The Room (Eng. Assign.)

A numbered door guards both a quiet and deafening space. Like the mouth of a cave, the entrance belies the contents, shrouding its immensity and revealing only small hints of substance, which strain to be noticed under a tenuous light.

The space is confining, a few hundred square feet at most. There is a worn fabric couch, generic in appearance with a colorful stitched pattern competing with dirty-worn arm rests. If moved, its outline is etched heavily into the carpet, showing contrasting divides of purity and soil. Next to it is a small table and lamp, utilitarian at most. On the table is a nearly complete LA Times cross word puzzle from a couple of Sundays back, a deck of cards, a TV Guide, and a dusty chess set with the white king not quite centered on its square.

The decor reeks of Brady Bunch and is firmly locked in place, with occasional hints of worldliness mixed in from trinkets collected abroad. A shelf holds a wooden box that houses a purple heart military medal, honorable discharge papers, and assorted documents outlining various campaigns fought in. There is also an application for a patent, with details of a invention called “Filtar,” the first of its kind, when cigarettes were only offered non-filtered. It was a filter attachment that was able to remove 98% of the tar and nicotine produced by the cancer sticks, but never made it to the store shelf. Several books fill a small bookcase, mainly classics.

A hanging lamp hovers above a Formica table and four chairs, all tucked in place except one. There is an old Smith Corona portable typewriter on the table with a neat stack of papers full of text. One sheet is pulled aside and has a glass stain on it with corrections here and there in red. Near the table is a counter and two stools. There is an overhang of wall above it, with a bit of an art installation tacked up - a fishing net and some plastic sea plants; a testament to the ocean and its allure. A carved-wooden seagull stands below on the counter, like a sentry with blank eyes – still standing somewhere in some unknown space.

An empty gin bottle sets on the counter with some loose change - a quarter, a dime, a couple of pennies, and a crumbled receipt. Nearby, a painting of a lone sailboat hangs askew. In a paper bag that serves as the trash, a hastily unwrapped TV dinner package and a broken glass mingle.

Pictures dot the refrigerator, random smiling faces enjoying lost-happy moments beneath a layer of cooking grim. The stove adjacent seems well used, with old-dried drips of miscellaneous sauces on top as hard as cement. A lone dusty kettle waits to heat water for tea. The air is stale; the windows and doors seem forever sealed – constricting the space in rapid exhalations faster than new air can be drawn in. Invisible juxtapositions of frenzied energy fill the space; creativity at arms with ennui and frustration, both vying for dominance. The sum of the parts falters, as lost distinction drowns within.