New Neopian Times

I know, I don't look the type. You may think it's weird, that a normal pet like me would hang around a place like that. Full of obsessives, they say, and drama queens and other people of that kind. But yeah. I do. I blend in with the beatniks who snap instead of clapping their hands. I fit in with the java-freaks whose hands are always occupied by a pen and a mug. I mingle with the artists who try to see more in a picture than the face value, and I listen to horror-stories about auditions from the aspiring actors. And I fit right in. I like the Art Centre. It's where I can really be myself, be by myself, and just listen and look and learn about those around me.

Other Neopians, they're boring. They're ordinary. They shop at the food shop, they play with bright coloured toys, they buy and sell stocks. But these people, these people have real personality and uniqueness. Sometimes, when I need something to do, I sit in the middle of a crowded art convention, and listen to the artists debate and decide and analyse.

'It shows such emotion, the way the contrasting colours are mixed together! It shows confusion!' one will say with conviction.

'No! It simply expresses pro-diversity feelings, they way all the different colours come together, and create a harmonious picture!' another argues.

Or I sit around in the coffee shop, ordering a small house blend and watching the poor caffeine addicted art groupies, complete with bags under their eyes, counting out their last pennies with shaking hands, asking for their seventh and final Tigersquash Cappuccino of the morning.

I lounge around on the logs by the camp fire, musing at the stress the storytellers put themselves under when it's their turn to continue the story. They squirm uncomfortably, mumble different ideas, with the occasional "No, scratch that, let me start again" or "Wait, wait, it wasn't a Bruce, it was a Lenny!" They push around ideas until they finally find that single line when suddenly the whole story comes together, and they sit up straight with pride and enchant the others with their tale of adventure, mystery and romance.

I love the Art Centre. We all do. And it was a sad day the day they decided to close it down. Let me tell you the story...

The Centre was dark. All the NeoPets were closing up and going home; the camp fire had been extinguished and the art gallery closed. The only thing open was the coffee shop, serving their last-round-of-the-night drinks. I sat on my favourite bar stool near the counter, sipping my coffee. The boiling liquid singed my throat, but it felt good to be inside with friends (or, rather, coefficients; I wasn't really close to any of them except for a few) on a cold winter night. The waitresses were cleaning up, wiping off tables and washing glasses. All the while we maintained a lively chatter about everyone's personal (but not too personal) lives. When the waitresses started locking up the till, and the cook refused to whip up another rack of cinnamon rolls, we decided it was time to go home. We got out of our chairs, pulled on our jackets, and made for the door.

Outside, after a jumble of good-bye hugs and handshakes, and promises to meet again tomorrow, we each went our separate ways and walked home. I, however, was waiting for the bus. I didn't like walking at night; too many things happened on side streets and back roads that I felt much more secure using public transit. I saw the bright headlights of the bus as it pulled up to the stop; I walked over to the side of the road to get on when I realised that I had forgotten my bag back at the Centre. I contemplated going back to get it; the doors might be locked, and it would still be there untouched in the morning, but I felt that I should probably go get it. The bus driver waited, the bus door open and the warm air rushing out. I looked at my watch. There was another bus in about an hour and fifteen minutes, I could catch that one later. It was a short walk, too, and I needed the exercise. The impatient driver honked, and I shook my head and waved him forward. The doors closed with a bang and he took off like an ambulance driver.

I reluctantly turned around and started walking back to the Art Centre. On the way, I pondered about the Centre. It served no real purpose, really- it generated no income, was run off government money, and the surrounding area was actually quite fertile farmland. And yet, even though it made no visible profit, to the people who loved and used it everyday, it was like a second home. Where would all these people be without the Centre? Scattered at different clubs and meeting places throughout Neopia, trying desperately to fit in but all the while wishing for a place where they could discuss their one true passion? By this time, I was very near the Centre. I jogged up to it and stood by the main entrance doors. Engulfed by the light of a nearby street light, I peered in through the doors. Everything was dark. I looked back at the dark night sky and sighed to myself. I knew I should have waited until the morning. What was I going to do for another hour? I took one more quick glance back inside- and a glimmer of light caught my eye. I focused more closely, and I saw that it came from the kitchen in the back of the coffee shop.

