Art is Home

River Boulevard is really nothing like a river at all. It is a four-lane, concrete road environed by generic corporate food chains and supermarkets, and even more unimaginative local stores, all located in very conventional rectangular brick-walled or beige-plastered buildings—consisting of four sides and a roof. The boulevard doesn’t even have any bends or turns. No sinuosity at all, just a straight line. It’s not even a boulevard. That would suggest the existence of trees. But the small maples they planted to replace the large ones they cut down were removed two years later to make room for more gas stations and banks. A few sylphlike trees remain. Not that anyone can properly admire the natural entities. Even though they are in the foreground, the long rows of conforming modernity behind make the trees well nigh indistinguishable. The background has overrun the foreground. Similar to some jejune painting or picture: everything is out of focus. No texture. No depth. I float down River Boulevard, passing the same jovial slogans and feigned affability in the signs outside: “Come On In, Enjoy Home Cookin’!” “Everything Served Fresh!” “Walk-Ins Welcome!” “Get 4% Off Your Interest!” “Welcome!” “Buy One, Get One 20% Off!” “Have a Great Day!” “Enjoy the Sunshine!” even “Going Out of Business!”: until resting at the intersection of River and Ojibwa Road (named in honor of the language the previous owners spoke). At this intersection I notice three very interesting figures: a bison, an oilrig, and a squirrel. I’ve never seen these structures before. Statues. The bison is crudely formed from rusted sheet metal. The oilrig is made from used construction rods—also rusted. And the squirrel looks to have been pieced together by separate plastered shapes. The half that purports to be a head and body is colored an unsightly dark blue grey. The tail is maroon. Of course it really looks like two blobs placed together like some elementary school student’s failed Science Fair project. If only. If only these hunks of metal and plaster were on display by the township for the purpose of ridicule, with a banner hanging over them: “Shitty Art.” A girl can dream. No. As I drive away, viewing the manufactured art in my rear view window, I know all too well the town of Willow Valley Creek gladly purchased these pieces from a local artist somewhere. I do not know whom.

While attending The University of Art Academia every student must take at least six courses of Art History. Though this may seem daunting, the university was a trimester school. So a student, theoretically, could take all the classes by the end of his or her sophomore year. Most did not. Because I was a diligent do-gooder of a student, did. The classes were not all that difficult, and were more centered on History than Art. I imagined our professors being adrift scholars after graduate school. Clutching on their Ph.Ds in Anthropology, or Intellectual History, they waded in the sea of Jobless Opportunity, waiting for one of the state or private universities to pluck them from the waters. Until at last they washed up on the shore of our university, and with nowhere else to go decided they would make do with what they had. Maybe it was a little too dramatic, and cruel, but it was great imagery. The idea haunted me my whole academic life. I eventually created a piece based off it my senior year. It was featured in my senior showcase upon my graduation (titled: Déjà vu). Fun stuff. But the erudite professors of the Art History courses really did know quite a bit. And though I often imagined the professors fantasizing about suicide as they lectured us on Dadaism, or the chronology of Cubism, or famous artist of the Baroque period, because that’s what I did during those classes, their dedication to teaching us about these periods or artists was unequivocal. They really liked history. They really liked teaching. I was just never convinced they liked teaching about Art History. But it was that outside, objective, view of art that attracted me most to those professors. One in particular: Dr. Gene Jerwulski. Dr. Jerwulski had my attention and respect from the moment he walked into our classroom and starting speaking, and it had nothing to do with the fact I found him quite attractive. No. He had my attention because of his beauty, but he gained my respect and admiration when the first thing he said was: “Hello students. This is a History class. So expect a lot of reading and writing. And no apologies, I don’t give a shit how that makes you feel.” He mockingly gesticulated with his hands. I loved it. I didn’t know why, but to see his salutation slap some of my peers in the face enthralled me. Though I was just a freshman, many of the other students were juniors and seniors (Note: most students took five to six years to graduate from the university). I witnessed their smug visages turn to scowls within seconds. As Dr. Jerwulski chalked his name and the title of the course (A Study of Art: Historical Contexts of Art in the Late Nineteenth to Mid Twentieth Centuries), I overheard one student whisper to another “Can he, like, say that?” The other shook her head in disbelief. 

