Jeremy was distractible and his job didn’t help that predilection. The current exhibit at the Hammer Museum was aptly titled Boys Will Be Boys and focused entirely on the gender’s fixation with sex. Designed by the latest hot-young-thing Veronica Donnelly, the exhibit was a huge success among the California art crowd, although it offended the sensibilities of more traditional enthusiasts.
The eastern wing of the building had been outfitted with Veronica’s work, which she had spent more than three years creating, tinkering with and demolishing. Dotted throughout the facility were a collection of items: a waist-height mirror with a circular hole cut in a particular spot and the words “selfish in bed” painted above; an animatronic, dismembered hand wrapped around and wanking up and down on an invisible cock; a wall crowded with plaster vagina casts; and the centerpiece of her work: two oversized emaciated sculptures in embrace with used cigarette butts cast on their bodies to, presumably, demonstrate the filth of their desire. It was impossible to tell the gender of either of the two bodies, or rather, it was meant to change depending on what the viewer wanted to see.
The California-cold January opening was scheduled to take place the coming Friday and Jeremy was hired as one of the gallery guards or as the Hammer called them, guardians. The museum had faced thieving issues in its time as all art galleries did. In fact, there were entire conferences dedicated to the Art Gallery Problem, which came down to basic geometry. Specialists in the field charged astronomical fees to keep the spaces theft-free, but museum directors supposed it saved them a fortune in avoidant lost revenue. If Jeremy ever wanted to be bored to tears, he would open one of the PDF documents the Hammer sent to him describing the visibility problem in computational geometry that accompanied his particular quadrant of the east wing.
On Thursday morning, he walked into the Hammer and opened the door labeled ‘Head of Security.’ Inside sat a stout, mustached man in his 40s holding a large coffee mug and an electronic tablet, which he was swiping through furiously. The office was pristine, but tiny, befitting his small stature. The man was wearing a brown suit with a green tie, his colorless skin beset by a slicked back mop on the top of his head.
“Jeremy, you’re late again,” said the man.
“Traffic was hell, Mr. Irons,” replied Jeremy, as wiped sweat from his brow.
“You know, we all have to deal with the same shit in this town right? I mean, my god,” said Irons, putting the tablet down and leaving open a sketch of a young woman sneaking out a door next to text titled What to Do if Art Goes Missing. He locked eyes with Jeremy and said with seriousness, “It’s like the kids here think that’s a valid excuse for tardiness. You know how long it took me to get here today? No, you don’t. But I was on time. Early even. It’s this damn overpopulation. What was the population in Los Angeles 40 years ago?”
After a pause, Jeremy responded, “Was that a rhetorical question?”
“You think you’re funny? You’re not. Not even close. How can I trust you to man the opening tomorrow? You’re in an important sector of the exhibit, you know. Yes, in fact I had to put you in the same room as the centerpiece since everyone else on staff is actually inepter than you. Can you believe that? Is that even a word?”
“Wait, am I getting a promotion?”
“No, dipshit. But if you do handle this alright, we’ll talk,” said Irons. “Now let’s take a walk.”
They left the cramped office and took the elevator to the second floor. Jeremy held the door open for Mr. Irons as the man rubbed on his head and finished the second act of his speech. “Let me show you your purview.”
They entered a room with two women, one brightly dressed in a flowing blue sundress and the other in black jeans and a pastel yellow shirt splattered white by clay. The woman in yellow was on a step ladder adjusting the large sculpture in the center of the room. She had a rag in her hand that was being used to sift off dust from the left arm. Jeremy was beset by confusion and awe. Confusion because the dust would surely re-accumulate overnight and she would be tasked with cleaning the thing again. Awe because the woman was perhaps the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Even from a few meters away, he could see the outline of her ass held up high by the tight jeans. Further, her face was angelic, surrounded by bountiful brown hair that fell just past her shoulders.
He didn’t notice at first, but the older woman in blue had walked over and greeted Irons, “Isn’t this magnificent? Even you can appreciate this, Stewart.” She waved her hands around with a light flourish as she spoke. Irons took a look around, evaluating not the art but the space for its holes in security.
“That can’t go there, Liberty,” he said gruffly, pointing to the center sculpture.
“Excuse me?” said the young woman in yellow, who stepped down from the ladder and strode over purposefully. “It has to go there.”
“It’s no good,” responded Irons and before the woman in yellow could protest, he continued. “You’re asking for trouble. Blocking the line of sight we need to keep full visuals.” He did a 360 view of the room, checking the cameras positioning and then continued, “This one,” he gestured to Jeremy, “barely has his head on his twinky shoulders.”
“But this won’t do at all!” exclaimed the young woman. “I was told I would have full creative control over this process.” She paused to collect herself, throwing brown hair in front of her left shoulder. “Stewart, is it?” He nodded. “Well, Stewart, I don’t imagine you know much about art or the nature of exhibits, but I put quite a good deal of thought into this layout. And despite this one’s,” she gestured at Jeremy, “diminished skillset, we will not be changing anything in this room or elsewhere in the exhibit for that matter.”
