Museum Goers - 1. Museum Goers

Museum Goers

I could easily lose myself among the crowd in Caltrain station, and I did.

It was the final stop, San Francisco at King and 4th Street. Commuters rushed out of the train. I took care to avoid bumping into people on my way out.

A sudden wave of panic struck me. “Messenger bag.” My body was frozen; my head in delirium. A monsoon of heads flooded out before me. Relieved, I mumbled, “Good.” My camera and phone were still inside the bag. I certainly wouldn’t want to leave them on the train.

I returned to the monotonous march, synchronized with monotonous beeps. I held my wallet over the Clipper Card station. Beep. And the proper fare was deducted from it.

Near the exit was a waiting room for commuters and temporary lodging for vagrants. It was also where restrooms were located. I saw some bikes parked outside the men’s room. One of them had a pink frame. I checked out the fatigue-looking crowd around me, wondering if it belonged to one of the people in the waiting recess. No one reacted to my aimless gaze.

I waited at a sink as the restroom had a line. I saw a guy washing his face through the mirror. After he finished, he picked up his bike helmet. He noticed me staring at his reflection, but he didn’t care, and he walked away. I wanted to follow him to see if that’s his bike, but I didn’t want to lose my place in line. I quickly dismissed the thought as there were many bikes outside. Besides, the color and style of his helmet didn’t match the bike. It wasn’t that important, I convinced myself, not important enough to lose my place in line.

The urinals had dividers. Wonderful. I absolutely hated it when there wasn’t. I would use a stall if there wasn’t. Not that people would turn their heads while doing their business anyways, but how about some perceived sense of privacy, anyone? I supposed if people really wanted to see it, they could.

I washed my hands, and raised my head. A guy was staring at me through the mirror. I suppose the restroom was designed that way. There was a long line. I did not pay too much attention to him and walked away.

The bike was gone.

SFMOMA (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) was a few blocks away but still within walking distance. I decided to walk and save myself the bus fare of $2. For some odd reason, there was no transfer discount between Caltrain and Muni. I knew that because I had researched. I even pre-loaded the map into my phone just in case there was no service. I grinned at my own thoughtful preparation. I was both proud of it, but also irritated by it, but at least now I could laugh at it. And $2 could go towards an indulgence later on, if I decided to have a bigger lunch.

The walk on Third Street was quite boring. This side of town, South of Market Area, or SOMA as the locals called it, was undergoing renovation. When I was younger, it was filled with abandoned buildings dashed with small convenient stores behind wrought iron barred windows and faded Pepsi Cola signs. Weathered faces with beanie hats lingered around those stores, with paper cups in their hands. Now taller building occupied the former slum. Most were still painted in terracotta or inner city gray, with façades equally unmemorable as before. I wondered where those convenient stores moved to, and if the weathered faces ever found a home.

The day was cold and damp, so I warmed my hands in my woolen coat pockets. That felt better. It was already half passed 10:00, but the city was chilled by impenetrable fog on this side of the town. I bet the Golden Gate Bridge would look marvelous now, with red towers peeking out of white fog, with Sun hidden behind them.

I suddenly felt hungry.

“Bacon and egg on the table.” Mom said.

I shoved the four pieces of cured meat in red and white stripes into my mouth. The sunny-side-up was lukewarm. The clank of fork and empty stoneware plate echoed. That was just the way it had always been.

“Where are you going?” Mom leered at my black woolen coat and brown checkered trousers.

San Francisco.”

“I thought you were there last week.”

I gulped down orange juice in a paper cup.

The morning was chilled by the impenetrable fog.

I put the camera into my messenger bag, and made sure I had Clipper Card in my wallet. Just as I walked out of the door, I remembered my phone was charging, so I went back and grabbed it.

I looked back at the inner city gray and wrought iron windows.

I wondered if they found a home.

The queue outside the museum was insufferably long. Everyone seemed to be quite cheerful because it was the museum free day. I checked my watch. It was well after eleven o’clock. Doors should have been open. The museum store was open however, so I went in there.

I browsed through some books. One of them was the photo book on the special exhibition of that day. I flipped through some pages. Collages of vaginas and dicks in those pages grossed me out, so I put the book down.

I began to have second thoughts about going to see the special exhibition. If those photos represented the exhibit, then maybe I should go home. But I thought it was museum free day, so what the hey. Nothing invested, nothing earned, and I invested nothing.

I moved on to see other stuff sold in the store. Trinkets and haiku magnets. Fun. Overpriced. Maybe. The museum probably needed funding. I found a book on architecture. I had no fundamental knowledge of architecture, but it was interesting.

