On Guard: I of II

I tell people I have the biggest office in the city. A giant, multi-level rectangle with a couple enclaves and a thirty foot-high ceiling. All poured concrete, the expensive sort without any visible aggregate—perfectly uniformly gray—interrupted on the walls of the main gallery by a gridwork of inch-wide circles, the recessed ends of rebar every two feet, laterally and horizontally, and a thin metal band wrapping the perimeter to hang pictures or paintings on. Floor without blemish, crack, or threshold. Ceiling dotted with can lights, mimicking the wall's circles, shining blue-white disks of bright florescent ice. Nothing natural in view save for what can be seen through the sizeable skylight in the center. Ambient temperature is kept at 65 degrees tops. Given the texture and color palate, the space feels much colder. A refrigerator. A cold and sterile office built for the works. A space that steps back to let the art step forward. A place designed for the business of watching, of seeing and being seen, utilitarian, showcasing the contents. A chromatic desert, artificially industrial architecture, present in its absence. This is a place for ears even less than eyes. An aural vacuum. Essentially a sensuous void. No distractions. Nothing of interest beyond the wall dressings and the occasional inhabitants. An arid landscape, full of the promise that attends all possibility but empty of the sustenance of being, of certain and solid things.

But the sun—the designers did not account for the sun. A trapezoid of hatched daylight gleams on the polished cement floor. It’s the only moving thing to watch. On clear days it makes a trek from west wall to east, long and skinny to short and squat and back, inverted. By around 11 am, you can make out the framing in the window above. If you stare long enough, you can see the spot’s progress. You can tell by its shape. All simple geometry, precise and methodical.

There are no clocks. I do not check my watch or phone. It’s best not to. I rely on my two alarms, one for lunch and one for punching out. No chairs, no benches, no doors or doorways—nothing warm, inviting, or homey. An abandoned factory. A vacant warehouse. A corpseless tomb. And I its watchman.

I am halfway through a clockwise circuit when I am joined by visitors.

“Jessica!” a whispered rebuke from a father or uncle to a young girl in a pink puffy jacket and patterned cotton leggings. “Hand,” in the same stern but breathy tone. “Come on now, missy, hand.” The girl returns from the stairs and put a hand his. The two descend into the main gallery together, both with postures compensating for the height discrepancy. I nod to the man when he enters eye-contact range. He returns a brief, acknowledging grin before telling Jessica to slow down.

Slightly embarrassed he explains, “She's full of energy. A runner. Likes to run, wherever. Is that okay?”

“Doesn't bother me.” I look down at the girl and say softly, “Just don’t touch anything on the walls.” She looks at me with the bright blue eyes of youth. She lingers in our shared gaze, interpreting my face. She looks to him for permission.

“Okay. Go explore, Jess, but stay away from the walls. Absolutely no touching, okay? These are things to look at, not touch. Okay? Look at me, Jess. Okay sweetie?”

“Mmmhm.” The girl darts into the open area, laughing. Clipped-on mittens dance with her flailing arms. We both stand, watching her.

I speak into the gallery. “Not bad out there for February.”

“Not at all. We were actually on our way to Francis Park. Day out with daddy. I'd never been in here. Driven past it a few times. I wasn't sure what she'd make of it.” I nod. “I never know what she'll like and what'll be lost on her.”

“From the looks of it, she likes it here more than most,” I say as she runs along the black-taped viewing boundary lines.

I keep my post while her father wanders. He surveys the southern wall, the longest continual display. Some rectangles, mixed media. A few cardboard cut-outs with spliced together limbs and mishmashed celebrities’ names. He’s dressed casually but not slovenly. A sweater with a collared shirt underneath. Chinos. A day-off. Maybe his wife is sick.

The girl discovers the echoes of her stomping feet, so she hops like a bunny. Not having keen body control, she rocks wildly with each leap. She jumps into the sunprint and spins. Her legs entangle and she falls awkwardly. Momentum carries her through a quarter revolution on the slick ground. No more giggling. Her head droops. The pigtail tufts stick up like an arrow’s fletching.

The dad is torn from his investigation. He hurries towards his heap of a girl. “Are you okay, baby? Jess, are you all right?” She scampers up and takes off running drunkenly again.

“You don't want to look at the art sweetie? See the pretty pictures. Look at how big they are.”

“Nooo!” she draws out.

“Well then let's go to the park then. Hey. Come on back here. The park’s for playing.” She defies him, burning off her reserves in lazy ovals around the spot.

On her next loop around, the dad takes two quick steps and snatches her by the shoulder. She laughs as he tickles her neck, bending over and saying something I can’t make out in a funny monster voice. Squeals and grumbles mix together until he releases her and straightens up.

“All right. Let's go. Hand please.”

The dad says he’ll see me later. They depart side by side. Around a corner, they disappear into the foyer.  A squeak careens around the walls and then dissipates.


I am again left to my devices.

Three feet in front of a spaghetti-stained T-shirt on a hanger titled Untitled, I rock on my heels. I flex my calves and arch my back. My reinforced leather Task Force boots crinkle . Lunchtime can’t be too far off. The hot white shape on the ground contains near-right angles. I move closer to it. By the blazing light, I can see hundreds of motes, tiny particles, airborne and dancing. A subtle, rarely visible snow globe, a primal screensaver. Dust and dead cells, aloft, catching light. Micro-stars. I watch these float and feel my blood pressure drop.