When I reach my parents’ home—a lifeless box shaped like a house—I ring the doorbell. The very familial noise, hollow and without timbre, stirs the dogs—Pie and Emma, a collie mix and a shih tzu. Through the mix of barking and yipping, I hear my mother shuffle to the door, the scamper of paws on the newly placed wood floors, and my mother’s shushing. As she opens the door, the two dogs scoot out behind her. “No!” she calls after them, but upon noticing her only child standing on the “porch” (in reality more of a concrete slab than anything else) in front of her she forgets about Pie and Emma. “Oh good!” she says. “Come on in. I was hoping that’d be you.” I step inside and am immediately welcomed by the warmth of the house and smell of pumpkin spice. Mother is cooking for Halloween. “I’m so glad you could come home,” she says taking my coat, practically ripping it from me. “I’m sorry to bother you about this, but Dad is down in Miami trying to finish up a deal, and I didn’t want to do this by myself and risk slipping the disk again.” My mother is on medical leave from her job after injuring her back on a hiking expedition with my father in Tennessee last month. They recently replaced the carpeted floors with wood in hopes that it would make the house more valuable, and more likely to be purchased when they try to sell it next year after they retire. “I’m more than happy to help, Mom,” I tell her. “Well, thank you. We took down the paintings before and did all the work, but he got called down and I didn’t want to wait a whole week to put the paintings back up. It’s hard enough for me to get around as it is. Now I have to dodge paintings in the hallways and they are cluttering up the rooms. And I am afraid the dogs will knock one of them over. Emma loves to get behind a few and hide.” My mother has a penchant for saying many things with one breath. As she takes in some air, I proceed. “It’s OK. Like I said. I’m glad to help.” I notice the floors have not been crowned. I point to the dovetail of wall and floor. “Are you going to fix that?” She looks. “Hmm? Oh. Yes. Dad promised he is going to take care of that when he gets back.” I look at her. “He said that?” “M’hm.” “And you believe him?” She smiles and exhales. “No. But a girl can dream, can’t she?” and then she gives me a loving hug. “It’s good to see you, honey.” “It’s good to be back, Mom.” She returns from hanging up my coat with a mug of hot coffee with a traditional, seasonal hint of pumpkin. “Thanks.” I say. “Welcome.” As I drink we have small talk about the weather and the drive from the city and if I’m seeing anyone (No). I ask about my father’s business ventures and how my mother is recovering (he's tired from all the travel, she's doing much better than last week). We hit a little bit of a lull, so I decide to bring up the three objects on River Boulevard. “Oh yes. Those are new. Some local artist did them for the town,” my mother smiles. “Oh really?” I say. “Yes,” she nods. “They’re a little strange for my tastes, but that’s OK. It’s art, right?” I choke a little on my pumpkin coffee. “You OK?” “Yes,” I cough, “just fine. Wrong tube.” My mother smiles. After I finish my coffee, we start hanging up the framed paintings. I do most of the lifting on account my mother’s poor spine. “And this goes here.” “And that goes there.” etc. etc. Almost every one of the paintings I hang up are pieces I created in college—mainly from my senior year. A lot of crude, unfinished works, my artistic acumen reached a plateau by the end of my sophomore year. All the paintings either lacked the attention to detail they needed, or simply were poorly thought out, or executed—often all of the above. It is torture for me to look at any of my work, as is custom for many artists. To have it hanging in my parents’ home for all their friends and neighbors to witness is akin to hell. While I am centering one piece in particular (very boring, very lazy, unimaginative piece I did: an oil pastel of a faucet pouring into a nose, or vice versa depending on which way you look: which, I now regret, I received an award nomination for my junior year) above the fireplace in the family room, my mother brings up the three statues: “I don’t understand why they didn’t contact you about it. No, no, honey, a little more to the left.” “Well,” I struggle to both maintain balance and explain, “they probably… didn’t… know… I do that… which I really don’t.” “What’s that? No. More left. Wait! No. More. What’s that you were saying?” “I’m not… really creating… commercial art, Mom. You know that. I’m a professor now. Any art I do create… is for educable purposes… or something I’m just doing for fun. I… don’t… think I could… do what they’d ask anyway…” “Well why not? No, I liked it the other way, a little to the right. There!” I step down from the chair and stand back next to my mother, staring at the picture. “Because I’m not a sculptor, Mom. You know that.” “Sculptor, painter, whatever, you’re an artist. You could do that. They had to have paid him good money for it, too.” “I’m sure they did. But I probably wouldn’t have agreed to do the project anyway.” I sit down. “Why not?” she’s shocked by what I just said. “You could do that.” Wiping the sweat from my face, “Even if I could, which I can’t, they didn’t come to me for a reason: They don’t know me.” “Well of course they do. Nancy Dreich is on the town board. You remember her?” “Vaguely, yes.” “Rubbish. I was surprised they didn’t ask you. Nancy should have thought to ask you.” “Mom. Nancy barely knows me. Or me her.” “What are you talking about? You were both good friends back in high school.” “We carpooled to school maybe twice. I don’t think we ever talked to one another while in the car.” Defensively, slightly off-put, my mother says, “Well it would have been nice to see your work on the corner there, that’s all. That’s all I’m saying. I think you’re very talented, and I think the world should see your art. And I don’ think, though I love it and I love having it here,” she points to the faucet-nose piece (Any Which Way? was the title), “I think this art should be in collectors’ homes and in museums and out in cities and towns to be admired, not in my home.” “Mom.” “Yes.” “That painting isn’t even hanging right. I just realized it. It’s supposed to be horizontal, not vertical.” “I thought the water was running into the nose?” “It is.” “Well…” “But it isn’t. That was,” I stop. “Never mind.” “So change it then.” “It’s not important to me.” Her head cocks to the left. Disappointed. “It’s not. No. But it is to me.” I sigh. “Sorry. Let me fix this and then we can put up the last one.” The last painting was one I bought for my parents. I claimed it was a thank-you present, purchased with the money from my first paycheck—as an assistant professor. I really got it in the hopes my parents would get rid of Déjà vu, on display in their living room. And they did. (Only to have it placed awkwardly in the staircase leading to the bedrooms.) The replacement “painting” was a copy of Mucha’s poster for Chocolat Idéal.