A guy came over and took a book next to me. I tried to ignore him. He took a look at my book. It was really annoying so I furrowed up my brows. He smiled. Kind of creepy the way he did it, really. So I turned to the other side.

Out of curiosity I took a peek of what he was doing. He was reading his own book, but did not look happy. Well, maybe unhappy was not the right description, probably more as if he was disappointed.

I dived my head back into reading about Gothic architectural style.

I flipped through the book, page after page, but I wasn't really reading. His disappointment stuck in my head. I took a deep breath and turned to face him.

Nothing. He wasn’t there anymore. I looked around. He was standing in a far corner by himself. Head down in a book. I wasn’t sure if he was reading. Maybe he was as distracted as I was.

I wanted to approach him. I really did. But what should I say to him? I mean, what if he thought I was being a stalker? But he stalked me first.

I moved to another display rack and played with those overpriced trinkets.

I thought of him again. Why? Why did he bother me so much?

The thought became suffocating, so I walked out of the store into the park across from the museum. I took out my camera and shot a few random shots: a glass sculpture of a sinking boat, people laying on the lawn, kids playing by the waterfall, and there was a newly opened Target store.

It was a beautiful day. The remnants of the fog had scattered and the sun began to shine. I daydreamed, of myself sitting on the lawn, with a beach blanket, and a picnic basket beside me. I probably would hand him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had made. He probably would say, “Thank you,” and I would be very happy that he liked it. I couldn’t understand why he came to my little escapade, and why I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Everyone knew I liked bacon.

The line in front of the museum was still long, but it seemed the line was moving. It suddenly struck me. Of course! It’s daylight saving time. I dialed my watch one hour back to the correct time. There, there. The museum opened at eleven.

I went back to the end of the line and started over again. I wondered where was that guy.

“Welcome,” the door lady greeted everyone, “welcome.”

I smiled back.

Instantly I was reminded how much I loved going to a museum: a spacious lobby filled with people, all kinds of people, and galleries filled with a variety of art collections.

Mom asked me once why I liked going to museums. I didn’t answer her. I just wanted to meet people. Maybe I would meet someone who shared my interest in a museum.

Today, I was here to meet one person.

“Cindy Sherman exhibition is on the 3rd floor.” The guy at the staircase kindly reminded people.

I was here to see Cindy Sherman’s photos. The book I had flipped through in the museum store made me have second thoughts.

On my way walking up to the 2nd floor, I noticed the wall by the staircase had a striped design. Black on black. The alternating of matte and glossy texture distinguished the stripes instead of color. I thought that was interesting.

Many people stopped at the terrace between floors. I turned my head to see what they were looking at. It was a grid of glittering light, made of strings of tiny light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t a curtain of strings of lights, but the array of light had a depth to it; some strings of light were in the front of another, creating a 3D effect. The ons and offs of each individual light bulb created a series of animated images. I thought that was ingenious and mesmerizing.

Second floor housed regular exhibits, and there he was again. Maybe it wasn’t him. I felt sick. My obsession for him was sick. I wasn’t being myself.

“Beautiful day.” Dad said, casually. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or mom, because he was behind the newspaper.

“Only if Clency would bring home a girlfriend.” Mom sighed.

She knew that was impossible. She only said that to spite me.

Dad lowered the newspaper and observed us both, then he raised the newspaper again. And he shook the paper and made some ruffling sound, and that was his response.

The room was quiet again.

I hit the fork on the stoneware plate, repeatedly, restlessly. The noise irritated mom, but mom didn’t say a thing. How predictable. Dad buried himself behind the newspaper.

Say something! Say you hate me. Anything but those despicable eyes!

I smashed my fork against the plate. I’ve had enough! I rushed to my room and slammed the door and shoved my camera into my bag.

I thought I was going to faint, and found the nearest bench to sit on.

I closed my eyes to rest a little. There was nothing to lean on, so I tilted back, supporting myself with my arms.

And there, I just closed my eyes and rested, trying to get away from the unpleasant memories of home.

I felt at ease, as if the serenity of a redwood forest delivered to me in this urban jungle.

I imagined myself in a beanie hat, with a paper cup in hand, jingling copper coins. Which sets of despicable eyes would I like more? A stranger’s or my mom’s?

I felt warmth around my eyes.

My eyes opened. He stood there right in front of me, staring at me, so precariously close to me, as if he was trying to kiss me.

