Chapter 10 – Otis' Room
I lightly knocked on the door; not hearing a response, I opened it just enough to peek inside. The bedroom seemed empty. "Otis?" No answer. I slowly entered; a thrilling sensation growing in the pit of my stomach. Just being in Otis' territory was enough to give me the butterflies.
As I was not being observed, I took my time, enjoying the pleasure of being there. I looked around the room, paying attention to the smallest details – although, honestly, that much clutter could have filled several hours of someone's attention.
A normal person would only have seen a very dirty, messy, out-of-control room, and probably leave disgusted and / or claustrophobic. (Not to mention being traumatized for life, after noticing the most unsettling components such as bloody tools or body parts.) I, on the other hand, saw the room of an artist, a rebel – one that I liked very much, Lord knows why – and I was fascinated by it.
The walls were stacked with paintings and drawings, all sinister and many indistinguishable. The predominant colors of the pieces were red, grey and black; they were painted in cheap paper and carelessly displayed, just hanging from the wall by a pin or a piece of scotch tape. The parts of the wall not covered by paper were not exactly empty; somebody had written directly on the wall, mostly nonsense phrases such as "The-Boogie-Man-Is-Real" and "Inheritance-For-Satan".
The floor was not in a better state; there was stuff everywhere. Apparently Otis didn't believe in doing laundry, I concluded, seeing his unwashed clothes rolled up in balls and laying around on the floor. Scattered around the room, both on the floor and over the simple furniture, there were also crumpled pieces of paper, dirty empty glasses and plates, painting tools, ropes, torn pieces of fabric, a few knives with dirty blades (probably blood). The bed was unmade, sheets and comforter half falling to the floor. A large lock of hair, cut unevenly, lay on the only chair. There was also an adjacent room, still unexplored.
I stood in front of a handmade wooden shelve (now I know, Rufus was the one making most of the furniture) with lots of second-hand books. Going through the titles, I was impressed: Nietzsche, Machiavelli, Jean-Paul Sartre, Dostoyevsky. One in particular made me giggle: Mark Twain. I had forgotten one important truth about Otis: he just looked illiterate.
His desk was also made out of wood, simply crafted, and accompanied by a chair. Besides the lock of hair already mentioned, there was paperwork and clutter all over. One thing caught my attention: several thick notebooks, apparently with stuff attached between its pages. I promised myself not to touch anything, but I couldn't contain my curiosity: I had to peek at a notebook that was left open. Its two pages were fully written on, but the masculine hushed handwriting was incomprehensible to me. Giving it up, I continued on my innocent exploration of Otis' room.
It was when I found it: crumpled and abandoned in a corner of the floor, the familiar "Burn This Flag" shirt – the one and only that had been duplicated in House. I abandoned my resolution of not touching anything: I crouched down and, carefully as if I was handling an object of inestimable value, I fetched it. Holding it by the collar and allowing it to fall open, I ran my eyes through it, happy as an eight year-old that had just found a treasure buried in his backyard. The shirt had obviously not been washed in a long time; I could tell it by the droplets of blood splattered here and there, the old yellowish sweat stains, some minor paint spots, and also the fact that it was wrinkled and dirty.
Anyone else would have had the strong desire to burn that filthy piece of fabric; at the very least, throw it against the wall and wipe her hands in disgust. But certainly not me. I stood up, carefully folding the old shirt in my hands; then I brought it close to my face, sniffing it.
Ooh, it smelled like Otis. The same smell that I remembered from hours before, when he kissed me. It was not a bad, stinky smell; it was rather manly and highly appealing. Closing my eyes, I brought the shirt closer to my face, pleasurably touching it with my nose, smelling it, rubbing my cheek against it - basically acting like a purring cat asking to be petted.
A hand touched my waist, causing me to gasp aloud and turn around in a little jump.
"What are you doing with my shirt?" Otis asked, staring from me to the shirt and back, a small but obviously amused smile on his face.
"Gosh, you scared me!" I exclaimed, stating the obvious, drawing a shaky hand to my heart. Busted! I thought, probably blushing beet-red of embarrassment. "I didn't hear you approaching."
"Obviously!" he smiled. "That's what I do – I prey on them, sneak from behind like a snake, and slice their throats before they even know I'm there."
That idea gave me the shivers. "Glad to know I'm not them!" I frowned. "By the way, sorry for being in your room when you weren't here; I was looking for you, but when I didn't find you I just couldn't resist taking a look around. Your room is definitely... very personal."
"I hope that's a compliment" he said. "No worries, I have nothing to hide here – well, at least not much that you haven't seen yet."
Walking around him, still holding the shirt – I was growing uncomfortable standing between him and the wall – I asked: "How come you didn't come downstairs for dinner?"
Otis shuddered. "Not hungry."
"You should eat at least a little bit, even if you're not feeling hungry. Too many hours on an empty stomach is bad for you."
"What is that now," he laughed, looking at me in a strange way "are you fucking mothering me?"
"Never mind" I replied, already regretting my impulsive comment. I tend to be caring and protective towards the people I care about, but I had to keep in mind that that was Otis Driftwood – he probably wasn't accustomed to people worrying about him, and he wouldn't understand such a thing. "I was just being thoughtful."
He studied me for a few moments, his brows drawn together. "Why are you holding my shirt?" he repeated.
I couldn't honestly answer that – it would have been too humiliating! – but I didn't want to lie, either. I simply smiled and looked at him hopefully. "Can I have it?"
"If you want to borrow a shirt, I can give you a cleaner one" he offered.
