Lend me an ear

I start off the day in the control room. When my boss Kenneth gets there to take over I head over to the other building to open the front door of the museum's offices.

No sooner have I lugged open the enormous bronze doors and plopped down behind the reception desk when one of the curators comes striding in with a middle aged woman following close behind. He tells me I should call someone in curatorial (other than himself, apparently) to help this woman, that she says she has a piece of artwork to donate to the museum.

I look at her; she has flaming orange hair pulled up into a wild knot on the top of her head and is clutching a clear garbage bag filled with other clear garbage bags. The curator disappears and I’m suddenly left alone with her.

"What if I die?" she immediately hisses at me. "What if I die? Where does this art go then? Who's going to take care of this art? I need someone to help me now. I need to talk to SOMEBODY RIGHT NOW about this art."

I’m a little taken aback. I haven’t had my coffee yet.

“Let me get this straight; you have some art you’d like to donate…”

“Well I don’t have it WITH me, what you think I’m an idiot, I could get hit by a bus out there and then what, no, I’m not stupid, I’d die and it would be gone just like that! It should be in the museum, here!”

"Okay, let me just see if there's someone here who can help you... " I try a few extensions with little confidence in the possibility of finding someone able or willing to help this woman.

"Well, no one's answering up there.” I glance at the computer clock; it’s barely nine o’clock. “It's pretty early yet though. They might be in later, or I can give you a number to call... "

"I don’t want a goddam number! Aren't you listening to me? I need to talk to somebody NOW! What if I die? THIS is what's important! I was just down at the mayor's office and they told me to come here! I'm not taking any chances. What if this was a Van Gogh I was donating? You’d listen to me then! Get me somebody NOW!"

She is screeching hysterically at this point; her voice echoes and reverberates off the faux-marble walls of the lobby.

"Miss, please, I'm trying to... "

"You're NOT trying! I NEED... "

"EXCUSE me!" I shout. "If you don't listen to me, I can't help you. I'm TRYING to get someone for you to talk to."

"I AM listening!" She screams, then leans across my desk, spitting with rage. "You know, if I was Van Gogh you wouldn't talk to me that way!"

"Actually, if you were Van Gogh and you were screaming at me like that, yes, I would talk to you this way!"

She paces around the room, still yelling. I dial Kenneth and quietly ask if he'll please come over here. I very rarely ask for any help; he doesn’t ask what’s going on but says he’s on his way.

"I learned everything from watching the masters! Looking at Van Gogh and, and, that other, you know... the triangle, the circle. You know what's the most important thing, right? RIGHT?"

"No, what's the most important thing?" I ask, suddenly weary.

"THE ART!" She screams. "THE ART!"

I manage to smile. "Yeah, I agreee."

Kenneth appears in the doorway. He looks at her, looks at me, looks at her.

"How can I help you today?" he asks her with a big smile. He holds the door open for her. She looks at him, looks at me, and leaves without another word. He follows her out, watches her stagger across the street, swinging her bag angrily at the statue of Abraham Lincoln, but missing by a mile.

The Basketball Sheik

I step away from my desk and look out through the glass doors at the park across the street. A turbaned man carrying a basket ball is doing what looks like a flamenco dance at the foot of the Abraham Lincoln statue. He's a regular here at the museum; the other guards have dubbed him the Basketball Sheik. Although he always wears the turban and robes, he’s white and seems pretty much insane, although he's a member of the museum. Perhaps someone buys him a yearly membership, no one seems to know. He always wants to take his basketball into the galleries and throws a fuss when we tell him he has to check it at the front desk. Once inside he spends his time obsessively writing notes on a tiny memo pad in cramped handwriting. Every once in a while he'll throw a fit or start touching things and we have to talk to him; he inevitably gets very hostile and occasionally we have to throw him out. No one's ever had a normal conversation with him, He's been seen carrying canvases through the park, so it's assumed he's some kind of painter. As I watch him, he stops dancing and starts dribbling his basketball. He makes as if he's going to take a shot at a basket and lobs the ball up at the Lincoln statue. It hits Honest Abe square in the forehead and flies right back into his hands. I hear a whoop of triumph before I head back to my desk, letting Venus keep her eye on him for a while.

We Were All Agents

The cop, the cop, the cop.
He’s just a guard, Kimmy. He’s not really a cop.
He’s got a gun, don’t he?
He don’t got a gun.
The guard, the guard, the guard.
You really think he’s cute?
Cyn, I’m spinning around with glee just thinking about him!
Kimmy, yer insane!
Yeh, but he’s CUTE!!!

!!!!!

Soooo…
Yeh?
So, do you want ta, ya know, uh…
uh…
heh…
okay.
Okay?
Yeh. Okay.
Uh, okay. Cool.

!!!!!

Omigod omigod omigod Cyn you’ll never guess what
Hold on, Kimmy. WHAT, MA? YEH, I KNOW. I’M ON THE FREAKIN PHONE! Go on, Kimmy. Whatsup?
I ast him out, Cyn. That guard.
Shutthefuckup you ditnt,
Oh yah I so todally did! We’re goin out Wendsday.
Holy shit K I don’t believe it. Whudju say to him?
I just like went up to him and told him I thought he was cool.
No you fuckin ditnt.
Oh yes I fuckin did!
Girl! (laughter)
(transmission ends due to interference)

!!!!!

REPORT FILED BY AGENT LEMAN FORMER
CODENAME “EL PICO”
POSSIBLE SUSPECT IN JAYMES CASE
“CYNTHIA GOSLING”
TRANSCRIPT TO FOLLOW

Strapped earpiece to mouth, cut and inserted wires 2305 hours, conversation already in progress


CYNTHIA GOSLING: Tell me everything, girl. I want details!
KIMBERLY GA: Well, you know how we was at the museum lass week wit class?
CG: OMIGOD that Miz Haverston such a bitch!
KG: Ya, fuck her, right? Anyway, you remember that cute guard guy? The one wit the blond beard?
CG: Omigod he was what like thirty somethin!
KG: Ya well, when you wernt lookin I wen up to him an I gave him my number.
CG: You dint.
KG: So guess what he calld me an we’re goin out to the mall Wendsday nite!
CG: (indecipherable)
KG: (indecipherable) Perry?
CG: (laughter) better than (indecipherable) (laughter)
KG: Ok well my moms gotta use the phone I see you at school ite?
CG: K bye
(end transmission)

ANALYSIS BY AGENT FORMER
No conclusive evidence yet that CG is actually enemy agent (suspicions outlined in previous report #R55253BET). Possible code phrases “Blonde beard” and “Miz Haverston”; will follow up on when additional information is obtained. Hope is a luxury at this point.

CONCLUSION:
Will continue to monitor all incoming/outgoing transmissions as well as look into identities of “Perry” and “My mom” as possible aliases for other enemy agents.

Agent LeMan Former, 0016 hours
03/01/06
Dunville Oregon

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