My brows furrowed. I hoped he would just go away. I slid a few inches to the side of the bench.

“I’m sorry,” he said, while looking at the corner of my eyes.

I wiped my tear away.

“Are you all right?”

I shrugged. My head turned blank at the question. Certainly, I was not ready to pour my heart out to a total stranger.

“I’m Andy, by the way.”

I looked at him.

He noticed my unconcealed apathy, so he made the next move, “What’s your name?”

I shrugged.

He smiled. “That’s fine. But man! We keep bumping into each other don’t we?” He chuckled.

Gosh, this had to be the dumbest guy I have ever met. I looked around. There were dozens of people walking around, and there he was, trying to pick me up with that line.

I had to get out of there, and I did.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Cindy Sherman,” I rolled my eyes.

“Can I go with you?”

I grunted. Did I have a choice? I stomped my way to the third floor.

The photographer’s larger-than-life portraits amazed me. “Wow!” Andy’s exclamation echoed my own, except I did not vocalize my awe.

He stared at the gigantic untitled portrait with great admiration; he enthusiastically studied the photo and scrutinized every detail. There was something in him that touched me.

“Are we there yet?” Me, ten years of age with a squeaky voice.

“Just wait and..., there it is!” dad said, eyes looked yonder, and pointed to a big display in the far end.

And I thought dad was making magic. There stood giraffes, just behind the fence, extending their necks, grazing leaves.

Mom, dad, and I stood there, just outside the zoo entrance, gazing at the amazingly long-necked creature from the African savanna.

Andy grinned at me.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he continued grinning.

“Spit it out!”

“Alright, alright.” He froze and blushed.

“And?” I frowned.

“Alright!” he said one more time, “You were like staring at me a lot. I was wondering, like..., are you like... interested in me?” And he scratched his head, still blushing.

Oh. My. Gosh. “Are you like crazy or something?” I leered up and down at him. He really thought highly of himself. I scanned the room to see if anyone had heard.

“Shhhh.... You’re in a museum.”

Volcano ashes must be gaterhing on top of my head, because I felt I was ready to erupt. What was wrong with him? I tried to calm myself. “Just ignore him,” I thought to myself.

I moved to another exhibit. It was a photo of a mannequin. It had both male and female parts. I scanned it and moved on.

“You don’t want to look at it more closely?”

“No?” I said apathetically; obviously he was trying to humiliate me in public.

“Oh why?”

“Look, what’s-your-name, I already told you my answer.”

“The name is Andy.”

“I know your name. I don’t care, just don’t make a scene,” I said in my own head. I moved on to see another photo.

He continued following me. He looked somewhat disappointed or distressed. For some reason, I thought I caught something else in his look.

“Here, eat more salad.” Mom put some arugula, among other spring mixes into my disposable plate.

We were eating in the picnic area. It was supposed to be for people who bought food from the zoo’s concession stands.

“I want a hot dog.” I threw a tantrum like a real ten-year old.

“Salad is better for you. Look, corn, your favorite. See, mom remembered.”

I leaned my head against my hand, elbow on the table, pouting. The boys sitting at the table next to ours had hot dogs, with mustard and ketchup around their wide grin. And there I was, with a fork in hand, poking at my healthy food.

Mom looked at me. She knew I wasn’t going to give in, “The salad is going to wilt if you don’t eat it.” She dug her fork into my salad, “Mmm, so yummy!”

I pitched my fork into the plate and ate the salad one leaf at a time, with some kernels of corn on top, “It’s all right.” My eyes went back to boys next to our table. Their mom wiped the condiment off their faces with a napkin.

“Do you still want a hot dog?” Dad asked.

I cheered.

“Is that all right, David?” Mom looked concerned.

“Yeah. I’ll just put it on the credit card.”

“You paid the bill last month, right?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Mom’s eyes gazed at dad in concern.

They probably thought I was too young to understand, but I did. Money trouble? Yeah, it was a bit unreal when I first heard it.

Dad brought back three hot dogs, but only two cups of soda. He said he wanted to share with mom, but mom said she could just drink water.

“So how much were they?” she asked.

“Twenty something,” dad mumbled.
“How much over $20?” Mom insisted on knowing the exact amount.
“Let’s not worry about it now.”

She said nothing, calmly packing up the leftover salad. She washed the plasticwares in the water fountain. One of the boys popped in, took a quick sip of water from the fountain, then he ran away as quickly as he came.

