I paced along the little path by the drainage ditch, and then along the length of the building up close between the railing and the large, skeletal insects, and then around the whole block, which encompassed a few other buildings to which I paid little attention. I was still drowsy, but the feeling began to wear off the more I moved around. I'd left my bags on the patch of lawn where I awoke, far enough away from the parking lot and surrounding roads that they couldn't be easily spotted, and I checked on them every few minutes.
Before much longer, an older model brown sedan pulled into the parking lot and swung around toward the front, settling in a small row of spaces set off to the side of the main lot. Two women got out and began walking toward the main entrance. I was rounding the block on the other side of the lot at the time, so I only caught a brief glimpse as they unlocked the door and opened the museum for the day. One was short, with curled hair and a pantsuit and in her early 30s, if I had to guess. The other was younger and taller and wore a beige sweater atop a long brown skirt.
As soon as they both walked in, I headed toward my bags on the lawn, cutting across the blacktop of the parking lot as another car pulled in. A new red Volkswagen Beetle sped across the lot and parked right beside the brown sedan. A young guy, 18 maybe, stepped out and fumbled with the keys in his pocket. He had shaggy dark hair and glasses with thick, black frames. He watched me as I gathered up my belongings on the museum lawn, and then we both began walking toward the entrance. I made it to the front door first and set down my suitcase momentarily as I straightened the strap and slung it over my shoulder. The guy walked up to me and paused, looking at me and the bags I carried.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
I wonder if he thought I was homeless or something. I suppose you don't see too many people walking into an art museum with a suitcase, though, so I don't blame him for being concerned.
"Hi," I said. "I'm just here to visit. Is there some place I can leave my stuff?"
"Did you just roll into town?"
"Yeah. First thing this morning. I wanted to check out the museum first, before I settle into a hotel room," I lied.
"Oh. Just seems a little strange," he said with a confused look on his face. "No problem. Follow me."
He opened the door for me, leading me inside and then up to an information booth at the front of the building. The tall girl with the sweater and skirt combination was standing behind a counter and smiled as she looked me over.
"He needs a place to leave his things," the guy told her.
"Oh, just set them down anywhere here, and I'll keep an eye on them," she said.
"Thanks," I said to both of them as I took I swung both of my bags off my shoulders and laid them beside the counter. She reached around the corner, took hold of both of them, and drew them into the booth, apparently setting them underneath the main desk. I lingered a second longer. The guy had already walked off, heading toward the back of the building.
"Is there anything else I can help you with?" the girl asked.
I pulled the flyer from my pocket and showed it to her.
"Yeah, I'm looking for this exhibit," I told her.
"Ah, good choice. Today's the last day, too, so you better see it while you can. Straight toward the back and take a right. It's right across from the Georgia O'Keeffe exhibit." She pointed with her thumb down the wide main aisle that ran alongside the booth. I tell her thanks and wander off, checking out the other exhibits that lined the hallway.
There was one painting in particular that caught my eye. There was a small plastic plaque beside of it. I don't remember the artists name, but I know the title was Dia de los Muertos--day of the dead. It was a rather morbid scene, with skulls painted along much of the bottom of the canvas and the main scene of what appeared to be a Mexican village populated entirely by skeletons. The background was a thick, heavy black, juxtaposed with the bright colors of the village. I don't know what the artist was trying to say with this piece, but the imagery stuck with me. Before I had realized it, I found myself standing still, staring at the painting on the wall. I tried to shake it off and moved on.
Before much longer, an older model brown sedan pulled into the parking lot and swung around toward the front, settling in a small row of spaces set off to the side of the main lot. Two women got out and began walking toward the main entrance. I was rounding the block on the other side of the lot at the time, so I only caught a brief glimpse as they unlocked the door and opened the museum for the day. One was short, with curled hair and a pantsuit and in her early 30s, if I had to guess. The other was younger and taller and wore a beige sweater atop a long brown skirt.
As soon as they both walked in, I headed toward my bags on the lawn, cutting across the blacktop of the parking lot as another car pulled in. A new red Volkswagen Beetle sped across the lot and parked right beside the brown sedan. A young guy, 18 maybe, stepped out and fumbled with the keys in his pocket. He had shaggy dark hair and glasses with thick, black frames. He watched me as I gathered up my belongings on the museum lawn, and then we both began walking toward the entrance. I made it to the front door first and set down my suitcase momentarily as I straightened the strap and slung it over my shoulder. The guy walked up to me and paused, looking at me and the bags I carried.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
I wonder if he thought I was homeless or something. I suppose you don't see too many people walking into an art museum with a suitcase, though, so I don't blame him for being concerned.
"Hi," I said. "I'm just here to visit. Is there some place I can leave my stuff?"
"Did you just roll into town?"
"Yeah. First thing this morning. I wanted to check out the museum first, before I settle into a hotel room," I lied.
"Oh. Just seems a little strange," he said with a confused look on his face. "No problem. Follow me."
He opened the door for me, leading me inside and then up to an information booth at the front of the building. The tall girl with the sweater and skirt combination was standing behind a counter and smiled as she looked me over.
"He needs a place to leave his things," the guy told her.
"Oh, just set them down anywhere here, and I'll keep an eye on them," she said.
"Thanks," I said to both of them as I took I swung both of my bags off my shoulders and laid them beside the counter. She reached around the corner, took hold of both of them, and drew them into the booth, apparently setting them underneath the main desk. I lingered a second longer. The guy had already walked off, heading toward the back of the building.
"Is there anything else I can help you with?" the girl asked.
I pulled the flyer from my pocket and showed it to her.
"Yeah, I'm looking for this exhibit," I told her.
"Ah, good choice. Today's the last day, too, so you better see it while you can. Straight toward the back and take a right. It's right across from the Georgia O'Keeffe exhibit." She pointed with her thumb down the wide main aisle that ran alongside the booth. I tell her thanks and wander off, checking out the other exhibits that lined the hallway.
There was one painting in particular that caught my eye. There was a small plastic plaque beside of it. I don't remember the artists name, but I know the title was Dia de los Muertos--day of the dead. It was a rather morbid scene, with skulls painted along much of the bottom of the canvas and the main scene of what appeared to be a Mexican village populated entirely by skeletons. The background was a thick, heavy black, juxtaposed with the bright colors of the village. I don't know what the artist was trying to say with this piece, but the imagery stuck with me. Before I had realized it, I found myself standing still, staring at the painting on the wall. I tried to shake it off and moved on.
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