Un Jour Dans La Vie

An obnoxious ringing and the rays of sunlight piercing through my window curtains that shined in my eyelids woke me up. I didn’t remember falling asleep and because of that I feared I was binge drinking again. Luckily there were no signs of that. The ringing kept going on and it was irritating. I hurled the alarm clock against the wall and watched as the glass shattered in an almost slow motion effect. “Fuck,” I shouted. I had to clean up the mess of glass that littered my bedroom floor now. For a little while that morning I had forgotten about the letter last night, that or I just neglected to acknowledge it – for my best interest, of course. I walked into the kitchen and opened the curtains. My cat was sitting on the edge of the table to the left of where I was standing. I patted her on the head as I walked by. I went out my front door in my morning robe and walked down the block to a newspaper clerk who was selling the Sunday paper for a reasonable price. “Millionaire killed in automobile accident!” That was the headline of the paper and it was interesting to me, I never knew why. I was never one to like to hear of people dying. I went back home and loaded my pipe to have a smoke while I sat down to read the article.

“A local millionaire was found dead in his automobile Saturday night/early Sunday morning after a head on collision with another driver. Eyewitness reports were slim but they all said that the millionaires’ driving was sporadic, and with accounts of his eccentric nighttime party life, there was enough evidence to assume that he had been drinking that night which lead to his death.”

I shook my head and skimmed through the rest of the articles in the newspaper. I didn’t feel any remorse for him. If he was stupid enough to drive while drunk then he should have been able to suffer any consequence – no matter how severe. I wondered whatever happened to the other driver. The newspaper failed to mention his state. After I was done with the paper I folded it up and set it on the table next to me. I got up from the chair and went to the cabinet to make myself a drink. I looked over and seen the letter resting there – stained with watermarks. I hung my head in shame and sluggishly walked back to my chair.

Two loud thuds came from my front door and I fell asleep again in my chair. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes – surprised to see a bottle in my hands. I stare at it and have no recollection of how it got there. I didn’t remember having more than two drinks. The thudding repeated about thirty seconds after the first thuds. I shuffled my way to the door, worrying who will be there when I answer it. Claire is standing there and her joyful look turned to one of despair in a heartbeat.

“Yes,” I slurred.

“Branden, what is the meaning of this? What happened here,” Claire questioned.

I reached over to the counter, grabbed the letter and gently tossed it towards her and said, “This happened.”

After a couple minutes of reading the note, Claire goes into a state of mental shutdown. She is tense and void of any emotion. She is at a loss of words. After a few moments though she regains composure and gave me a hug. “Branden… I am so sorry. I knew Jana could be a bitch but…”

“She was right, Claire. That’s the problem… she was absolutely right. Look at me. What right do I have of being a parent? I am a lush and egotistic manic. I don’t know who Jana is with, but despite all her faults, and believe me there’s a lot of them, one thing she wasn’t was a liar. She’s right on all fronts. Lucy doesn’t deserve a father like me. No one does. The kids, they can’t change that, so I am taking that into my own hands by staying out of this. I failed as a father, my dreams told me that; I never have or will reach the level of good my father reached. I am so far below that I am a shame, a disgrace to the name Renoir. It kills me, it does, and my solution doesn’t detract from that in the slightest, but at least it’s a step in the right direction… I hope.”

“But Branden, you’re being so overly critical of yourself. You’re a man of character and no amount of harshness should ever denounce that fact for you. You’ve made everyone so happy to know you. I am not asking you to do anything as far as Jana and Lucy goes, like you said; maybe it’s for the best, for everyone involved. What I ask you to do is seek some help for your sadness. Your depression, it’s getting the best of you. You cannot let that happen. Please, seek help outside of drinking.”

I let out a faint smile; half forced, and hugged her. She was always a stern but kind woman. It was that something I needed in my life – an emotional anchor to keep me grounded.

“I don’t imagine that this would sound entirely appealing but I think that maybe you should invest some time in a doctor – a psychiatrist,” Claire said hesitantly.

I looked at her and pointed my finger prepping for a rebuttal but I didn’t – or couldn’t. I didn’t entirely like the idea but she did have a point. This could be just what I needed. “Ok, let’s do this,” I said. “Do you know where one is at?”

She smiled and said yes. She gave me a ride to go see one.

