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On the Nile
by Feech
Damn this apartment anyway.
That's the third pair of slacks I've had
ruined by water dripping from the rusty pipes in
the ceiling. I'll never get the stain out. If it
weren't for the place being so cheap, considering
the location, I sure as heck wouldn't be putting
up with this kind of shit.
Then again, maybe I would... It's hard to
tell how far I'd really go with a complaint, if I
started getting those "looks"... Mild expressions
of disgust take on a whole new meaning when you
can be reasonably sure they're all directed at
you.
And now my decent clothes ruined, to boot.
Dignity doesn't seem to be my strong suit
nowadays.
And speaking of location, it's the river
itself being so close that attracts droves of
cockroaches to my humid little basement apartment.
Since my change, I haven't been able to lay a hand
on a one. It's the thought of... Well, of
someone, anyone, being reported missing the next
day... So the place is completely overrun and I,
as is so often the case with everything these
days, simply put up with it.
Besides, we vermin have to stick together,
eh?
The art department at the University of Iowa
is an excellent one. Which is chiefly why I came
here.
Then why am I a Political Sciences major?
That's easy. Barely any job market for
graduates of the Political Sciences, especially
when one is a very large bipedal fawn-colored rat.
Gee, when I graduate, I just might have to fall
back on my minor, which is art, with a sculpting
concentration. And nobody can blame me for not
_trying_ to make something of myself. If society
and your family want to hear something respectable
about you, fudge it. Then do what you really want
anyway.
I forget whether I was such a sneaky bastard
before becoming a rat. Probably.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm damn
good-looking. Won't kid you there. But, dashing
or no, there's something about whiskers and a
long, sparsely furred tail that turns a lot of
people's stomachs.
And being the only high-degree SCAB I know
personally doesn't help any, either.
So it's just me and the roaches... and my
ART.
Well, there is my next-basement neighbor,
Paul, but he owns two very large
St.Bernard-Rottweiler crosses so I keep our
interaction to a polite minimum. Always feel my
own hackles raising my shirt when those dogs come
at me for a greeting. Sure, they're just
friendly, slobbery animals, but you never know.
Anyway, Paul doesn't seem to mind having a
rodent for a neighbor.
Then again, his cockroaches lead unmolested
lives too, and it's not because he has any _moral_
problems with killing them. If that gives you
some idea of his housekeeping.
The only real sense of freedom I have is my
ability to see the river from my basement windows,
to walk a mere block and be standing on one of the
bridges beneath which it courses.
You might think I would feel free when
engrossed in my art, but I don't. Completely the
opposite, in fact.
I am trapped by my sculptures. The
weighed-down air of the studios, the clay and
other media ground into my fur so it takes twenty
minutes with the lava soap to remove them, the
_need_ to create something I have seen before but
no one else has.
I call it being "homesick for Heaven"
sometimes, in my more melancholy, melodramatic
moods. When I can't decide what to do, when I
feel like I'm missing my family but know I'm not,
and when absolutely nothing on Earth will satisfy
me, I figure I must be missing something I can't
even remember.
It's at those times that I understand the
refreshing choice at least one person a year makes
in Iowa City-- the decision to see what that river
water feels like when plunged into from a bridge.
It is at those times that I work on my art.
I _have_ to do sculpture.
If I can just make my hands remember, help
the materials remember, maybe I can recreate
something I haven't seen since before I was
created. Maybe I can throw and force and weld and
nail clay and iron and steel and wood together
into a form that all of the depressed people in
the world will look at and say, "There, that's
what I'm throwing myself off the bridge for. What
I'm sitting silent forever in a padded room for.
I've seen it before and I'm waiting to see it
again. I remember it from Heaven."
Which is probably why all of my works so far
have been so abstract.
I get the feeling I'm doing something
dreadfully wrong, but I sure as heck don't know
what it is.
Failing myself, I think.
Anyway, if I'm failing someone, it must be
me. I have so few friends to speak of.
So the only sense of freedom in my life comes
from the everflowing, algae-scented Iowa River.
Which is why I'm practically ill with joy
when the department commissions a piece from me
for the riverbank.
It's due in the Spring of this, my sophomore
year, and it's all I can think about. My
Political Sciences work slips, to say the least,
but I can make that up later-- what're grades
compared to immortality?
