Dust



  Dust

  A short story by Evan Lewis

  I am not satisfied with my life.

   

  The old phrase “any idiot could do this job” is a bit of an understatement; night museum guard is a non-profession, a novel idea that no longer holds any merit. The museum is mostly autonomous, the last real human requirement being the on-off switch for the security system, which is totalizing, a bulwark of cameras and lasers and alarms. I submit to it, accepting (after many nights early in my career high-stepping around these decorated rooms with an untested and unproved sense of importance) that the system is capable of greater deeds done quicker than any man with his flashlight and his club.

  I am, I’ve come to realize, an extension of a museum’s natural fondness for the past, more education than function, as are the guards outside ancient towers, or the performers at Renaissance faires. Ritual, no longer permitted an end goal, a harvest. I’ve come to terms with that. But coming to terms with something rarely fosters camaraderie, and at most there exists a grumbling truce between the museum and myself. I take my money, not an insubstantial sum, and allow that, due to certain character traits, I wouldn’t be able to work anywhere else for long. I try to take comfort in the fact that, while I am not strictly necessary, appearances dictate that someone be around to impart the illusion of being necessary.

  This rarely helps.

   

  Heist movies are escapist fantasy, with no real basis in reality. I watch them sometimes. Skulking home from the DVD rental machine, hiding my eyes from the blazing dawn which comes at every shift’s end, I worry that digitized gossip will travel back to the museum, whispering to the mainframe that I’ve gone out of my way to possess what my line of work defines as the ultimate pornography, and that its prosthetic camera eyes will start to look upon me as malicious instead of maintenance. I hope, every time, that the movies will renew my subconscious belief that maybe, someday, something will happen. That I’ll be rendered useful.

  Shot in the line of duty, possibly. Crushed under giant metal sheaves that slam down as I hit the giant red failsafe button, something poignant on my lips as I expire. Hell, maybe I’d be the man on the inside, the grizzled veteran who knows how to exploit, to undermine, to circumvent the system. We’d win the day, and return priceless artifacts to orphans, or someone with a life equally hard-dealt (netting a healthy profit in the meantime, which we would funnel into future nefariously selfless robberies). But, every time, I see the flaws in their plan, the glaring plot holes that we, as consumers of media, must train ourselves to ignore, lest they ruin our enjoyment of the film.

   

  I don’t have many friends.

   

  I walk the long and hallowed halls of human history, and find myself bored. Is that normal? Work after priceless work, arbitrarily assigned value based on age or creator or “the truth of the art”, passing by in the periphery of my vision, while I stare and walk forward, hands perpetually clasped together behind my back, often drunk, never enough to sway. I’m good at hiding these things, and the liquor provides a certain alteration to the otherwise unceasingly dull flow of time that I find pleasing. 

   

  I’ve never been to this place in the day, save for orientation, which was tucked away in storerooms devoid of the pomp, the columns, the faux-gravitas meant to inspire a sense that the museum itself, and not just the items contained, is a part of history. Perhaps in the living daylight I would find it inspiring, a credit to the ingenuity of the human race. Well done, us.

   

  Tonight I am more drunk than usual, a product of particular ugly and salient dreams that have been plaguing me of late, which is why I don’t notice the girl walking next to me until we’ve rounded the corner of the “Wonders of the East” exhibit into the cavernous main hall, home to a massive human skeleton of plaster and foam which rises up out of the marble floor, dominating most of the room. I play it cool, stealing a quick glance.

   

  She is diminutive, the top of her auburn head barely cresting my shoulder, her clothing a hodgepodge of knitted rags. Her face is nebulous; the shadow of her hair or of the drink makes distinguishing features impossible. Slung over her shoulder is a knapsack, half full, and the contents of which shift as we walk, producing an only slightly audible tinkling of metal-on-metal. She is probably a hallucination; she would not be the first.

   

  Plucking up my courage, I say, in a voice that obviously suffers from long and studious disuse, “Lovely night.”

