Page 20 of Trailer Park Billionaire
The two of us remain quiet, unmoving, in front of the painting for a little while. By the end, his pocket square is considerably wetter than I’d like it to be. I take a deep breath to compose myself.
“Well,” I say, letting out a jagged breath, “I mostly like art because it’s nice to look at and doesn’t talk to me.”
And just like that, the silent heaviness is replaced with laughter that fills the hollow room. Loud and thunderous and all-encompassing. Until he notices that I’m staring at him, which causes him to stop.
“Sorry,” he whispers loudly. “It’s impolite to be noisy in here, isn’t it?”
“It’s okay,” I reply, still gathering myself. “My boss is very much a proponent of unconventional museum décor. So as long as you don’t try to steal any of the paintings, you should be fine. Actually… even then you might be fine…”
Mr. Lyon laughs again, trying to stifle it now, to not make a sound. “Why this one?” he asks when he has successfully suppressed his amusement, nodding to the Rothko on the wall before us.
I think about it for a moment and wipe another tear away. “You know how we always think that the dying is the worst part? That the day you lose a loved one is the worst day in your life?” I pause. “And it is… certainly… in a way. But then the next day comes around. The one where you’re required to still be a person, to still have your shit together. To function. To not fall apart. Because you need to be productive, to do your job. You need to take care of… whatever remains… of life and everything that comes with it. When?—”
“When all you want to do is to just not exist.”
I nod, then look back to the painting in front of us. “That’s what I’m seeing here. It feels like I could disappear in it.”
Mr. Lyon nods as well. “Yeah.” He nods some more and angles his head a little to the side. “Yeah, I can see that. That—and the giant penis, of course.”
“The—the what now?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? Stand right here.” He reaches a hand around my shoulder and pulls me in front of him, then he angles my head just like he did his. “Now squint.”
I do as I am told. And indeed, by closing my eyes slightly, the abstract squares on the canvas shift and blur into a suspiciously phallic form. Or maybe it’s the remnants of tears doing this. Or maybe I’m just imagining things now.
“I think maybe you just want to see a penis here,” I say with blurry eyes as Mr. Lyon’s hands remain on my shoulders.
“Well, I hardly ever say no to seeing male genitalia,” he agrees, his breath making the hair on my neck stand up, causing me to quiver. “Mostly because no one ever asks to show me any,but I actually have this information from someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew the artist, so…”
I dry the last tears from my face and step away from the almost-embrace, trying really hard not to think of male genitalia any more than this.
A few moments later, we saunter through the atrium toward the exit, and I am not entirely surprised when I notice that more than three hours have passed since Mr. Lyon arrived. He somehow has a way of making these tours last longer than they are supposed to—without me noticing, or being able to do anything about it.
“Well, this was lovely,” he says just before I am about to thank him for his visit and to send him on his way, “but when do we get to the good stuff?”
7
HELENA
Iturn around and mentally rush through the entire tour. Greek, Roman, Gothic, Renaissance twice, Baroque, Rococo, Dada, Modern, Contemporary; we’ve been to literally every part of this museum. He even managed to walk into three different storage rooms by accident.
“We just came from the good stuff,” I say, gesturing toward the room we had been in a minute ago. “Besides, you saw me cry just now. If that wasn’t one of the finer performance pieces we’ve shown here, then what is?”
Mr. Lyon chuckles. “First of all, if I could buy you as a piece of performance art, I would. Secondly, you don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Did Ms. Hyde not tell you why I’m here?”
“Because you’re a rich patron of the museum who requested a personal tour?”
“Of the archives,” he clarifies. “I am interested in acquiring some works from your permanent collection.”
“Hold on.” I blink. “Deaccession? We’re removing some of our permanent collection?”
“Selling it, to be more precise. I guess you’re reorganizing the space?”
I think about the implications. Maybe this is what Elaine was talking about the other day. This might be good news, depending on what we’re selling and what we plan to acquire in the future.