“It’s a feeling which I get from time to time. And it’s like this: I am mad. Not angry, just mad. I am insane. I lost the light that showed me who I was and what not to become. I am one with my insanity. The stars that used to show me my way back to the shores of sanity have burnt out. Now I am in a sea of uncertainty, surrounded amidst the mocking of the things that haunt me and the past, the things that made me happy. I am sleeping in a bed made for two. It’s easy to fall into the cold arms of insanity’s embrace, not as easy though is to break free. That is a realization I have come to grips with that will never come to fruition. It’s draining… that feeling.”

I proceeded to go on and on opening up to the doctor and after the session the only thing that he could give me, aside from a bill, was a prescription for morphine. Claire and I go to get the prescription turned in and filled. In the meantime I asked Claire if she wanted to go for a stroll around the block. She playfully complied and we were off. We arrived at a river, almost but not quite frozen from the weather. We leaned against the rail and she rested her head on my shoulder. “Look how the light shines through the ice,” I said, “it’s beautiful. I can’t wait for the ice to thaw so I can paint this river in its glory.” She smiled and told me she’d be right back, she needed to pick up the prescription. I nodded without taking my eyes off of the river and kept staring at it. a minute or so went by and I started to feel a light drip of rain. I ignored it and before I knew it, it was pouring rain down. Suddenly it stopped splashing on me but I could see the rain crash all around.

“Is nature giving you a shower, Branden?” Claire chuckled with an umbrella over us.

“Ha, you’re a comedian, Claire. Did you get the prescription?”

“Yeah, right here.” Claire said as she raised the bag “ready to go home?”

I nodded and we headed back to my house.

A few nights passed and I was, once again, reading a book right before I fell asleep. These nights were quite the same, not quite as lonely. Claire had taken residence at my house every night. It was never clear to me if she did it because she wanted to make sure I was safe, she was lonely or she just wanted to be with me. Regardless of what the reason may have been I was happy to have someone with me. She has become someone who I could rely on the quench my sexual desires, but there isn’t a connection that was on par to that I had with Serena, and I knew that until I found that connection, I would never be as happy as I once was. I turned off the light and closed the book that I had just finished, and rested my head on the pillow. Fidgeting with the pillow at first I finally made it comfortable and wrapped my arm around Claire.

I woke up early, around 5:30am and couldn’t fall back asleep. So I decided that I would like to go see the river again –something about that river seemed all to appealing to me. I sat down after making breakfast to write a note to Claire:

“Enjoy the breakfast, my apologies for not being there, I came back the river; after breakfast come find me.”

I was down at the river watching people in the early hours of the morning strolling around the cobblestone streets and walking past the humble storefronts that lined this older part of Paris. It was a sight for me. The serenity of southern France found in Paris – France’s most metropolitan city. I was losing myself in it all with my paintbrush almost dangling in my left hand. I heard the sound of heels clamoring on the cobble street, I looked back to see Claire walking up to me with a smile.
“Hi Branden,” Claire said, “What are you painting?”

“The River,” I responded.

“Oh, I see that. Why so early though?”

I told her “I needed to capture the river, right now, in the state that it’s in. I can explain why if you want and have the time.”

“I would very much like to know why, Branden. Please tell me.”

I cringed after she said that. Clinginess was something that disgusted me and the way she said that, the clinginess was practically dripping from the seams.

“I had another dream last night,” I responded, “Like the one with my father that haunted me so badly. He was in this river. He was criticizing me for my failures as a person. A father. He was telling me how bad of a person I was that I abandoned my child. So I came down here, where he was, to capture him in the river before I lose him again. I have a hard time differentiating the reason I’m doing this: to have a last memory of him and immortalize it in a painting, or am I doing it to keep it as a reminder that I am a failure to my mentor? I don’t know,” I whispered.

“You do know that dreams aren’t real, right? The things you are haunted by are not real. Your dad isn’t ashamed of you, nor is anyone else.”

“And where is your proof of that statement, Claire? That is purely speculation. So spare me the excuses, I have done everything to make my family ashamed of me, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s all true. This is an enduring problem, one of which I can’t fight back. So instead of trying, I am going to find alternatives to alleviate the pains of living with it.” I said despairingly.

I need to go, I told her. “Can you please take my stuff back to the house?” I asked as I walked away.

“Where are you going?” She asked but I never replied, and I couldn’t. I didn’t even know where I was going. I just knew I’d find it – or it’d find me. I was out walking about an hour and there it was – a dingy bar. The place reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. The faces of the depressed were but a blur to even those sitting right next to them because of all the smoke that was filling the establishment. This was one of those places where you could go and drown yourself in sorrow and no one would notice, or care, because they were too busy doing the very same thing.