I knew mom and dad loved me. They knew I wouldn’t give in, until I got what I wanted, but they tolerated me, my undisciplined way. Back then, I wouldn’t even hold back my desire. Kind of like that boy who disrupted my mom at the water fountain. It wasn’t because he was thirsty, but because he wanted to.

I felt there was something inside me that pricked me: remorse. This boy in front of me scared me.

“This photo you don’t care for,” he said without giving me a chance to stop him, “it questions the sexual identity. What is male? What is female?” he asked, “Are you uncomfortable with it?”

I shrugged, “I am... not... sure.”

Andy held no reservation to his own desire. Somehow that was scary to me.

“Okay, so what are you afraid of?” he asked.

“Good question.” I shrugged, “Maybe you want to tell me what I’m afraid of.”

“Hmmm....”

“Have you ever wanted something so badly,”

“Or someone,” he interjected, his eyes fervent.

“Or someone....” I stared into his innocent eyes, filled with conviction and ideal. My own eyes, however, didn’t know where to look. I braced myself and continued, “...and when you finally got what you wanted, and you realized it was not what you hoped it would be?”

Andy’s eyes, blank, stared at me.

I told him the hot dog story.

“And you know the worst part was?” I asked Andy, “That hot dog wasn’t even tasty. And I pretended it was tasty and forced myself to finish it. Everyone got hurt. Mom’s salad was wasted. Dad got a bill to pay. And I got this hot dog that made me sick, and I really wanted to throw it away. I wasn’t trying to be ungracious, but I guess I was. My parents really love me, you know.” I paused, “Or they did. I guess I am not lovable, at least I haven’t been for some time now.”

Andy studied me. That was when I realized I just had an outburst. I tried to collect myself and hoped nobody noticed.

“Why are you telling me this?” Andy asked, with genuine concern on his face.

“I don’t know. And we just met.”

“Actually...,” He scratched his head, and his cheeks turned rosy. “We kinda met before. Like..., in here, in De Young, in Legion of Honor. Museum free days.”

His words made me tingled inside. Warm and fuzzy. A feeling I thought had long gone into hibernation.

“That made me sound like a creep, or a weirdo. But you are just... like an angel.”

Awkward! I found it increasingly difficult to talk and make direct eye contact. Instead, I looked at my shuffling shoes, then I blurted out with a smile, “Liar.”

He tried to look at me, and let out a relieved chuckle when he saw I smiled, “Not a liar. Radiohead!”

“Huh?”

“Radiohead’s Creep.” he added, “Oh, come on. I am a creep. I am a weirdo. You’re just like an angel. Your skin makes me cry. That’s straight coming from the Radiohead’s song.”

“Oh.” I let out a confused chuckle. “But you’re not a creep.”

“Mmmkay.... I didn’t think I was a creep, but... thanks?”

We both chuckled. I was still confused.

I self-consciously looked at my own hand, at my own skin. I guess my pores were fantastically small and smooth.

“You got beautiful skin. That’s for sure.” Andy gave me a very wide grin.

“So...,” I looked at my own hands again, trying to think of a subject, “museum free day, eh?”

“Yeah, museum free day brings us together.”

The way his lips moved when he spoke..., they were soft, moistened, and very red. His eyes scanned mine, and then my lips. I thought I could hear his arrhythmic breath.

I looked away. Museum goers shuttled around us, aimlessly looking for something.

Andy suddenly said, “Mrs. Jennings there,” he pointed to a silver-headed lady in a Kelly-green coat and a matching beret, “lost her husband and son in one day. A car accident.”

“She looks fine now,” I said.

“That was three years ago. Imagine the day she received the news. I bet she wasn’t looking so dandy like right now.”

“Poised.”

“Poised, yes. And graceful. But she wasn’t always like this.”

“What was she like?”

He didn’t answer the question, instead he pointed to the security guard standing by the doorway, “Jake there, was voted the class clown of Mission High, 1988.”

I saw a man, grave and serious about his job, telling visitors that no flash photography was allowed. I wouldn’t mess with him. I began to wonder if Andy was pulling a trick on me.

“And Maria there, is a food critic. She’s afraid one day she might lose her keen sense of taste. That and she suspects her fiancé is cheating on her.”

She was dressed in a white blouse, perhaps too many ruffles, and a plaid skirt which tried too hard to look like a certain famous brand, but it wasn’t. A screaming red velvet short cloak topped it all. I could see an insecure person under it.

“And Ashi there.... That tall hipster looking guy. He has a finance degree but ended up being a photographer. I heard he has money trouble.”

“Irony,” I said.

“Yeah, irony. He told me he’s still a virgin.”