True, whatever sculpture I create may not be
out on the riverbank forever, but in the mind's
eye of every student or visitor who passes by on
the bank sidewalks it will remain, a part
eternally of the University of Iowa. Whatever
their opinion of the work, I will have had an
impact on the image of this town. That's a
significant accomplishment for a rat who finds
himself hiding in studios and a dingy apartment
all the time. I don't know why I've been fooling
myself with cologne to mask the slight rat odor,
with slacks and well-cut jackets to prove I'm
still human. All I get are grimaces. But rat or
no rat, I use the same materials as other artists.
It takes careful planning to juxtapose the
proper durable, outdoors-appropriate media with
the images in my head. I work for a month on just
the planning and drafting. Then I have to clear
the expensive materials I need, all the while
putting up with those pesky assignments and exams
for my courses, and finally get to work on the
actual product.
As usual, except for when walking back and
forth from the Art Building to my apartment, I
spend a lot of time in dust and splinters and see
very few people. As the weather becomes chill,
heading into winter, not only does my apartment
become more uncomfortable (except that most of the
roaches disappear after the heat goes out for two
days), but I see less and less people on the
sidewalks.
Only Paul and his dogs ever spend much time
outside at our building, and in the first snows I
begin spending time at school late into the night,
just because I don't like the idea of being
greeted by an overzealous monster on a slippery
sidewalk. By an hour or two after dark, it's
usually safe to assume that my unpredictable
neighbors are in for the night.
Even when I don't work on the riverbank
piece, I sit on it, contemplating. Sometimes I
even contemplate adding myself to the piece.
Of course, the route home is never completely
dark, even late at night in the dead of winter.
The sidewalk, bereft of snow, is bone-dry and
scuffs the layer of clay off the bottom of my
shoes.
The river is black. Over its slowly moving
body, shimmering lights keep watch, reflections of
the yellow ball lamps lining the opposite bank.
Here and there, a blue-shining streak adds color;
a reflection of an emergency light guiding any
nervous campus night-loners to a phone. The tan
bricks of the University buildings I pass on my
way are illuminated dully by bulbs hidden under
their eaves.
Under one of those dull lights, on a cold
night approaching the really cruel nights of most
Iowa winters, I see a small blot that makes me
look twice.
I walk this way every night, and every night
I see less and less people. So it is with some
odd sensitivity that I know that the blot I am
seeing is another living being. I step closer for
a better look.
Is it really? I've never seen one here in
Iowa City before... yes, I decide, it really is a
little brown bat, clinging with pitiful might to
the beige bricks. He does not move.
Of course, I think to myself, he's
hibernating. But I think it's a heck of a place
to do it in. Is it possible he's actually
freezing to death? I know better than to handle a
wild bat. Then again... It's the old cockroach
dilemma.
I'm almost _certain_ that's not a SCAB...
By the time I realize that _I'm_ freezing and
look at my watch, I have been standing there
forty-five minutes. The miniscule blot has not
moved.
"Well, 'bye," I say, moving awkwardly away
from the wall. "Have a... good winter, I
guess..." I get the distinct feeling I am not
talking to a sentient being. The sensation is one
of relief.
Winter goes. I work on the piece. In my
mind, I begin calling the metal-and-stone
sculpture "Rising Pit," because it reminds me of a
hole jutting out of the ground rather than
descending into it, but to anyone else's knowledge
it is just "Untitled", and will remain that way.
My classes, other than my art courses, are a
crashing bore. Which probably proves something,
but I don't know what.
Paul is the only person outside of the art
department who is intrigued with my work. He
visits me at the studio one day, _sans_ dogs, and
holds an in-depth discussion with himself on the
potential for application of some of his power
tools in a place like this. I smile,
periodically, my mouth twitching just the
slightest bit, but otherwise ignore my neighbor.
I find it hard to hold conversations with Paul.
He seems to want me to agree with his advice, and
I cannot. So rather than argue, I shut up. That
works well enough.
Two weeks ahead of time, right before Spring
Break, I finish "Untitled". Now all that remains
to be done is to wait for the University staff's
employees to help me move it. I'll have to add
some parts once it's outside and in place, but for
all intents and purposes my attempt at immortality
is done. I sign it, "Jacob Isaq".
