No Name Museum

“I always thought that museum in the weird little building at the end of Harrison Street was odd, more than unusual, but it displayed incredible art. Masters all. I told my friends about it constantly but they could never find it.  That used to make me so angry. I would rant and rave, jump up and down, wave my arms and beat my chest, but I would not take them there. It was ridiculous. They should just drive right to it and they were running a con on me. Hell with them.”

Monet, DaVinci, Manet, van Gogh, Rembrandt, Gaugin, Picasso, Dali, Matisse and many more. I would bore you with all the names, but they were all there. Even Georgia O’Keefe. Well, especially Georgia O’Keefe. Kelly Mondale was a huge fan of this non-descript museum that only she seemed to know about. I haven’t seen her for long time but she used to be such a fun person.

“Gods, bods, I used to spend two hours just looking at four paintings. Frankly, it was the limit of what I could handle. You start out glancing at a van Gogh, then you look a little closer, then you start combing the canvas, then you get captivated by one thing, then another thing, and at least half an hour has whizzed by. Grief!! I love every second of it.”

“I would get home and immediately start sending texts and email about my latest visit to the No-Name museum. That was true. I could find a name on the building or the door. The door was fascinating. It looked like the big entrance way to a 12^th century castle (another reason why I couldn’t believe nobody could knew of it. The door was oversized for the building but it was spectacular. The door. Come to think of it, I couldn’t describe it but I can drive right to it and it’s always there.”

Christine got a nasty gram back from Jane. “Jane was always kind of bitchy anyway, but tonight she came down really hard on me. Besides suggesting someplace I might go she also demanded, yes, demanded that I seek professional help. Run, don’t walk to the nearest shrink.” 

Her friend, Jerry, had a few unkind words as well. He made it clear that she had just gone too far with her “gag” and that it was beyond funny. “Well, it never was funny. He also had some ideas about where she could go and one of them was his bed. He thought that a little, maybe a lot of rousing sex with Jerry was just what she needed to abate her female disturbance. “Very kind, Jerry.”

Of course, her ex, Jonathan, had to launch into an interminable lecture. Weighing in on all her faults, fantasies, failings ridiculous opinions. He also wound up his missive with the thought of some roaring, passionate sex which might be good therapy for him. “These guys, all so thoughtful.”

Both of those guys, and Jane, questioned the wisdom of continuing her job, her profession, at Apple as a graphic artist. She was the top artist in her department and managed all the game graphics. She was not just good at it, She was blessed with exceptional talent. Being at Apple, she worked very long hours. Apple was supposed to be such a humane, enlightened place to work, but a 60 hour week was normal for her and most of the people who worked for her and with her.

Enough she thought. “I am going to have a glass of cabernet and then head down to the museum” She did just that, parking her Fiat about a block away and walking to the massive door. As always, she was very impressed but could not find a name. Christine walked inside and immediately encountered a new Gaugin. She was thrilled. The museum was so quiet and peaceful. Such a relief from the hectic day at Apple.

As she studied “A Study of a Nude,” she thought she heard some men’s voices engage in a rather heated discussion She made out a few words like “pointillism,” “Schuffenecter,” “Cezanne,” and “The Markets of Vaugirard,” but they were indistinct and she was surprised. The museum has always been so quiet.

She turned from the painting and started down the hallway towards the voices which were getting louder. “My,” she thought. Then, she heard things like “Metter and Marie and Pont-Aven. “Merde” came a screech.

“My God that looks like Vincent and the other guy must be Paul. Did they just step out of the ‘Bedroom in Arles?’”

“Look Paul, I saw her first, she’s mine.”

“No, no, no Vinny. My firstie. She isn’t going to like your red beard and your sliced up ear. Besides, if I bed her first, she will be all warmed up for you. You know, this is an interesting place. That looks like some sill thing by Monet over there. Look! It’s all Claude.”

“By the way Paul, did you bring the wine?

“That shook me a bit,” thought Christine. “Those two guys looked real and I swear they stepped out of that painting. Who’s this woman they are talking about?”

Christine was extremely shaken. It became quite obvious that Vincent and Paul were talking about her as there was no one else in the museum. Plus, she finally noticed how quiet it was in the museum, dead quiet. That was one of the things that always attracted her to it. Now it was mortifyingly scary. She walked around the corner from Paul and Vincent.

“Well, bonjour! Said Euoard. “Or maybe ‘hello.’ Yes?”

The shock was powerful. “Who is this guy?”

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Edouard Manet and I am a painter. You may be aware of “The Dead Christ with Angels? Ne pas? Oh, and this is my friend Atonin Proust, no relation to that bore Marcel. And, you are?”

Manet and Proust wore big smiles. Proust said, “Mademoiselle, I understand you are tonight’s treat. Wonderful. You are quite desirable. I am sure all will be pleased,” he said with even a bigger smirk on his face.

With a very loud scream, Christine ran around both of them, down the hall and turned the corner. There she a saw a man dressed in strange clothes, stranger at least than the other men, passionately kissing a nude woman. As she watched, the woman pulled down the man’s pants and gripped his very erect penis. The woman turned and smiled at Christine. “I call him Harm, but most people call him Rembrandt,” and she slid his cock into her vagina. She let out a deep moan and Rembrandt shouted,”Aaah!” As Rembrandt was slightly humping her, between gasps, she turned to Christian and exclaimed. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn.”

Screaming again, she ran around the coupling couple and smack into de Goya. ”Oh, thank you. I never get firsties. I am so aroused and I apologize in advance for being crude.” He threw Christine to the floor and start tearing off her clothes with absolutely no finesse. Just then, Proust and Monet rounded the corner.

“C’mon Francisco. You are too old and ugly. I am sure you just climbed out of that hideous “Yard with Lunatics. I am sure that you are one of the people in the yard,” exclaimed Proust.

“Shut up, Atonin. I am taking her now. I deserve a little pleasure and I am about to get it,” he shouted as he pulled his pants down and off. “Disgusting,” moaned Christine, on the verge of hysteria.

“Wait. Goya’s right,” yelled Manet. “His paintings are grotesque, but he deserves a place here and he has never had firsties. She is really fighting back. Proust, you grab her arms, Claude, you take her left leg, I’ll grab the right. I’m next,” and he dropped his pants. Paul was standing over her with an enormous grin on his face.

Beyond her violent screams, heavy sobbing, lying naked on the floor with de Goya lowering himself on her, Christine became aware of another sound. It was like a pounding on a door. It was incessant and getting louder and louder. She opened her eyes. It was her door and it was Sherry, her downstairs neighbor. “Christine, let me in. Are you all right. Open up!!!”

Christine struggled out of bed and stumbled to the door. She opened the door and wrapped herself around a shocked Sherry. “Oh my god, Sherry,” and Christine was bawling as hard as she ever had in her life.

“Let’s go in and have a cup of tea” said Sherry, holding Christine close.”

The next day, Christine took a Lyft to Cupertino. She was early and there was nobody in the Human Resources department but she didn’t mind. She could wait.