   

  She nods. We walk in silence once more. I am happy to have the company. Near dawn she departs during a casual look-away, and I find no trace of her. My shift ends, and I go back to my apartment and lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, a distant longing growing within.

   

   

  She returns the next night, the slight clink of her pack alerting me to her presence. I stare openly at her, now, feeling more familiar, yet she continues to stare forward and I, ever nervous, continue to walk lock-step next to her. I talk to her. Nervous nothings, at first, small-talk of the most banal variety. Soon, though, encouraged by her sparse nods, I begin to talk about myself.

   

  About upbringings, schooling, parents, siblings, things past that, in some respects, make up the whole of me, in others do little to explain my current state. About isolation. About being alone. Throughout this she walks, listening attentively, or not listening at all. I dare not count the seconds between nods, for fear they might occur in set intervals; even the idea of commiseration is better than the alternative.

   

  I continue talking until I notice that she is no longer beside me. Turning around, I spot her standing in front of a painting, staring. Bashful, intrigued by this new step in our routine, I join her.

   

  It’s a ship. In the midst of a mighty storm, bearing the brunt of the waves, frozen forever on the brink of capsizing. I have no opinion on whether or not it is beautiful, but I know its value, and it’s certainly worth more than I.  The girl reaches into her knapsack and pulls out what looks to be a chisel, and deftly, before I realize it has happened, scrapes it against the painting. Flakes fall from it into her waiting hand, and are then transferred to a small drawstringed pouch, which had apparently been produced as the gravity of the action sank in, and I, machine component, stood stock still and unseeing, making the irrevocable choice between duty and affection.

   

  The alarm does not sound. The painting looks no worse for wear. My choice is made. Still mostly terrified, though, I ask her for an explanation

   

  For the first time since she has appeared, she turns to me. Her eyes are brown. Her face is beautiful. She is smiling. “Ransom,” she says.

  I put on my best, “I understand, but please explain for the rest of the class” face. 

  She acquiesces. She seems giddy, the night’s action causing a total personality shift (or gain, to be blunt) “So long as I have this,” she says, making the bag, nearly empty save the recently acquired flecks of ship and angry sea, hop and dance in her outstretched hand “no one will be able to truly appreciate that piece of artwork, because it won’t be whole. They’ll just be worshipping false gods.”  Crinkles form at the outskirts of her eyes as she smiles wider, her face taken over by mouth. “Y’know, incomplete idolatry.”

   

  I decide that I probably love her.

   

   

  Weeks go by as she continues her secretive coup of the art world, and I follow her lead as she takes unnoticeable yet essential components from paintings, statues, sculptures, slowly filling up her pouch with the hearts of a thousand works of art. I never question her being, her make-up, her
existence, because it doesn’t matter; she’s far too otherworldly to be real, far too desired to be anything but.

   

  But the alarms never sound.

   

  And she talks to me, now. Mostly she listens but sometimes she talks. Never about herself. I make awkward jokes and she giggles in a way that I find rapturous. Her eyes fascinate me, and I find myself staring into them, draining time away, until she snaps her fingers and I once again realize that she is smiling her wry little smile at me, saying “I’m still here,” and we get back to talking, or walking, or stealing tiny pieces of things. I worry constantly that she’ll begin to find me tedious, like everyone else I’ve known, but that never seems to happen. She is sweet. She is mine.

   

  I’m probably crazy, right? I find it hard to care.

   

  The desecration has become ritual. Beforehand, she tells me something secret about the art or artist. “The painter of this one lost the middle finger of his left hand in a vicious lover’s quarrel. This was his last great work, as he was wildly depressed at the time, and did not think himself able to live with the constant reminder of his inadequacy, so he killed himself soon after. ” Or, “Every sculpture he made past his 15th birthday contained at least a modicum of his own ejaculate, not because he particularly wanted to live on through his work, but because he just really liked ejaculating.” She laughs after this one, a