“The Sunset” or “The Dusk”

  A sea of turtle necks and clean white walls is a dangerous place. The Arctic would be jealous of how cold and desolate they make outsiders feel but it’s so bitter to not be invited that everyone on the other side of the windows can only feel desperate to get in. It is a requirement of those with a wax sealed letter, the ones allowed to cross the door, to be vile and known. One must have only the exact right words, in their name, on their diploma, in their address, and out their mouth. The art displayed is really only a distraction from the elaborate game of social constructs that everyone is balancing on knives. But there is always a back door to every room.

         It would be the most appalling offense for the finer members of society to serve themselves, so naturally there is a requirement for a full staff. There are ex-marines by the front door, making more money looking mean than the government ever gave them, a full Michelin star of chefs, hidden in a pantry making bite size salads for the guests to look at, and servers wearing uniforms worth more than they’re being paid. There is a young man among the servers, in his early twenties, who’s been to quite a few of these art shows before and has found a living in being trustworthy to not spill drinks. He did not go to college and doesn’t have much to do. He has an interesting hobby that has curiously grown in this sterile place, but tonight’s victim has yet to be decided.

          Among the guests there is a man who was born to play the game and has been since he was young, with a family who knows exactly how to win. He is almost thirty and waiting for his fathers to die. If it takes much longer he might have to make his own money, but he’ll never give it a second thought. The red wax letters have piled up on his counter but he tells himself that all art is different, and he only goes for the art. Tonight he showed up fashionably late, dressed to the nines and ready to play. 

          The usual murmurs came when he walked in, acknowledging a familiar player and his well standing record, but it faded a little quickly for his taste. An unsettling feeling has rooted in the base of his spine and the absence of jealous glances was feeding it. He noticed immediately that their chatter was occupied by a new young man with an odd suit and a handsome face. He can feel the unsettling feeling reaching up his spine. He made his usual first move, walking straight to the first painting to catch his eye and standing within conversation distance of whoever of importance was near it, but still he couldn’t shake the feeling. 

          There had been three extravagant art shows in the last two months, a rather high frequency, and the same two men had been at all of them. The guest and the server. The server had just finished rechecking that his outfit was symmetrical and clean, and was going to begin his shift to relieve another server who had to leave early. He grabbed a silver platter of champagne glasses and swung through the double doors. 

         His job requires him to walk in meaningless circles to offer the glasses, but he finds meaning in walking slowly and watching the guests. He stopped for a white haired gentleman with what must be his granddaughter’s friend on his arm, but he decided that his victim would be found elsewhere. A lady with a porcelain face beckoned him over absentmindedly while pretending to laugh, but she was too far gone for him already. There was a young man attracting much attention about his fashionable suit and fresh face, in youth and experience at these events. The server began to walk straight  toward him, as this newcomer was interesting indeed, but hesitated. He did not know enough about this new man to attempt anything. Over the sparkling shoulder of his odd suit, the server noticed a pair of eyes in the distance. A cowardly pair of eyes looking over the shoulder of a man with an older suit and a head held low. The search was over.

          After serving the newcomer the server snaked slowly toward the guest, waiting for an opportunity. But the guest was persistent, never leaving himself alone in conversation for longer than it took him to walk to the next person. He was quite smart and experienced in this setting, he knew his strategy for relevance was unsustainable with a limited guest list so he made sure to talk as much as he possibly, appropriately could. The server, though, was a patient man. These art shows last many hours and an opportunity will present itself eventually, until then the server only had to keep his platter full. Finally, after the other guests had gotten wise and started to avoid him, the guest was left alone to inspect a beautiful painting.

          The server came up behind him and stood right in the guest’s periphery. He waited a moment and then asked, “Would you like some champagne, sir?” He had slightly startled the guest, who replied, “Oh! My, I didn’t see you there! Thank you.” And took a glass, turning back to the painting and expecting the server to leave. After a moment it was evident that the server would not leave, and when the guest turned back to him he was consumed by the painting.

        “It’s quite gorgeous.” Said the server without looking away.

        “Yes, it’s very ni-”

       “The color work is masterful,” the server interrupted, “and the shadows are just too perfect.”

       “Um… yes. I didn’t notice before, but yes.” 

       “You didn’t notice? You have been standing at this painting for most of the night and you… didn’t notice?” The server finally met eyes with the guest. “How did you not notice?”

        “Well I guess I just wasn’t paying much attention.” The guest, in his confusion, was becoming defensive

        “So I suppose these events really aren’t about the art.” The server turned back to the painting.

        “What are you talking about-” he started to raise his voice. What bothered him wasn’t that the server had seemed to know the lies he told himself, but that hearing it out loud he almost wanted to agree.

        “Lucia Flores probably spent weeks, maybe months pouring her heart into this,” he paused to become even more absorbed in the painting, “absolute masterpiece, and you didn’t even notice. You all come to these art shows, what a silly name, just to ignore the art and talk about each other. You just play your little game of walking on eggshells, waiting for someone to make a mistake so you can feel better about yourself, so you can feel like you’ve accomplished something when all you’ve done is be born and have dead relatives, and after it all you still have the nerve to pretend to care about art. Every painting in this room came from someone who had to work for something, even if that something is just some nice color work, but what have you done to get here? You should feel ashamed. Ashamed that you spent hours looking at this painting and you didn’t notice the colors. Why do you even want this privilege if all you can do with it is be jealous of that new guy over there. What are you actually doing with your life?” The server let silence fall over the guest for a moment, then he turned to leave.

          “Who? Uh…Lily...Lucy…” The server stopped to see the guest staring at his feet.

          “Lucia Flores.”

          “Who is that?”

          The server slowly lifted his hand and pointed at the signature in the corner of the painting, then he turned and left.

          There was no one in the area, otherwise the server wouldn’t have approached the guest, so he was left alone with his thoughts. Whatever was rooted in his spine had taken over his whole body and all he could do was stand still and stare at the painting. It was of a Spanish city at sunset, created with a million tiny dots bursting with color. It was mesmerizing to look at. The sun in the distance was flowing warmly over the town, and the tiny people going about their day all had vibrant lives and personalities. The city was tired and lively at once. The city was almost real. The card next to the painting revealed its name to be El Atardecer, “the dusk” or “the sunset”. 

         Below the name the price was listed as $20,000. The guest beckoned over the host, the one responsible for the art, and told him he was buying the painting. The host put a red sticker next to the card and left to finalize the payment. The guest's phone began to ring in his pocket, so he went outside the building. The caller was a number he didn’t know. 

         “...Hello?” He answered hesitantly. There was a pause before he was told that the call was from a hospital. 

          His father had passed. 

          He didn’t hear much else. He stood paralyzed on the corner of the sidewalk. At some point his thumb slipped and he hung up. He stood still for a while longer.

          He was brought back to the world through the sound of shouting coming from an open door near the back of the building. He looked over and saw the server walking backward towards the street, and the shadow of someone inside pushing him back. He couldn’t make out much, “You can’t do that sort of thing!”, “Can’t talk to them!”, “Fired!”, something like that. The server was wearing his normal clothes and the yelling man took his suit out his hands and slammed the door shut. 

          Now they both stood paralyzed in the street. The one who used to be a server saw the one who was still a guest and they stared at each other for a while. Then, finally, he turned towards the street and left.