field of red grass and heavy black clouds. A storm it seemed to portray, a storm pouring down on a field where a modest wooden cottage stood and a man trying to resist against the forces of nature, carrying a dog inside, rushing to escape the might of space and time. A man that reminded very much of himself. His hands, they were calmer, his pain, somehow relieved. He sat there and felt peace.

He stood and tried to continue walking but he couldn’t, she was there. The woman he saw at the restaurant stood there soaking wet and with her sight fixated upon his. “Hi, I’m James” he said.

She advanced toward him and turned to face the painting. “Hi James, I’m Emily” she replied.

“I followed you here because…”  Emily raised her hand and interrupted James before he could enunciate his reasons, “The man, he seems frightened. He seems to be someone who doesn’t understand what’s happening around him and yet he tries to help that dog, I’ve always found that fascinating about this painting too”.

“Yeah, I thought he was… brave” – He commented.

“Ignorance and bravery are often mistaken by one another. This Gallery is my nightmare, James Walls, and you are part of it now”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re cured”.

James Walls didn’t know how to respond to such a statement. He felt rage at first but then he let it go and felt a chill that went all around his body and ended in his eyes, in a tear that went down his cheek.

“I’m cured?”

“I took something from you and now you’ll have to exit my nightmare and go back to the world as a new man, a different man. This is not my choice it is more like my…curse”

“Who are you?”  

“I’m the storm and the rage and a dreamer who occasionally dreams about sorrow and pain. This is your reckoning”

Emily smiled and turned her head towards James who was now pale and petrified. He started walking away from her, fast, fast as he could, running even toward the door. He reached out for the door knob, turned it and exited the building. He fell on his knees; his eyes were watery the storm has ceased to rage. He was alone on a sidewalk, his hands were perfectly fine, his shivers had disappeared.

A man who happened to be walking his dog approached James. “Sir, sir, are you alright?” – He asked

“I think so” - James replied.   

Thinking of Atlanta, Georgia