Walking through the narrow halls of the Macrowski History of Art Center, a small wing of the newly renovated Venetian Gothic church, I made my way to Dr. Jerwulski’s office. The President of the university—Marilynn-Joy Presley—purchased the 19^th century revivalist church a few years before. The building now housed most of the administrative offices, and the whole Art History department. Presley herself redesigned the top floor into a two thousand and seven hundred square feet conference room (titled: “The President’s Conference Room”), and her office—eleven hundred square feet, equipped with a small kitchen and personal bathroom, leaving barely enough space outside for her secretary. Down the slim corridor, in the penultimate door on the left, he waited for me. On most occasions, as in this one, I found him lounging in his beaten leather chair. The university only provided him with a cheap, uncomfortable white plastic chair. So he brought his leather one from grad school. It was another small example of his defiance—though he would claim its purpose was purely for “reasons of comfort.” As I walked in I saw him: head perched against those long boney fingers, extending like surreal tree limbs from the trunk of his forehead, which was planted firmly on the arm of his veteran chair, his body almost parallel with the seat and one of our blue mid-term essays propped in his other hand. I knocked, more so tapped, on his door. Waiting a beat, I made my way to the white plastic chair before he even lifted his eyes to see me. “How’s it going?” I said, eagerly waiting his recognition. He looked up and offered a curt smile. Then straightening himself in the chair, “Oh just reading one of your peer’s essays.” He waved the blue pamphlet. “I see. And how’s that going?” I asked, trying to sound upbeat about his cumbersome task ahead. “The whole process has been… enlightening—to say the least.” He tossed the essay onto his desk, and rubbed his face. “We haven’t met your expectations, have we?” I tried to sound a little disappointed. The truth was we both new the majority of the students did not care about his course and were perfectly content with doing the bare minimum and getting by with a passing grade. I was not: partly because I was a perfectionist and did not like the idea of mediocrity, mostly because I was on a scholarship that required me to give a shit, but also because I genuinely liked the course and Dr. Jerwulski. “No, no,” he said. “You’ve all pretty much met my exact expectations.” I laughed, even though it hurt to hear him say that. I always feared he lumped me in with the rest of those trust fund slackers. He smiled. “What can I say? I suppose Art and Nationalism are difficult concepts to piece together.” “Not really,” I offered. “No. Not really,” he agreed. “But that’s not why you came here.” “Nope. I actually wanted to talk to you about my paper.” The paper was not due until the end of the course, which was another month or so away, but I had chosen a rather heady subject. “Good. How can I help?” I reached for my notebook, “Well, you know how my subject is on Mucha.” “Ah yes,” he smiled. “And how is our Slav friend doing?” “Not so good. He’s dealing with the failure of Le Pater right now.” “Mmm.” “Yeah. And I’m not having that much success right now either,” I said. “How’s that?” “Well, so I’m at a bit of a crossroads here. My piece is supposed to be about artistic art versus commercial art.” “Right,” he nodded. “But… like… Mucha,” I was struggling. Dr. Jerwulski’s eyes were centered on me. I never liked appearing vulnerable in front of anyone, vis-à-vis my artistic or intellectual prowess, let alone professors—especially him. This paper, in many ways, was more his idea than mine. I wanted to do something on Klimt. “Klimt is overrated. Don’t do it on him. Do it on a real artist, Mucha,” he told me, quickly backtracking, “I mean I don’t want to promote my ideas, but I find Mucha to be a much more fascinating person than Klimt.” I now think it had more to do with the fact that he could not read about Klimt, Picasso, or Warhol one more time. I jumped on the idea. “Yeah. Mucha could be really cool.” I was eager to please him. I wanted him to recognize I was not like the others. I was smart. I cared about Art History. Whether any of that was actually true or not was not the point. I let him talk me into Mucha, and then I let him give me the subject of my paper. What was originally going to be about Klimt and how he was the essence of the Art Nouveau movement (a case I now realize is utter bullshit), Dr. Jerwulski convinced me to do it on Mucha and the “juxtaposition of commercial and artistic art.” I had no real idea what my paper was about. And so there I was: lost in his small, windowless, forty-five square foot office. “My piece is on commercialism…” I paused. “Right,” he nodded. “But… like… Mucha… was, uh, very, like… commercially successful, though. So… I guess I don’t know why he would be the right artist for a counter point.” Dr. Jerwulski stared blankly. I sat frozen and exposed. He would understand I was a fraud. I had no concept of what he was talking about. I had betrayed him. But then the reaction was wrong. No reproach. No damnation. No castration. He smiled and leaned back in his warn chair. “What do you mean?” he said. “Well, Mucha was very successful and was