Jeremy had only been half listening since he’d walked in the room. The woman knew he existed! He couldn’t believe it. She had just acknowledged his earthly presence in the room.
“She’s right!” he slipped out, altogether far too enthusiastically. Then course-corrected, “Besides, I can do it, Mr. Irons. I’ve got this. No shenanigans will escape my watch, I promise.” He turned to the younger woman, “Miss Donnelly, I give you my word, no one will steal, deface or otherwise interfere with your big day tomorrow.” Then, Jeremy did something he had never done in his life before, and gave a little bow. He felt the blood rush to his head as his brain dipped to his waistline.
Mr. Irons snorted. The Liberty in blue turned to him with a wry smile and said, “See, Stewart? This young man seems more than capable. And, goodness, who would try to ruin Veronica’s big night?”
“You’ve got a provocative little display going on here, don’t forget that,” said Irons. The four of them turned and the room a look. Disembodied genitalia hung from the ceiling and walls. A sizable pile of clothes lay on the floor with brown, green and white stains on the buttocks, crotches and breasts.
“No matter,” responded Veronica. “We go on as planned.”
The protestors turned up earlier the next day than Irons had expected. Although they numbered only in the tens, their aggrandized righteousness could not be denied. Signs held aloft said things like Pagans Will Burn! and more perplexing ones such as Get Out of Our Bedrooms! He had greeted them when they showed up hours ahead of the opening.
“Hello everyone. Isn’t it great we live in this country where you can throw around your judgement and vitriol without fear of reprisal? We will not interfere with your little show if you don’t interfere with ours. I’ll bring you some water in a little bit.”
The group hissed and booed. Just then, Jeremy ran up from the bus station around the corner, zig zagging between the protestors and catching the door just as Irons walked back inside.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Irons. Are we all set?”
Irons took a look at the young man. He was polished today. It would have surprised him, but he quickly deduced the situation.
“Listen, I don’t care what you do on your own time but when you’re here, you’re on my clock. That means no screw ups. Especially tonight.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Irons,” responded Jeremy, checking his face on his front-facing phone camera and rubbing a smudge off his nose.
A few hours later the guests began to arrive. Jeremy had been positioned in the central room for a while now, watching Veronica weave in and out, adjusting a vagina here, moving a penis there. He was so impressed and proud of her work and her movement, that he had hardly been paying attention to the patrons making their way into the space. Irons was also coming in and out, gruff as ever, shooing away visitors who got too close to a vulva or shouting at ones who accidentally stepped on the pile of soiled clothes.
Irons approached him, “This is a fucking nightmare! But it’s almost over now. Everything looking good from your end?”
Foot traffic had indeed eased and the museum was set to close in 30 minutes. Veronica and Liberty were speaking with a tall, handsome man with a colorful pocket square and shined, expensive loafers. A chill had gone down Jeremy’s spine. Veronica had thrown her head back laughing more than once. She was holding a champagne flute, which was half empty. He had counted and this was at least her fifth glass of the evening.
Then, her hand touched the man’s upper arm as he smiled. Once again, blood filled Jeremy’s head. He heard Irons voice, but it was far away and hollow as he walked towards them, “What the hell are you doing son?”
Jeremy grabbed the pocket squared man’s arm gruffly and said, with all the muster he had, “You’re coming with me.”
But the man was far taller, sturdier and burlier than Jeremy. He wrenched his arm free with an offended look and said, “Excuse me, I certainly am not.” A lisp was present that Jeremy had not been able to hear from his perch. Embarrassed, Jeremy tried to save face, “Do you know this man, Miss Donnelly?”
“What on this god-forsaken planet are you doing?” exclaimed Veronica. “This is Daniel. We’ve been speaking for the last 10 minutes, as I know you know since you’ve been needling your beetle eyes into us for the entire conversation.” She turned to Liberty, in green now, who responded by snapping her fingers at Mr. Irons. “Irons, remove this rude twat from of our sight.”
Next thing he knew, he was being dragged by huge hands on a small body, begging for Veronica’s forgiveness, but knowing he would never get it.
Outside, Irons brushed off his shoulders and looked him up and down. “Now, look son, I know this was upsetting.”
Jeremy couldn’t meet his eyes.
“That Miss Donnelly is no good. A pervert if you ask me.” Jeremy no longer felt a need to defend her. He was defeated. “What you need is a good woman to take care of you. Mmm hmm.”
“But how, Mr. Irons?”
“Well for starters, get out of the art crowd. Bunch of losers. In the meantime, take this, sell it and make some money.” He handed Jeremy a plaster cast of a particularly tormented vagina from beneath his jacket.
Jeremy’s brown eyes went as wide as his sockets allowed. “You… you took this?”
“Serves them right,” he said, placing it in Jeremy’s hands, turning and walking back inside the security door.