And then, on what is probably the most
significant day of my life since the change,
"Untitled" lands on the Iowa River bank. A small
group of art students and a few stangers gather to
watch me finish it, and though there's no fanfare,
I go home afterwards and _shout_. I can barely
eat for thinking about it. I decide I haven't
looked at my accomplishment enough. I haven't had
my fill of the sculpture yet.
I return to the spot, in the damp Spring
darkness, and find my own work still
breathtakingly _there_. I climb up, find a place
to let my long, rough tail drape over the steel,
and sit. For a long time. I think I fall asleep.
But when I am done sitting, I feel very, very
satisfied.
I look at the piece once more and go home to
the best night's sleep I've had all year.
During the next week, I become smugly used to
the presence of my University-commissioned object.
I actually spend more time on the bridges and
sidewalks than before, and less in the studio,
although I know that it won't be long before the
forced love of creation grips me again.
This lasts for one week.
Then I find my sculpture, bleeding. I've
come to see it, unable to make myself go straight
home after a late-night visit to the only pizza
parlor where they don't seat me last, and at first
I do not notice its horrible condition.
As I approach, the familiar smell of fresh
paint confuses my nostrils... I note the sour
scent of newly-scratched metal, and the dry, round
black smell that tells me someone has been smoking
cigarettes here.
I see a glint that should not be there, that
is wrong for the angle of my sculpture to the
river lights.
And I begin to see that it has been mangled.
They used hammers, smashing edges of rock
into dust and denting the metal so all dignity is
lost. Rust cannot be far behind.
And across its battered form, the red
spray-paint blood reads:
S C A B
running in open veins down the scratches the
hammers-- maybe drills too-- have made.
Boy, they had fun.
My impulse to track them down and chew them
into pulp dies unrealized.
Hell... it... looks... Better... that way....
Feeling the chill from the perpetual Iowa
River, I turn from the changed sculpture and go
down to the black water. I step carefully,
checking for solid ground among the grasses, but I
know that I am alone and that I have never been
this close to the river before.
At the water, ignoring the mud on my fingers
and clothes, I dip my head into the flowing liquid
and let water cover me, almost to the ears.
It is an extremely cold sensation.
I hold myself under water for as long as I
can, noticing the threat of the current as I bob
slightly, knowing I could easily be carried out
and away if I relax the merest bit...
I stiffen and force my head out of the water.
And, damp and shivering, I curl on the riverbank
and screw my eyes shut tight and begin to sob.
I do not move again until dawn.
When I drag myself home, there is no sound
from Paul's apartment. He and the dogs must have
gone somewhere and stayed out all night, or left
early this morning. The hollow feeling I get at
the lack of joyful barking from behind his door is
something I don't want to identify right now.
Later, Paul will come home and ask me how I am,
and I'll tell him I'm surviving but the sculpture
has been ruined, and he'll look at it with me and
say they could have done a lot more damage if
they'd have had a _pneumatic_ drill, and pat me on
the back and shake his head and offer me a beer.
Which I will politely decline.
And then I will begin to realize that the
_last_ place I want to be is in Political Science
classes, that what I want more than anything in
the world is to be a decent sculptor, and that
this is the worst place in the world for me to do
it in.
I will notice the remergence of the roaches,
with the taunting warmth of Spring.
I will begin to go insane at the thought of
spending one more year, let alone two, in this
hole-in-the-ground.
It will occur to me that if I want to
accomplish any more than that piece of crap with
which I graced the lawn of the University, I had
darn well better start getting my priorities
straight. Am I an artist, or a liar?
A liar, I will decide.
Until I get out of Political Sciences, get
out of this rut where any possible vision of
Heaven I might have will be ever second-best to my
own inhibitions and to the appearance of its
Earthly creator...
A liar, until I cancel my lease and register
at another school, someplace where they will
appreciate my _attempts_ at dignity, whether
successful or no.
I don't know where I will decide to go.
It will be a place I have not seen, a place
inviting to my exploratory instincts while not
vicious towards my obvious label of SCAB.
No, I don't know yet where, when I wake up
tomorrow, I will decide to go, but chances are it
will be far less dramatic than my overwrought mind
currently admits.
Someplace realistic, like... Minnesota.