I ordered a bottle of absinthe and water. After the bartender returned with my order I thanked him and lit a cigarette. I poured myself some absinthe, and then another followed by more, one after another. That kept going on well into the day. Each glass distorting my vision but increasing my perspective of life of those around me, the peasants sitting at these tables were at the bottom of the barrel while the hot shots with the loads of money – like the one in the automobile accident – were living the high life. The horror of this situation in this bar was that these people, despite being depressed, did nothing to change it. Not for a lack of trying – mind you – but that they have become complacent and docile. Like they have to stay like this, in these places because that’s what the society says. I know this because unlike the homeless I helped in New York, I was amongst these people. Time was flying by and so was my level of sobriety.

The night rolled in with foggy and wet weather. I awoke on the cobblestone floor outside the bar. I tried to stand but was unable to do so. It was obvious I was still drunk, or at the very least hung over. I had taken a seat and rests for a while where I struggle to not fall asleep again.

Charles Hemmingway, with some friends, was walking down to the bar where I was at. They find me lying in a puddle of my own metaphorical filth and Hemmingway, worried, woke me up to see if I was alright. “I… am alright,” I slurred. Hemmingway, being a lush, extended an invite to come drink with them. “Why would he be so silly?” I thought while I was unwarily walking with them to the bar.

Hemmingway was a self-centered egotist, which was never more apparent in his invitation letter and his party I attended where he had self-portraits hanging all around the house. Despite this folly, he was a good man with, what I assume, are always good intentions.

Claire, worried sick, goes out to look for me and she stumbles across me and Hemmingway. I wasn’t drinking with them, I was there merely as a social outlet. That’s not to say I was completely sober – she was quick to pick up on that. We went back home and I had gotten an earful from her about what I have been doing. I sympathized for her, I did, but I am a grown man and she is not my girlfriend – much less someone who would have absolute authority over me or at the very least the influence to sway my ill decisions. I went on my drinking bouts for a while.

After about 2 months of intense drinking and my health as well as sanity going downhill, I thought it’s as good a time as any to quit, or at least cut back. I informed Hemmingway, my now close drinking partner, that I thought the drinking is hurting more than it is helping. Hemmingway, uncharacteristically, kindly acknowledged this and told me that if I felt that this is what I wanted to do, quit drinking, then so be it.

I may have cut back on drinking but that wasn’t the only thing I was indulging in. Morphine was an open habit of mine. It drove Claire out of my life for a few days until she listened to reason and returned. Only she and I knew of this and we both wanted to keep it that way – the others would be much more judgmental.

Pierre and Hemmingway and I met up for drinks at a café where we discussed another art exhibit to help me out and my financial troubles that I suffered from the ill-decided binge drinking. I didn’t like the idea of being a charity case, but I also didn’t want to deny my friends’ overwhelming hospitality. I hesitantly agreed and we set up an exhibit next Monday, six days from today, at my house.
Monday arrives and woke up with Claire lying next to me. “Get up; we need to clean up the house.”

“Do you think you’ll do well today babe?” Claire asked.

“I did last time and I’m hoping I do well this time as well. My latest painting, the one I painted on the river of my father, “Geneva”, could sell good. I feel as if it’s a masterpiece, albeit not many others will understand its less impressionist feel and more surreal feel to it. But this isn’t all on me, remember we have others selling as well.”

“You’re right. Well we’re done here. Everything is ready. Want to go out for something to eat?”

“No, Claire, you go ahead. I am going to stay here and… uhh… take care of some personal issues. I will see you tonight” I said to Claire while giving her a kiss and escorting her to her car.
I crept up the staircase while lighting a smoke and walked into the bedroom where I looked at the photos of everyone I loved. I start coughing heavily. I took a syringe and filled it with morphine and injected it for pain and the downing effects. The drug takes hold immediately and I ran to the bathroom toilet to vomit due to sickness of the drug. I’ve yet to get used to it and I’ve been taking dosages higher than the doctor has ordered. After doing that I felt gross and needed to clean myself up so I took a shower. Twenty minutes after the shower I got out and grabbed my cream colored suit and put it on. I slicked back my hair and brushed my now full grown beard.