Curious, I banged on the large glass doors several times, until the nightshift janitor let me in. "But make it quick," he grunted. I made my way down the hall and looked into the coffee shop. The owner of the Art Centre was there, (much to my surprise; he wasn't much of a coffee drinker and he said that as good as those sticky treats may be, they clogged his arteries just thinking about them) and both the waitresses and the cook were huddled around him, apparently offering condolences. I opened the door and entered. At this unknowing intrusion, the owner looked up, and smiled glumly at me.

"What's up, Blu?" (His being a blue Blumaroo consequently led us to referring to him by his colour and species.) "Something wrong?"

Something evidently was, because scattered around him were several large empty coffee cups and more than a few plates with nothing but a few crumbs or drippings of stick cinnamon.

My question upset him, and he looked down into his empty plate once more. One of the waitresses I knew on a more personal basis took my arm, led me away from the group and said, "He's gotten some awful news."

"I don't see what could be so awful that he actually ate more than one of those things at a time without at least three months in between." Slightly insulted at my reference to the buns, but knowing it was meant harmlessly, she replied, "The DMLC sent him a notice today. He has to close down the Centre."

The waitress tapped her foot impatiently. "You know, the DMLC. The Department of Money and Land Conservation?"

"Well there is. And they sent him a very official looking document, typed and addressed. He has to close it down. They are letting him have the rest of the month, and a special closing night party, but then they want him and his art cleared out by the tenth of next month."

"I don't know what good it will do," she said, cracking her gum, "But I don't see how it could hurt." She went over to counter, and motioned me to follow. As she handed over the paper, crinkled and dog-eared, (it had obviously been read through more than once) she said, "Poor guy. He's been terribly upset ever since he got the notice this afternoon." She glanced over at him. "You know, this Centre is his pride and joy. He built it up from nothing, fought long and hard for the land, and now they're taking it away from him." She smiled a sad smile. "I don't know where I'm going to work. We've all been working here for years. But you know, I guess it was inevitable. Every year he had to fight for this Centre, and he was doomed to lose the fight at one point or another."

I slipped onto my stool, the cool leather cushions feeling comforting. I took the letter out and began reading.

Dear Mr. Pete Oswold,
I am writing to you today on behalf of the DMLC. The DMLC is a department that works to improve Neopia and use all the resources it has to it's best uses. We are quite an honored department and our members are continually exemplified as model citizens.

The DMLC (Department of Money and Land Conservation) have recently had an important meeting dealing with several controversial issues recently brought up. I am writing to you know to notify you of a council decision to close down your Art Centre. It is considered to be wasteful of land and money- land and money for which there are much better uses. As an active and caring citizen of Neopia, we're sure you feel the same way.

You may have the rest of the month to continue activities as usual. On the 1st of the next month, we will pay for all the supplies and services necessary for a good-bye celebration. However, on the 10th of that month, at 9:00 a.m. all your stock and items must be completely and promptly removed from the premises.

Good luck and thank you for your understanding.

The DMLC Council

I dropped the papers on the counter. I couldn't believe that the Art Centre was going to close. I picked up my bag and turned around.

"I'm sorry to hear the news, Blu. If there's anything I can do..." It sounded strange as it came out of my mouth. The words were strangled and choked, as if someone had died. But really, something had died; something very important to all me.

"Anyway, best of luck, Blu. I'll see you all tomorrow." They nodded their heads in acknowledgment and turned back to Blu. Just before I left, Blu called me back. "Er, Cody, I don't think this is the best of times to let all the people know. Could I trust you to, uh..." I smiled.

"Course, Blu, I won't say a thing." I walked out of the coffee shop and headed for the main doors. As I walked, I passes the janitor- propped up on his broom, smiling, admiring the squeaky-clean floors he had just polished. I stopped for a minute.

He turned to me. "Oh, yeah, I heard the news. All it means to me is no more cleaning up horrible, messy paint marks and no more peeling dried glue off the tables."

I couldn't believe that he didn't care. After I gaped at him with an open mouth for a few seconds, he felt uncomfortable under my gaze and left. Raising my eyebrows in disbelief, I turned and left for the bus stop.