basically known for his commercial art. All the stamps and posters and what not were his real well known pieces of art. He wasn’t really appreciated as a quote-unquote ‘real’ artist. I mean even the Art Nouveau movement was kind of… I don’t know… like kitschy and commercialized, and a sell out.” He simply looked at me. His head slightly cocked to one side. He wanted me to explain myself further. “And so… my whole point is supposed to be about… uhm… you know… not that.” Dr. Jerwulski said nothing. “So… I guess… I’m… uh… grasping for straws here. I don’t know. I’ve hit a dead end I feel.” I was exhausted. Five minutes into the meeting and it felt like two hours. I had a list of things I thought we could talk about for days and in five minutes he reduced me to some mumbling juvenile—like all the others in my class. He didn’t even say anything. I bowed my head. We sat in silence for what could have been minutes, but was probably seconds. “Mucha was a commercial artist. Sure. You are right with that. But, I suppose my response to that is ‘So what? Who cares?’” I looked up. He was not angry. No real agitation in his tone or gesticulations. He was more amicable than I expected. Professorial. “With Mucha you have a paragon of the ‘tortured artist’—so to speak. And I don’t mean the conventional coeval definition. I mean with Mucha you have an artist who struggles with his own identity, success, and art. From his efforts to be recognized by his own people, which in many ways explain his borderline obsession with Slav nationalism, to his struggle with what he called ‘the spirit of art’—which was not the commercial art he is, was known for. He created truly beautiful pieces of art. Le Pater is one of them. The Slav Epic is unequivocally his magnum opus. But that was locked up for some thirty years in a basement somewhere. Nobody gave a shit about his artistic endeavors. They only cared about his Berhardt’s and other such posters and prints. I mean we are not talking about some con-artist who has stumbled upon some niche in the community and chooses to fully exploit it because a) he can, b) he has no actual talent for an artistic career, and c) the community is either too ignorant or too far up their own asses to see they are being duped!” I had never, and would never see him this animated again. I had struck a vein. That much I was certain of. But what was flowing out of the vein was not so clear. “So he was largely remembered for his commercial art. He was also—for a period of time—being bankrolled by millionaires in the United States. So what? Artists need to eat too. You do realize that without rich people Western Art would have practically died with the fall of Rome? It’s OK to sell out,” he paused. “As long as you don’t lose that spirit. Mucha is a perfect example of that. He did one type of art that fed and sheltered him and his family. And he also created great masterpieces that he could be proud of. Some can do both at the same time. Look at J.C. Leyendecker, or other American illustrators in the turn of the century to mid-century—like: Gil Elvgren, Maxfield Parrish, Howard Pyle. Shit, Gibson even. All great artists—yeah, I went there—and all of it mostly commercial. But they were artists. Real, genuine, in the flesh artists. Their craft might be questioned, but their devotion to art and capturing the true beauty and soul of life should never be. And that is the point of Mucha, the struggle for that spirit. His life shows it. It’s beautiful. Sad. But beautiful.” Another quick pause before he continued, “Money will always play a role in art. But the question every artist has to ask themselves, it’s the task of every artist, is: ‘Am I doing this—creating a work—for the spirit of art, or am I creating this for money, and if so, does it still capture the essence of my artistic spirit?’ Meaning does that Geist of Art still present itself in the art—commercial or not. I think the biggest issue a lot of ‘artists’ these days cannot distinguish between making art that can be sold for a profit, and profiting from art.” He gestured to the essay on his desk. “Look at your peers and most of the student body here at the university. Most of these artists are being subsidized by wealthy financiers—aka their parents. Most of them won’t have jobs in their industry a year from when they graduate. Most of them don’t care. They are more concerned about making sure they have a Mac, Starbucks, and a three-hundred-dollar pair of glasses. They have the aesthetics of art all ass-backwards. It doesn’t make any sense.” He then gestured to his office. “Hell, ole Mary-Joy bought this place partly because of her religious fanaticism—even though she’s Catholic and this is Eastern Orthodox, but whatever—she mostly bought it because it was the ‘artsy’ thing to do. Her words. ‘Artsy.’ She is the President of the university. Is anyone else slightly offended by this? No. Not one person. No one person raises any red flags.” He shrugged. “Well I suppose it is mostly out of fear. At least I pray it is cowardice, and not total negligence.” He chuckled, “But do you see what I’m getting at here?” I nodded. A thought was beginning to form. He had succeeded in planting a notion that would suppurate in my mind for the next two years. “Art isn’t even art anymore,” he said with a wry smile. “Art has become artificial.”