"No, what I mean is, I'd like to keep it to myself. As a gift. I just love the..." which excuse could I give him? "... the uncommon illustration, you know?"
Otis laughed, not buying into it. "An American flag? Uncommon?"
"With the quote below it, yes, plus it has all this paint splashed over it... It has a lot of personality. Oh, never mind, how rude of me to get in your room and start asking for things-"
"Keep it if you want to," he interrupted, casting me that strange look again. I guess I was weirding him out, or at least intriguing him. "I don't care."
I smiled brightly. "Thank you!" Going to where my backpack was, I crouched over it, folding the shirt again and putting it inside the front pocket. "I brought something for you" I announced, dropping most of my backpack contents on the floor. It was artsy material: brushes, pencils, diluent, and a variety of tubes of acrylic paint, of many different colors. "I was hoping that we could use these in our classes" I told him. "I have a bunch more at home, so when I leave, they're yours to keep."
Otis' eyes went bright, taking the set from my hands. "So fucking great!" he exclaimed, opening one of the paint tubes, squeezing a sample of his finger, rubbing it and smelling it. "Very good quality. We can do some fucking damage with it!"
I smiled at his enthusiasm. I had figured, they probably didn't have The Artist Store in Ruggsville – and even if they did, Otis wouldn't be able to afford it, unless he used questionable means - so I made sure to stop there before my trip.
"Only one problem: too many doo-dee-doo faggoty-ass colors" he criticized. "Who needs all this shit?"
"We do, of course!" I stated. "I like using a colorful palette."
"But these are too... happy" he frowned.
Okay, Miss I-Wanna-Be-A-Killer-Too, find a good reply to that! I thought. "Not happy... necessarily. If you have the right technique," I bullshitted "you can use a varied set of colors to inspire sadness, anxiety, madness... pretty much any emotion you want. It can be so much more poignant, and full of possibilities, than just a black and red."
He looked at me, impressed. "Can you do that?"
"Certainly!" I assured him, not convinced at all myself. I have to watch out for the bullshit I invent, I kicked myself.
"Well honey, then show me your art that I'll show you mine" he asked in a subtle, meaningful tone.
Slightly nervous at whatever that implied, I said "Okay, we can work on it whenever you want." He'll probably say tomorrow, I pondered, since it's getting kind of late already.
"What about now?" Otis suggested, walking to the adjacent room. I followed him, guessing that saying 'no' wasn't an option.
The main obstacle was... I can't paint or draw if my life depended on it. Literally. With some effort, I can draw stick people, but even for stick-people standards my work is pretty bad. Thank God for Abstraction!
Curious, I deposited the paint set on the lateral bench and looked around the new room. It was slightly smaller than the main bedroom, but the "madness level" was higher. The walls were even more crowded with demented paintings, some overlapping the others. An old can of paint had been filled with dark red paint (which later I found out to be blood, to my utter disgust). The only other paints in sight were cans of black, grey and dark green colors, which looked homemade. Blood and paint were splattered everywhere, as if psychotic kindergarten kids had just stormed out of the room after a productive, messy art class. A big wooden easel was placed the middle of the room. A set of knifes, of different sizes and shapes, lay handy at the wooden bench. Alongside, there were other disturbing tools, such as a chainsaw, a big pair of scissors, a machete, a hammer, small and large nails, and other tools I was unfamiliar with. A severed arm had been forgotten amidst them, but that didn't surprise me. A 5-gallon glass of formalin sat at the end of the bench. Jars and containers of different sizes were piled up in a paper box.
"This is my art studio" Otis announced proudly. "I spend many hours working here everyday."
"Cozy" I shot, not knowing what to say. "In an artistic-like way, I mean. And very creative."
"Thanks!" Otis grinned. He walked to the wall and pointed at a painting. I couldn't tell what it was. "How do you like this one?"
Shit, I thought. I should have taken some art classes at the junior college. Stupid ignorance! "Ah..." I urged my brain to work fast. "I like it. A lot. It is very... dark, and... it stands on its own."
"Do you know what it is?"
I swallowed. "No. But it's that, uh, openness to interpretation that helps making it so unique."
"It's the inside of somebody's intestines" Otis candidly explained. "I actually gutted a guy and did some research work on him, so I could paint his intestine walls perfectly. I used some of the liquid to cover coat the final work." His smile showed pride, and a clear expectancy of praise.
Oh God, I thought, can anybody get nastier than that? Fighting crescent nausea, but desperately trying to conceal it, I blabbered: "Oh wow. That's the work of an artist really committed to his work! How didn't I see it? Well, maybe it's because I haven't yet actually seen somebody's intestines..." I shut up before I said any more nonsense.
"What about this one?" Otis pointed at another painting pinned to the wall.
I tried to make sense out of it, but again, it was unclear. "It's a rat?"
He smiled. "Almost. Look again."
"A rat taking a nap?" I guessed.
"No. It's a small mouse inside a cat's belly. He had been swallowed whole a few minutes ago, and he's suffocating. At the same time, hydrochloric acid from the cat's guts is washing over him. He desperately wants to get out, but that's the end of the road, and he knows it – he's facing a soon, horrible death."
The more time I spent with that man, the creepier he seemed. "Fascinating! You have a colorful imagination, Otis."
"Thank you."
Otis seemed so glad for showing me those things. I didn't understand it at that time, but later I realized the reason: he was very lonely. Sure, I bet he showed his art to every other of his victims, but I highly doubt that any of them ever showed him genuine interest. Not that my interest was genuine; his work creeped me out. But at least I faked interest, made questions, and so far he was buying into it.