A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Gallery

My nose itches.

It started as a light tickle, but now it’s so bad my eyes are watering. Three people are still watching me, and if I move now, it’ll get taken out of my paycheck.

Any minute now, they’re going to walk away, and then I can scratch, I think to myself.

I’m probably one of the few people in the world who went to an art gallery and ended up as part of the exhibit. But that’s what happens when you (accidentally!) destroy a priceless piece of art that is more valuable than your ordinary mortal soul.

Two people walk away. The third lingers, leaning in for a second, then they too walk away. My hand moves a fraction of an inch, then four more people walk up.

Damn.

I try to distract myself by examining my surroundings. I’m allowed to blink and move my eyes a bit, as long as I don’t stare directly at anyone.

Although the gallery is supposed to be pretty famous, it looks about the same as a lot of other modern art galleries. The owner says that’s because my eye is untrained, but one clean white building with glass ceilings and fluorescent lights that look like twisted coat hangers looks a lot like another if you’ve seen enough of them.

Rich people had weird ways of passing the time in the 1700s. They have weird ways now too, but back then they had to be more creative. One of the things they did was to pay someone to dress in rags and pretend to be a “cave hermit,” sitting in a cave on their estate and striking a pose whenever a visitor came by. The gallery owner thought this was a brilliant idea and thought I was the perfect person to recreate this lost art form.

“What is this supposed to be?” asked a lady.

“Living art,” her companion replied.

“Looks constipated to me.”

Or I’ve been waiting forty five minutes to scratch my nose and none of you people will leave me alone for five minutes!

Smiling doesn’t work, because it’s really hard to hold a smile for more than a few minutes before your face starts to twitch. I’ve settled for a contemplative pose, which requires less effort.

You would think this would be an easy gig, and you would be right, except that the hours are long and the pay is terrible. What I make would be enough to live on, but the gallery is garnishing my wages to pay for the artwork I destroyed. Fortunately, they let me sleep on a cot in the employee locker room, because that way they know where I am. There’s a little grocery store around the corner that sells cheap ramen and coffee, and occasionally I swipe packets of sugar, salt, and ketchup from the cafeteria next to the gift shop.

In spite of my still pose, my posture stiffens even more as I notice one of the gallery owners out of the corner of my eye. He is wearing his signature skinny jeans and black turtleneck, and he is accompanied by a woman with glasses.

“This is our newest attraction,” he says

“Fascinating,” says the woman. “What inspired you to create this?”

One of your employees made a perfectly understandable mistake, and you decided to design your own special form of purgatory as penance, I want to say.

I don’t even like art that much. The only reason I took the janitor position in the first place was because it was a paying job indoors. How was I supposed to know a spilled bucket of paint was an art display? It didn’t even have ropes around it or one of those little title cards. Apparently, if you are a proper art aficionado, you just know.

“It just…came to me. This is actually one of our staff, and to be perfectly truthful, he does share some of the credit for the inspiration.”

“It must be quite an honor to be part of an original Whitmeyer, and in one of his own galleries. You’re a part of history, really,” she says, then she leans towards Whitmeyer, “am I allowed to speak to him?”

“Well, part of maintaining the effect means no interactions with the viewer, but I think in your case we can make an exception. Seymour, go ahead and answer the lady.”

I straighten up and turn towards them, making a quick swipe at my nose and trying not to audibly sigh with relief. I can see the look of danger in Whitmeyer’s eyes. He wants me to be on my best behavior.

“It is definitely a unique experience,” I say, smiling.

“I imagine they pay you something, although I would do it for free.”

“Would you like to take a turn?” I am careful to laugh as I say this, and fortunately the woman laughs too. My eyes flit in Whitmeyer’s direction, and I notice his smile is forced.

“Well, shall we move on?” he says, “I would really like to show you…”

“Just a moment,” says the woman. “This really is quite a fascinating display. So, you stand here all day?”

“Rain or shine.”

“Do you assume the same pose, or different ones?”

“Oh, different ones for weekends, holidays, and special events.”

This is the first time I’ve spoken to anyone besides Whitmeyer in weeks, and I am just now realizing how much I’ve missed human interaction.

“What is your favorite piece in the collection?”

“You mean, aside from myself?”

Whitmeyer isn’t amused, but his guest thinks it’s funny.

“Well, I mean, there is the wheelbarrow with the chickens in it…” I say.

“The Carlos WIlliams piece, yes,” the woman says, nodding slowly. “I found it very inspiring. What did you think of Song of Myself?”

“Er, well, what can I say? It left me speechless.”

“Yes, I couldn’t agree more!”

“Do you think Once More to the Lake got the attention it deserved?”

This question is from Whitmeyer, who’s watching me with a wry smile, resting his chin between his finger and thumb. He’s testing me, I know it. But I’m not going to rise to the bait.

“I suppose…if it actually existed,” I return his wry smile.

The woman blinks. “It does exist. It’s one of the signature pieces in this gallery.”

Oops.

“Well, if I’m being perfectly honest, I’m speaking as an amateur. I don’t really know that much about art.”

She frowns. “I don’t understand. I thought…well you must know something about it.”

“Does it really matter if the artwork doesn’t know much about art?”

“Surely, Mr. Whitmeyer, you wouldn’t bestow such an honor on…an amateur?”

“I thought it would be an amusing experiment.”

Now it is his turn to be flustered. The woman turns her attention to me again.

“Then what is your opinion of this gallery, if you don’t know much about art?”

All very overrated, much like Whitmeyer.

“What was that?” says Whitmeyer.

Did I say that out loud?

“Did I say that out loud?”

They both nod.

“I guess I’m so used to talking in my head, I can’t tell the difference any more.”

An idea comes to me.

“You’re right,” I say, “I don’t know a thing about art! What right do I have to be here?”

My eyes widen, and I begin patting down my chest, looking myself over from head to toe.

“I can’t believe it,” I say, “I’m a fraud! A fake! A forgery!”

This last word gets a loud gasp from woman, and several other visitors nearby. I’ve just said the other F word. Whitmeyer looks horrified. I can see him weighing his options in his mind, deciding which move will cost him the least humiliation.

“We do not permit forgeries in our gallery,” he finally says, “you must leave at once!”

“But what about…”

“Never mind, just get out of my sight! I can’t bear the sight of a fake!”

“Well, if you say so…”

I step down off the podium. A few people gasp, and someone even screams, but no one stops the walking statue going out the door, not even Whitmeyer.

I never heard from him again. I never even got a bill for the art.