On return to the city, I stop in the local Starbucks, just kiddy-corner to the three monuments. And as I grasp my venti black eye I begin to let my thoughts wander. If I were to ever come across Nancy and the town’s board, and the man who created those three hunks of plaster and metal across the street I imagine what our conversation might resemble…

NANCY: Well thank you, Vera, for coming in today on our meeting of Cultural Broadening in Willow Valley Creek. Your mother said you were a highly talented artist in the Art World, and so we, of course, value your opinion. I’m sure you’ve noticed our town’s latest addition just this year. The three cultural, artistic superlatives that are on display on River Boulevard: the Oil Rods, the Bison-tennial [scattered giggles], and the Tree Squirrel Eating a Nut. All created by our wonderful local artist: Todd Pennington, who is here with us today [applause]. And I would just like to make one final note for the record that it is an honor to have graduated with someone who is such a well-known artist now, around the world, like Vera. I think it would be safe to say that Vera and I were good friends throughout high school. But please, Vera, I think you have something you would like to share with the community.

ME: Yes. Thank you. I’d like to make a resolution to remove those three pieces from the corner of River Boulevard and have them disposed of, never to be seen by man, woman, or child—ever again.

[Silence]

BOARD: But… why?

NANCY: Yes why?

ME: Because it’s not very good.

BOARD: Well that’s all open to interpretation though.

ME: Right… but I’m from the art community, and those three things out there make me want to gouge my eyes out. I’m ashamed to admit I create anything remotely close to the term “art” knowing that those three items exist in the world and are being associated with that same term.

NANCY: I’m not sure I, or we understand.

ME: Of course not.

NANCY: Would you mind explaining further?

ME: Sure. The things—

NANCY: Art.

ME: Well actually that’s my point. Those things, those objects out there really aren’t “art.” [gasps] I know that might sound ludicrous.

BOARD: It certainly does.

NANCY: We have the artist right here.

