In the Eye of the Beholder

Trigger Warning: Ideas/Suggestions of Sex

Leaning against the wall opposite the ticket desk, I have two thoughts suspended in my mind’s grasp. One, will this shift ever end? The day has felt interminable in its lack of function. And the other thought is on a perpetual loop. Some days it gets recycled as freely as the flow of beautiful women who pass by, and on other days more infrequent. Okay, never less than once every couple of hours. I don’t intend to sell men out, but you’ve guessed it. Sex is the four-letter word that encompasses the universe of the male psyche. I know it's three, but who is counting? Sex is the act that we are compelled toward, the one that drives the core of our existence. That’s not to say that we don’t have analogous pushes and urges for acceptance, love, acknowledgment, and all of the other feelings stuff. Still, it can easily be cancelled by the way a girl smells, a flowery light perfume with its soft hint of honeysuckle, or a fleeting glance at some perfectly rounded cleavage, especially if there is a little bounce accompanied with it. I know you are shaking your head, but it is the truth as to why we are the weaker beings until you need a police officer, that is. We are still good for brute strength, a calm, discerning demeanor, and a level-headed approach, despite the inability to control our mind when it comes to thoughts of fornication. It is an open secret that we are biological anomalies, beholden to our base desires.

Speaking of police officers, that sums up my profession every day of the week. It was a chance meeting that led me into law enforcement, but I have no complaints. It has served me well, provided a necessary purpose to defend and protect, so the famous phrasing goes. Nineteen years logged with the force as I approach my fortieth birthday; I am lucky to be facing this milestone with the myriad risks I have faced. The main disadvantage of my career path has been the long hours filled with humanity’s proclivity to make the wrong choices. I won’t deny that it has left me flustered and on the verge of breaking, at times. Retaining a positive outlook and relying on my contingency crutch of sexual thoughts is what keeps me sane. I have channeled my efforts toward promotions, investigations, and helping those in need. I have had my fill of short-term girlfriends, but none of them have understood my devotion to this type of monotonous work, akin to being an adult babysitter. I don’t fault them, because there is part of me that knows there is a parallel life I am missing, one that involves birthday parties, picnics at the park, and long weekends in Napa. The rising costs of living in this bustling city have spurred me to seek off-duty security shifts. My day off from the police department falls on Thursdays, so I pick up the evening shift at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art to pad my wallet, kill the lonely hours, and take in the feminine scenery that working the streets rarely affords.

It's not just the groups of college-aged hotties who arrest my attention, as most women would assume. It’s women in all their glorious forms. Especially intriguing are the unsure housewives who have stolen a day to linger among the paintings and sculptures, wearing a more provocative outfit than is their normal habit, a true daring in how they show a little more leg. It can be the refined group of ladies who wear their tailored, tight-fitting outfits with their designer shoes and purses, flitting from one artist’s masterpiece to the next, a walk of confidence. They always look back at me with a longing stare. Their husbands are stockbrokers, hedge fund managers, and Vice Presidents of some division or another, but they have fantasies too, and they often involve uniforms and handcuffs. I give them a nod of my head and return the sultry stare, knowing they will find a reason to come back, if only to bask in the illicit gaze one more time.

Of course, there are the throngs of tourists who are ill-mannered, lost, and haphazardly dressed. You’ll find a gem or two in that bunch, some incidental eye candy. Surprisingly, the most alluring are the women more advanced in years, and don’t doubt for a minute that they can rock it better than any of those younger girls. Experience counts. No, I don’t have a preference for blondes, brunettes, redheads, or girls who have the darkest of raven locks. Girls can sport short cuts or long, flowing tresses, curly or straight, so long as their hair moves with their natural, sensual flow. It's the sights, and the smells, and the utter beauty of the unattainable curves that keep me engaged.

It's not just the goddesses in the flesh that focus my thoughts to sex. Walking these seven floors of the museum, I can find ample inspiration in the many artworks hung stiffly on these walls.

Agnes Martin’s “Night Sea” is how I feel when I haven’t had sex in weeks, a blue heaviness that is stifling and consuming. You can get sucked into that type of hollowness.

“Erased de Kooning Drawing” by Rauschenberg is the exact opposite though, a blank slate where anything and everything can happen. It echoes, “You haven’t even heard her name yet.”

Matisse’s “Lady in a Hat” is a bit matronly for my liking, but who am I to judge? I just take notice.

There is the obvious exhibit on the sixth floor entitled “Infinite Love.” It is Yayoi Kusama’s representation of love in its concentric circles. Her gig is that the moon, stars, planets, and all of us are simply dots comprising a whole. It is colorful and reflective, but it solely reminds me of some orbs that I’d like to hold with my hands, give the universe a little squeeze. That is one of our intrinsic gifts, the ability to always relay it back to the simplest form.

The titles alone on these works can drive your imagination to the brink: Study in Curves (Merida), Dessert Tray (Thiebaud), You and I, Horizontal (McCall). Seriously, what do they expect a guy to think?

My favorite painting to muse over is called “Francis” by Mary Lovelace O’Neal. What I wouldn’t give to walk right into that, an open invitation to a riotous good time. I could stare at that one for half an hour and get lost in the possibilities. I have, in fact, done just that, until I realized I was being eyed curiously by the Curator of the museum. I gave a lift of my eyebrows to indicate the masterful composition, but it felt disingenuous. I received a stunted, furrowed nod in return, as she hurriedly walked away, the clicking of her heels as admonitory as the knowing look.