Overcast days—basically the entire winter—are barren and terrible. The boredom can get overwhelming. The lone highlight is the new installation, usually in December. Given the seasonal drop in attendance, the museum takes a gamble on an extra-obscure and unknown artist. If it flops, no one will know. If it causes a to-do, they'll be able to claim they launched so-and-so in their little, glossy membership pamphlets. December was two months ago and that show is stale to me now. Thank God for a clear day.

Coworkers are scarce. Except for special events, the museum does not employ guides. A handful of grad students have internships in offices upstairs, but their hours are irregular. From what I've gathered from overheard conversations, they maintain the museum's website and proofread its publications. The males have long hair and the females short. One of the interns, whose need for glasses appears legitimate from the presence of actual lenses inside her frames, greets me with a "hey" whenever our paths cross. The four full-time employees never notice me although I am not camouflaged in the slightest. Navy blue sticks out. I imagine they think I’m a dolt because of my uniform. But I’ve never spoken to them, so I may just be projecting.

Visitors also tend to pay me no mind. A handful of males inquire of my firearm, which I confirm is very much loaded. A few ladies ask for assistance locating the restroom. It’s back by the foyer, down the narrow, unmarked corridor that strikes any timid, law-abiding citizen as an off-limits area. Go all the way to the end. On your right.


Once I was mistaken for a performance artist. It is incredibly difficult to dissuade a person from believing you're performing when your act of dissuasion could itself be construed as part of the performance. He left after not-so-empty threats on my part.

A suited man slaps the exposed stairs to the offices with his pointy European loafers. The sound is reminiscent of those little white paper-wrapped snaps from the Fourth of July. On his phone, he says something about being unable to wait—excitedly, not with exasperation.  His hair glistens in pulled back rows as though wet. The fabric of his suit looks expensive, silky and slightly iridescent. It shifts between cobalt blues and myrtle greens depending on the angles of incidence. His movements are more fluid than normal people’s. He’s a well-to-do puppet.

Without fail he's featured in all the museum’s publications. Director Peter R. Kraft, PhD. In photos, Kraft is just off center, next to his object (art or artist, benefactor or approximate socialite) and smirking a satiated grin. He has his own column in the museum's newsletter, Nouveau.

I do not care for him. He does not acknowledge me unless he wants me for a task not in my job description. I'm just one of the help. He does not feign familiarity by reading my nametag aloud when he addresses me. Without introduction, he directs me to move that table there chop chop because the doors will be opening at any minute or to escort Mrs. Davenport to her driver who should be idling nearby on Washington thanks so much. I do as I’m told but without head nods or eagerness.

My job description: reduce the opportunity for property damage within the confines of the museum by monitoring visitors and maintaining a secure perimeter. The latter is quite easily accomplished. Eight inch thick concrete secures itself. I give the code-required two Fire Exit doors a push in passing to be certain they’re shut. When no one is visiting, I am purposeless. As such, my day is mostly break with intermittent periods of work. Sleeping or otherwise posturally lacking vigilance is a no-no. A closed-circuit camera system keeps its eyes on me as much as the goods. So I roam. I make my rounds. Before lunch, I walk clockwise. After lunch, I walk counterclockwise. I try to keep the trips equal, but I lose count most days. I stop to look at the exhibits when my legs get tired and the artworks are new. After two weeks on display, I can't bear to look at them anymore. I look everywhere but eye-level. In midday, I stare at the sun print on the ground. My record is over an hour. The blurry purple afterimage took more than ten minutes to disappear. I count the ceiling bulbs. I count the scuff marks. You can remove most scuff marks by massaging them with the soles of your shoes, even the very shoes that scuff floors themselves. You just make this motion, like rubbing out a cigarette butt, and they come right off. The custodian comes by once a week (which is too frequent still) and he never needs to worry about scuffs. He can get right to taking out the trash and waxing. Polishing cement—who knew.

When I stand still, I do so in a corner out of habit. I adjust my belt occasionally, pulling up and resettling the heavy tools of the trade to relieve the sore purple indentations on my hips. I fiddle with my holster, unsnap and snap my mace compartment. A guard needs to be prepared with contingency plans. Does mace expire? I fear the time I actually need to use it on a perpetrator, it’ll trickle down my pointer and burn my cuticle something fierce. I would wipe my hand off on his eyes, smear it in there. Subject neutralized.

I cross my arms and stare at a middle distance. My mind unravels. I think about the day, what I’m going to do after work, errands, meals. I think about my life, what brought me from 2003 to now. I wonder about these artists and what they’re like at family functions, around friends. Are they distant or antagonistic? Do they feel fatally isolated, misunderstood? Does their craft become a job at some point, a way to pay the bills, stressful and well-worn like they are for the rest of us? And where do they all end up? Where are the old artists, even the middle-aged ones?

When I’m not thinking, I’m absently waiting—for a visitor or for my phone to tell me it’s lunch or quitting time.