TODD: Hello.

ME: Hi. Right. Yeah. Where was I? Yeah, so my point is that those things aren’t really art. They are just things. You paid to have three things put out next to the intersection, and you’ve decided to call them art. But they’re not. You see?

BOARD: Why not?

NANCY: Yes why not?!

ME: Well… for one, I think the very purpose of their existence, the inception of the “art” in many ways deflates the legitimacy of calling them art. Get it?

NANCY: No!

BOARD: Not at all. Please explain.

ME: [sigh] So the whole reason you wanted those things out on display was because you wanted to appear artistic.

NANCY: Cultured.

ME: Same difference.

NANCY: Actually it’s not.

BOARD: We did a study, and people in Willow Valley Creek actually believe there is a difference. Being artistic is one way people believe they are becoming more cultured.

NANCY: Exactly.

ME: But you are trying to appear as if you have artistic savvy, aka “are cultured.”

BOARD: There are many aspects to being cultured.

ME: Sure. But the fact that you are attempting to come off as artistic is the same difference as attempting to come off cultured. You are still trying to create an imagine—

NANCY: You can have artistic taste and still not be cultured. Such as: you can enjoy the fine art of Picasso, but still not enjoy finer cuisines, or the fine theaters, or politics, and… uh… others…

ME: First of all, Picasso was not fine art. Secondly, when you make an attempt to give others the impression you are artistic that—why am I even arguing with you over semantics?! This is not my point!

BOARD: Please calm down.

NANCY: Yes, please do.

ME: Those three things out there are frauds. [gasps]

NANCY: Are you trying to say that… Mr. Pennington’s works of art are… counterfeits?

BOARD: Is that what this is about?

NANCY: Are those your pieces of art, Vera? Did you create them and he stole them? [more gasps]

ME: What? No.

NANCY: Is this true, Todd?

TODD: They certainly aren’t. I created those myself.

NANCY: Vera?

ME: That’s not what I meant.

BOARD: Well you should apologize to Mr. Pennington then.

ME: [deeper sigh] What I am trying to say is that those items out on River are deceptions. They are not art. It is just a collection of plaster and metal under the guise of “art.” But it is actually not art. This is all a sham.

BOARD: But we had an artist create it.

NANCY: Yes. Mr. Pennington is right here.

TODD: Hello.

ME: Hi.

TODD: Maybe I can clear this all up. I think there is some anger over my pieces. I understand. They are provocative in many ways. Some people will never truly understand where I get my inspiration from and how my methods pay off in the end for the artistic community. Some people, I know, were shocked by my art. I understand. But I will not apologize for it. Never. Art must be free to reach out and grasp for the truth. And the community board members here all believe in that and want to support those kinds of thoughts about Art. I think they see the wonder I created, and see the art for what it truly is and stands for: the cultural depths of Willow Valley Creek. [applause]

NANCY: Exactly.

BOARD: So perhaps you have a better appreciation for our art now.

NANCY: Yes, perhaps you do now, Vera.

ME: No! You don’t even care about art! You just want to come across as artistic, so you can combat claims about this generic, guileless, shithole of Midwestern white suburbia and suggest it has some fucking culture to it—which, incidentally, it doesn’t! And you [turning to Todd] you’re the worst kind of asshole out there. You don’t even give a shit about art. About craft or effort. You are a big fucking con artist. All you do is take dumb, uncultured jerk-off’s money, who want to appear as if they are sophisticated people, and create this awful soulless-crap-junk-fucking-piss work and pass it off as art! You don’t even have any sense of art! You’re just as inexperienced as the assholes you sell your hunks of dick to. Neither of you care about art. You assholes [pointing back to Nancy and the board] just want to look like you do. And you, you asshole piece of shit [Todd] you are just in it to earn some money. But you didn’t even earn it! Because you didn’t even take any legitimate time or effort to actually create something worthwhile! You didn’t stress over this. There was no authentic thought put behind this. You just whipped this out of your ass and sold it to these fuck-faces. You’re all awful, commercialized shitheads. Look at your product! Some cheap, lazily put together, pieces of artless shit that you’d like to call art because you’re in a rush to appear sophisticated, you, you ingenuous twats!

…and then I’d storm out.

Or something like that. It never happens, of course. Instead, I get in my car and drive back to my apartment downtown—because tomorrow is Monday and classes start at nine.