Later, I overheard a patron saying it looked like a horse, which is not at all what I perceived, but then again, reality is in the eye of the beholder. Tragedies, jokes, blessings, and curses are all viewed from varying lenses. My wish is for someone to fully share in my vision, even if it is transitory, a bittersweetness in the mutual understanding.

It is seven o’clock and I start making my final rounds of the floors, wondering what I will have for dinner in this solitary evening. My choices are limited to a leftover tuna sandwich or take-out from Pearl’s. It’s not a hard decision. Rounding the corner, I catch my reflection in the glass. My dark hair is starting to grey evenly around the temples, but I prefer to think I am still attractive, fit, and strong. It would make my daily trips to the gym worthwhile. I am average in height and athletic in build, but I’ve been told my best feature is my smile, not a Tom Cruise smile, but close. The thing is that I don’t wear it often, so I'm guessing that’s why it gets noticed. Still walking and surveying my profile in the glass, I run head-first into a woman exiting the bathroom. Startled by my lack of awareness, I step back with a generous apology. She puts her hand up to take responsibility, but I’m at fault for the collision.

“Sorry, ma’am, I was distracted. Didn’t see you there,” I say with genuine deference.

“No harm, no foul,” she replies with a resplendent smile.

In that second, her smile eclipses the sun of my thoughts. I am unmoving in the light she projects, the way her warmth and interest stay centered on me, an earnest timidity that catches me off guard. She has a gentle prettiness that she doubts, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear. She flips her glasses to the top of her head, and we look at each other directly. Her eyes are prominent, now exposed, brown with a heavy depth. Her nose is slender, the tip of it perky and rounded. She scrunches it, trying to think of something to say next. I watch her lips, waiting for the next comment, anticipating that her mouth could deliver pleasures with more than just words.

“You remind me of that painting, The Flower Carrier,” she says with a demure wit, causing me to laugh out loud.

“Really,” still laughing, finding her comment amusing, I banter back, “and I was hoping you’d say I was more like Warhol’s Triple Elvis." I flash her my grin.

We relax into the unexpectedness of the moment. For the first time in a long time, I feel alive in this accidental encounter.

“I’m sure you know all the artwork here,” she looks downward, the shyness tugging at her.

“That I do, a little too well,” trying to garner the courage, I continue, “Hey, my shift wraps up here soon, and I was going to grab a burger. Do you think you would want to join me?” I am surprised at myself for the ask, but I want to know more about her, and I am afraid of losing my chance.

She looks up, pondering the invitation, “Well, I am hungry, and you are a police officer. So yes, that would be very nice. Thank you for asking.” She offers up that smile again, and something pulls inside me, a youthful abandon to dive headfirst into the unknown.

“Great, I’ll meet you downstairs at the entrance in about fifteen minutes or less. Don’t leave me,” I give her a wink. “Oh, what is your name?”

“Valleri. It’s nice to meet you, umm, Officer Maxwell,” she says, eyeing my badge.

And I think to myself, of course, her name is Valleri. That is the name that has been echoing off that blank slate of a drawing since I started here. Thanks, Rauschenberg.

“Likewise, please call me, Jason,” and I extend my hand for the official introduction. “Fifteen minutes!”

She affirms with a tilt of her head, and I race around the corner to close out my shift in record time.

***

The elevator’s descent from the seventh floor is long enough for me to second guess everything, but mostly because I am worried that Valleri will be gone, and I will be standing there by myself with this flower that I borrowed from the Curator’s floral arrangement, the one sitting proudly on her desk. I am sure she won’t notice. The elevator announces the ground-level arrival, and I realize for the first time how slowly these doors open, a centimeter at a time. Peering and straining, I can see her standing in the cold, wet melancholy of the San Francisco evening, her hands neatly tucked in her coat’s pockets as she turns back and forth, looking at the evening’s activities of passer-byers. I get that tightened excitement in my throat again. I feel like I am sixteen.

I let myself out of the employee entrance and walk toward her. She pivots upon hearing my approach, and I produce the pink peony from behind my back.

She delights in my remembrance, “I knew you were the flower carrier!”

I like how the excitement floods her face, reminiscent of the lights that power Las Vegas. I want to make her happy, and I don’t even know her. She takes it from my hand, and we begin our stroll to Pearl’s, to satisfy the needs of hunger. The sidewalks are narrow, tight with people passing in the opposite direction, and she leans into me. I revel in her scent and the warmth she exudes.

She turns her head back to me, stating, “You know, I’m not from here, just visiting my sister for the week. There’s that adage or song about leaving your heart in San Francisco,” she looks forward to make sure she’s not about to collide with anyone else.

My heart skips, knowing that there was a high probability she wasn’t local.

“That’s okay. If you leave your heart here, then I’ll be certain to keep it safe.”

There is another tilt of her head back with our eyes meeting, a flirtatious laugh, an electric connection.

She knows I mean it, and I really do.

I make a slight move to reach the door of Pearl’s first, so I can open it in gentlemanly fashion. With the most unpredicted, coquettish charm, she says breathily, almost in a whisper, “Maybe you can show me your gun sometime.”

With that remark, I am sold. Hands down. She gets me, no, she knows me. I have found the girl more beautiful than any piece of artwork. There is a feeling of having come full circle to the destiny I have unknowingly owned.