The Docent

Almost quitting time, yesterday, and we were done, all in, D had retired to his office and I had started closing down, turning off lights in the basement and working up to the main floor. Five older women had come in together, earlier, and they were going out, through the main gallery, looking at the ODC show, such as it was, spread out on tables and the floor, awaiting installation. My interest was two-fold: first, I'm just a bit paranoid, and the show is unprotected at this point, simply unwrapped; but secondly, I'm beginning to have opinions, to see connections, and I've begun to develop a line of talk, that might help explain some things. The janitor's rap. This is a little hard to picture, but go with me here. I'm dressed in faded black jeans and a paint-spattered tee-shirt, with a feed cap that says SIMPLE, and I actually handle the pieces, speak with some authority, though it's a bit like Daffy Duck explaining the shadows on the cave wall. They all have hair done carefully and outfits that make me cringe, but this is not about fashion. Kate Moss is hardly normal. You see where I'm going. Always bucking up against the real world, where you pay the rent. Like Emily, I'm nothing, three dots in space. Draw a line. That could be a start. I show the ladies what some things signify. It's not difficult, because some things are obvious, what you see, for instance, what's right in front of you; on the other hand, maybe it's not so obvious, what I take to be clear. I need to fall back in my tree-tip pit, and think about that. Painful silences. Nothing if not attentive. They thanked me profusely. The janitor docent. A nap, while the power was out, the fridge and reading light woke me, sleeping on the sofa. I fry the last of a crock-pot of grits and top them with two fresh eggs, basted with hot sauce and wine, a slab of Cincy toast. Drive into town slowly, enjoying the jungle the creek road is become. The green is so intense, so varied in shade, and the dappled summer light is almost blinding, acid flashes, I swear. Roadside flowers are impressionistic blurs of color. There's a one truck accident at the end of Mackletree, a horse-trailer has jack-knifed, and it's flipped (the truck is fine) and a horse had been thrown out. Badly damaged, it had to be put down, and then a bunch of us loaded it in the truck, to be buried back at the ranch. Brutal aspects of life intrude on the everyday. But it's Day One of setting the installation, and I'm excited about that, creating a show out of 96 pieces, that arrived in separate boxes, and can be arranged in an almost infinite set of orders. This is the A-Crew, Sara, D, and me. We move things around, move pedestals, all day; we don't get done, but we get a long way, until, just after four, we three end up on chairs, in the middle of the gallery. We're zombies. Anthony came in, and Carma, and we agreed to go for a beer after work. Sat at a table, which I almost never do at the pub, and they threatened to not serve me. I suppose that makes me a regular. Good to be accepted in the community. Funny pub conversation, Anthony is feeling his mettle, and makes several observations that have the rest of us disturbing the other patrons. Walking back to our vehicles, D and I touch on the subject of attachment. We have to invent some for this show, certain pieces are problematic. Makes it interesting and therefor engaging. Dealing with art, especially, is never the same. Nothing ever is, but dealing with art and artists is even more so. D and I, today, were talking about The Line, and when, exactly, you crossed it; who might be offended, and why, for what reason. My only advantage, as writer, is that I get to place the commas. I've thought about this a lot, and I'm not kidding. The Punctuation Kid, from back east, we don't know much about him, but he seemed OK. Had a laminated ID that said he was a certain person. My research says it might not be true, how he or she might have presented themselves.