After I have taken care of my hygiene I walked back downstairs to the kitchen where I poured myself a glass of chardonnay. The shower helped the high, slightly, but not enough. I was a mess at the moment, reeling from intense dizziness. I threw up in his sink and started to regret taking the drugs so close the time of the exhibition. I began to panic. I was paralyzed with fear that people will find out that I was addicted to morphine. “Oh what a classic, my critics will love this!” I thought to myself. After severe panicking I take a seat on the sofa and turned on the radio.

Time passed and with that my morphine high lowered. There was thirty minutes left until the guests arrive for the show and my high is almost gone. I was so relieved. I stayed calm, cool and collected. The pressure of this was tense enough though. Ten more minutes pass and I heard my first knock on the door. It was Pierre, dressed in a nice pair of black pants a black vest, black tie and light blue button up shirt and Claire, dressed in a pure white fur dress. We sat down and have a small discussion about the night and our expectations. Time passed and more guests flooded in. in his typical fashion, Hemmingway arrives right before the exhibition was to start. They all snack on cheese and crackers and drink some fine wines. The artists talk about their respective works the phone rings but I ignored it. I was busy with the immediate issues of selling my art and couldn’t be bothered with phone calls. It could not have been important – or so I thought. Immediately after the phone stopped ringing it rang again. A sense of urgency tagged along with every ring. I asked to be pardoned while I took the call.

“Hello?” Asked Branden.

“Yes, is this Branden Renoir?” the caller asked.

“Yes this is him.”

“Mr. Renoir, Branden, this is Serena O’Hare’s sister, Lola O’Hare. My sister has been found dead from a car accident. I found a letter detailing who to call if such an event were to occur. I am so sorry.”

I, in a profound bout of shock, said nothing and dropped the phone. I walked outside not saying a word. My eyes were wide open and a blank stare was accompanied with them. I sat down on the steps of my house and stared out into the road. Claire and Pierre followed me outside promptly after. “What’s wrong,” they asked simultaneously.

“She’s dead.” I whispered gravely.

Both Pierre and Claire quietly asked, “Who’s dead?

“Serena. Serena O’Hare was killed in a car accident and her sister, Lola called to inform me.”

“Branden, we’re so sorry.” Both of them said.

“Please, ask everyone to either buy or leave. I need to be left alone. Or even better yet, I’m going to leave for the night. Let them do as they wish.” I said solemnly.

My voice was devoid of any emotion, I was empty. Everything I loved has died. I got into my car and drove back to the river and sat on the railing, contemplating suicide.

“First it was my father, and now Serena? Why? Why must I feel such burden in such a small span of time? What did I do to deserve this?” I questioned. “I accept that its fate. It’s just fate, but what’s so great about fate? DON’T GET ME STARTED ON FATE!”

“Branden,” Claire hollered, “get down from there right now!”

“Why-how did you find me Claire?”

“Did you really think I was going to just let you go in the state you’re in by yourself? And by the looks of it I’d say it’s a good thing that I didn’t.”

I looked at her with a gloomy look and asked her to leave and she denied my request. I shrugged my shoulders and told her that if she is going to stick around then she needs to leave me alone. She sits on the cobblestone gutter, hands on her lap of her muddy dress from the gutter. After an hour of silence aside from the gusts of winds and small chatter that could be heard from the apartments around them, I says something to Claire.

“Back in New York, there was a man who was a religious man. Devoted to the cause and he asked me to convert and embrace god; for all troubles are to be vanquished indefinitely.”

“You’re going to convert to Christianity, Claire questioned.

I gave Claire a dirty look and asked if she wanted to go to the bar. She agreed and we walked to the bar right across the street.

“No, I am not Christian. Nor do I believe in god – can I get a bottle of whiskey,” I asked the bartender, “It’s just that the only thing that can do such powers is the bottle. I always heard that there are two kinds of people in this world: there are people who leave the fallen foundation and go build a new life and there are those who spend their whole lives picking up the pieces attempting to rebuild the past. I used to fall into the former. I had once found solace and maybe even comfort in the moving, but the past repeats itself so much that no matter what you do it all grows stale, repetitive and heartbreaking. Now, I found my solution, drinking. At least with drinking I am desensitized to the point where all the depression is numb to the point of being nonexistent. It’s a comforting feeling to know that I have my god now. And all I have to do to bask in his magnificent ways is to find him at the bottom of the bottle. So let’s toast. Here’s to life. Something I hate and am ready to vacate. I’ll drink to that.” I exclaimed solemnly as I started to chug down whiskey from the bottle.