Busted

God Makes the Angels, Satan Prints up the T-shirts

This week there is a seemingly endless stream of school groups flooding through the galleries. It always happens this way; the schools all schedule their tours at once, and of course we’re always short handed those weeks. Even though the groups are always chaperoned, it still makes things difficult for us; there are just too many kids for the teachers to keep an eye on, and while most of the little rugrats are pretty well behaved, they’re still really loud, and there are always a few in every group that end up wandering away or running their grimy little hands all over everything.

This morning there are two kids wearing t-shirts that really stick out. One of the shirts is black with huge white lettering that reads

CAUSE
STONE
COLD
SAID SO

I know enough about pop culture to realize that this refers to the famous wrestler Steve Austin, but I wonder what future generations, finding this shirt as perhaps part of an archaeological dig might think. I am also struck by the contrast of this harsh message to the soft Impressionist landscapes that the little guy seems eager to leave his fingerprints all over. I can’t wait until I have to yell at him for something so I can tell him: “Get your hands off that Utrillo! Why? ‘Cause STONE COLD SAID SO!”

The other little boy is wearing a white t-shirt that has written across its back in big black lettering the phrase

I SUPPORT
VICTIM SERVICES

This disturbs me even more than the Steve Austin shirt does. It’s a child’s size shirt; why on earth would anyone want their kid displaying such a slogan? And how can a seven year old support a victim service, much less know what it is? I feel creeped out by the whole thing and can’t even bring myself to say anything to the little guy, even when I catch him running his fingers provocatively across the thigh of the Henry Moore sculpture.

Museum Guard

Rosebud

Smoke from my cigarette curls up
towards the branches of the trees,
bare save for the February ferns
that sprout like hair from their damp crevasses.
It's a dry, clear night, and I stand
in the park across from the museum,
still in my uniform, staring up
at the the deep blue
of the early evening sky, dotted with stars
like the dandruff I brush
from the shoulders of my navy blue blazer.
A street punk with the prerequisite pit bull
limps past me, muttering
"Wuntsumbud, man? Ennybud, man?"
I shake my head, flicking my butt
into the dirt at the base
of a nearby rosebush
which shivers as it waits
much more patiently than I do
for spring.

The Stiff

There was a shoplifter in the museum store today, a well-dressed man in his fifties; suit and tie, could have been a businessman. He wore a long overcoat and carried a canvas tote bag which he was apparently using to put merchandise into. He was acting a little suspicious I guess, and Karen was watching him on the monitors in the control room when she actually saw him slip a large Christo monograph into his bag. I went to investigate, casually strolling up to the guy as he was looking through a book on the Situationists.

"Hi", I said.

He looked up at me with no surprise or fear on his face.He
smiled.

"Hi yourself."

I smiled back.

"So... whatchoo got in the bag?" I asked in a friendly voice.

"Oh, you know; some books and stuff. Nothin special."

"Hmmm. Well, you know, I believe there might be something that doesn't belong to you in that bag."

He took a step away from me. I put my hands up in a friendly gesture.

"It's okay, buddy. Just take the stuff out of your bag and we'll be cool."

I didn't expect him to run; maybe I should have. He pushed aside an old woman and bolted for the door. I surprised myself and took off after him. Usually I wouldn't bother, but something automatic kicked in. I could see in my peripheral vision that Perry was right behind me, chasing as well.

He ran down the sidewalk a ways before crossing the street towards the park. I sprinted after him like an Olympic bronze medalist. It all happened so fast I didn't really see the impact but I saw his body roll across the hood of the car and into the street. The driver, having slammed on the brakes, leaped from the vehicle and ran to see if he was okay. There was a large splotch of blood across the windshield. The shoplifter was still moving; I bent over him and could hear a gurgling sound come from the back of his throat. His head and chest were covered in blood.... he spit out a lungful of blood, then shuddered, falling face-first into the gutter. A small crowd had gathered around and they started to cheer for me. A gorgeous grad student threw her arms around me, pressing her ample bosom against my uniform. I looked across the park to see the mayor running towards me, giving me a big thumbs up. "Still keeping our city safe, I see!" said a voice behind me: it was Christopher Reeves, grinning with gratitude as he pulled out his wallet and counted out bills for a reward...

I'm standing here in the gift shop, watching a well-dressed middle aged man carrying a tote bag, and I'm thinking to myself: go ahead, buddy; go ahead. Just try and take something. It's been dead in here all day and I'm bored stiff. I dare you. I fucking dare you.