There's Something Happening Here...

He pulls the large black dog, mouth frothing, hoarse from barking, into a the room beside the bathroom. He slams the door shut and jiggles the knob. The sudden quiet is deafening.

I'd only been upstairs on a few occasions, during prior visits, dashing up to use the only bathroom in the large sprawling house.

This artist house has always been a place of laughter and joy. During other visits I remember smiling as I listen to the banter while I skip every other step wanting to get up and back quickly so as not to miss anything going on in the rich mix of creativity and play.

Always music, always food being prepared, the aromas of bread baking and soup simmering, the fabulous familiar sounds of Buffalo Springfield or the Yardbirds accompany me up and back.

The steps are steep and high to accommodate the first floor's old pressed tin ceilings.

I have never had any need to pay attention to what else is on this second floor though I've noticed the four or five doors leading into bedrooms. Some are opened. Some are closed.

Now as I am commanded up the steps, now as I reach the top of the dim interior landing, I realize that I never noticed the door to the right of the stairway.



There.


Down at the end of the hall.

In the shadowy space I can now see that there are three of them. Circling. Guns, chains, leather. A grimy oily brown paper lunch bag that looks as though it has been opened and closed and stuffed in the leather jacket pocket hundreds of times is in the hand of the one smiling through a gap in his discolored front teeth.

No one is saying anything. They smirk.


I begin to leave my body.

This drawing of the door done using Sumo