“No way. He told you that?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did he tell you that?”

He shrugged, “Well..., I like his shoes.”

“Those look cool.” Suddenly, a weird feeling swept through me, “I think I’ve met that guy before.”

“Who? Ashi?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Well, he comes by on museum free days once in a while.”

“That must be it,” I asked, “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“What?” he said.

“This,” I paraphrased, “All these people who come here.”

“Oh okay.... I was just trying to say,” he paused and thought deeply, “...well, I was trying to say, it’s like Cindy Sherman’s portraits, everyone is a ‘type.’ Whether it’s a stereotype or not, everyone has a story behind them. And sometimes it’s not so obvious on the surface.”

His words struck me, “That’s kinda philosophical.”

Smiling, he continued, “Do I sound like that?” He scratched his head, “I guess I think about people a lot.”

“You know, when I first met you, I thought you were kind of shallow.”

“And I thought you were like an angel,” he teased, almost gloating in his triumph.

“Oh, shut up.”

He laughed, “But seriously, I think I’m here because I enjoy looking at people.”

“Me too!” I felt so excited, but I didn’t know why.

“I used to come here to see the artwork. Besides the special exhibition, all others are the same each time I am here, so it’s like same old, same old, you know. But one day I realized, I am not just an observer, I am also a participant. So I began to look at the people instead.”

“Yeah,” I was beginning to connect with Andy and I took a good look at him. He was a tall, lanky guy, not especially handsome, but it didn’t matter at that moment. I thought he was the greatest guy I had ever met. At that moment I wished he would truly take a look at me instead of just dazing and staring.

And these words somehow popped out of my mouth, “And art happens, just when you are not looking for it.”

He stared at me again, his dazed look faded, turning into a smile, as if an epiphany had hit him, “Exactly. Art happens.”

A flower bloomed inside. I didn’t know if it was the same for him. I certainly hoped so.

“Gosh, you’re beautiful,” he said. “What’s your name again?”

I realized I didn’t tell him my name, “Oh, sorry Andy. It’s Clency.”

“Clency. That’s a beautiful name.”

I blushed. I hated my name, but it no longer mattered.

“And you remember my name!”

“Oh, you caught me.”

We both laughed. I took a long gaze into his eyes. I think he was looking at my hand, my face, my neck..., and I didn’t feel objectionable to his stare. It was natural. I thought he really meant it when he said he liked my skin.

There was an awkward silence. We both were smiling to ourselves, but no word was exchanged.

“So..., I’m not sure how to ask this,” I started first.

“Go ahead. Ask away,” he jumped.

“Are you like...?”

“Like?”

“Are you like gay?”

He laughed, and so I laughed, too.

“What do you think?”

“I dunno.”

“I thought it was obvious. You said so yourself that I was stalking you.”

“Were you?”

“No! Of course not. I just really, really like you.”

I was flattered and it felt good. Those words were simple, but I felt they meant something so much more.

“So, how about you?” he asked, with a smirk on his face.

“Me? What?”

“Are you gay?”

“Probably,” My own word didn’t even make sense to me. What else could explain why I let this tall, lanky, and not particularly handsome guy take a spot in my heart?

“So I can probably kiss you?”

“Oh, shut up!”

Our lips combined. I thought public displays of affection were overrated, but I didn’t care at the moment.

“Tastes like bacon,” he said.

“What?”

“You taste like bacon.”

I punched him on the forearm.

“And now what are we going to do?” he said. He was still happy from our kiss.

“I don’t know. Whatever you want to do.”

“Well, I just want to look at you.” One side of his mouth curved upward slightly.

“Let’s go up and see the famous skylight then.”

Andy nodded.

Ashi came over and smiled at us. He continued taking photos of the museum, the paintings, the photos, the sculptures, and the people in it.

I took a look at Cindy Sherman’s photos again, and all the people around us, each doing their own thing, each had their own rhythms. Almost chaotic. It was easy to get lost in the crowd. However, now I felt there was a beacon of light near me. Like great works of art, people provoked me to think about them, and to think beyond myself. And Andy was the most special one of them all, because he was just my type.

This is the first chapter of the story.  There might be a second chapter called Inspirational Speaker, but nothing is concrete yet, except this would be the more optimistic chapter of the two.  This chapter deals with how Clency accepting love, and Inspirational Speaker will deal with lost. 
I tend to write tragic stories.  This story is the exception.  I enjoy writing a happy ending to this one because it comes naturally without being corny or forced. 
A review would be appreciated. 
Discuss my story here.