Art Appreciation

Ms. Caruthers counted the little munchkins where they stood, in the museum lobby. Attention Deficit Disordered munchkins, gyrating and wobbling in every way, though their little feet remained planted and orderly. One student was laughing too loudly, two more were playing slide, two more were holding hands, and one still looked too sad. Every single one a munchkin, socially inept and short in stature. Fourth graders, too old to be forgiven for public misbehavior, but young enough to be cute while doing it. Hopefully the curator wouldn’t file a complaint.

26 on the last count. 28 on the first count. Now 26. Another count. 26.

“Ms. Carudders, we went to get some water.” 28. Still not 30.

Ms. Caruthers could never take her class out without some problem. There’s always at least one student who makes things difficult. Now the reading glasses that hung from a chain around her neck were fogging with each of her increasingly frustrated exhalations, and the stress of worrying over someone else’s child made her sweat. Perspiration beaded her prematurely wrinkled forehead, just beneath the hairline. She couldn’t be expected remember every single child every moment of the day! God help her, she could not. Ms. Caruthers wasn’t mother material, and once she started teaching, she knew this.

For after all, she had become a teacher only after she had learned that she could have no children of her own. The thought of being incapable of motherhood made her hateful of her own body, which itself was inadequate for marriage and normal relations. The munchkins would be her own private family, to nurse and to care, locked in a stasis of prepubescent childhood sweetness. Long before they developed attitudes and hormones and facial hair and, for the most part, curves. But even still, some girls dared to swell in the chest, even at this early age. And they would draw the attention of the boys, who had been taught to stare at those wondrous budding breasts. That was far from Ms. Caruthers’ experience, however. She was safely distant from the attention of boys, even when she used to want it. But no man could want her even so much as the little munchkin boys pretended to love the swollen chest girls.

The sweat was thickening now, and a quick dab at her forehead dampened the entire handkerchief. The kids are getting impatient now, eager to go home and eat. Too many had to use the bathroom for the third time today, and even more are about to burst at the seams, figuratively; hours of keeping quiet and behaving well is too much to ask. Ms. Caruthers had already planned to make up a story about how the curator called and complimented her on how wonderfully behaved her fourth grade munchkins were. She would’ve liked that if she were 9 years old again. We may act hyper, but we just want approval. But now numbers 29 and 30 are spoiling all of that.

New count. 28. But who’s that clip-clopping around the corner? Max, with his plastic shoes and tweed coat, clip-on tie and butchered haircut. He was the poor one of the group. Dante’s friend. That’s who we’re missing, Ms. Caruthers! Ms. Caruthers tried to get Max’s attention, but there was no need, as he was headed straight for her with a hopeless look on his face. His eyes were red, and his voice was more innocent than it should have been, given his frequent cursing and misbehavior.

“Ms. Carudders, Dante,” he stopped, because he was looking for a hug, but he wouldn’t get one. He was far too sensitive, always crying when teased, but at the same time, living a pseudo-tough and cool guy lifestyle as the first student to try anything that is forbidden. A teddy bear gangster, like his older brother who might be out robbing neighbors (or if there’s a just God, imprisoned for robbing neighbors), but like all 9 year olds, still a young child who craves hugs from mommy and sleeps with stuffed animals. His life - his existence - was an awful contradiction of opposing realities in school and at home, and the young one’s stress of seeing the old one he will grow into. Confused and shaken on a daily basis, the world always looked a bit gloomier the more he matured and aged. Had Ms. Caruthers been a psychiatrist, she may have diagnosed Max with depression.

Max and his mother always struggled with meals and clothes, things the other students took for granted. He was the sole beneficiary of the Free Lunch program in Ms. Caruther’s class. When it came time to donate food to the homeless shelter, or do a fund-raising drive, he always managed to isolate himself more than necessary. He drew attention to himself, perhaps because he had become so inured by the teasing and poverty that he actually identified with it, and used it to reinforce his own character. As if he wasn’t really Max unless he was getting made fun of for being the poor kid.

Now, Max looked as if he had lost his only friend: a real emptiness was clear on his face, more like lifelessness and despair, and less like simple sadness or anger. He dared not look back at the other students, who at this time couldn’t tell what was wrong. The munchkins were entirely preoccupied with their fourth grader games and juvenile jokes. Had they seen how pathetic Max was, whimpering and sniffling, they would’ve gotten even worse. They always did when Max gave them reason to, and Ms. Caruthers resented the child’s willingness to let himself be abused all of the time. It was his fault for being weak, and not theirs for being strong.

Max kept looking straight ahead, into Ms. Caruthers’ skirt, wiping his eyes, too proud to look up at her. The bright museum lights above would only tingle in his eyes, and the forthcoming tears would only burn in place, unable to climb out of socket and roll down his face. The tears kept coming, and Max could only wipe them away, swallowing hard, drenching his backhand with salty water. Ms. Caruthers has little patience for his tired and pitiful display, and she had no desire to coddle the boy, now.

“Where is Dante?” she said softly, but sternly. Her head tilted downwards, chin to throat, turkey neck fat billowing out to the sides. She didn’t want to make the situation any worse, but she had to be clear to Max that this was a serious problem, and not a time to fool around.

* * *

It was a helpful curator who eventually led Ms. Caruthers up and down the hallways, even the roped-off ones that were empty, in search of Dante. She had given up trying to make sense of Max’s sobs and mumbles and decided to look for herself. Fortunately, it was not long before she found Dante near a foldout chair (who knows where he found that?). He was just a few feet away from a painting, and the smell of acrylic and oil was fresh in his nostrils. It was so noisome that it drowned out the voices of the other halls, and the clattering and echoing footsteps approaching and departing on heels and sandals.

Not even an hour earlier, Dante had been sitting in that chair, staring at the painting. From the moment he had passed this painting on the tour, he knew he had to see it more. There was too much in that little 20x20 frame to capture in one glimpse. To the other kids, it was just a mess of paint splashes, but to Dante, it was some sort of message. The primary colors faded into each other, and danced right onto Dante’s little eyeballs. There were lightning whites and sunshine yellows, all wrapped up around each other, blinking with the florescent lights overhead, in an endlessly smooth transition of color, form and design. A vein pulsed blood hard now, and it throbbed on the side of Dante’s head. His pupils dilated, and his mouth dried just a bit.

The painting started to swirl in place like a whirlwind, messing up the order of colors on the canvas and changing the appearance of the whole thing. It was like a psychedelic and yet surreal moment in space, when everything outside of the painting stopped being reality, and for that one moment, the painting becomes everything. That moment in which everything becomes obscenely clear, when in fact the eyes are glazing over, and vision is actually blurred. Dante’s head was bumping painfully now, brain against skull, and he felt a knot rise in his right temple. He clutched at his head with one hand, while steadying himself against the wall with his other hand. His chair squeaked as he put too much pressure on one chair leg.

Blood trickled down out of his nose, onto his lips where he could feel the bitterness of it. It stuck his lips together as it gathered there, drying quickly. Dante opened his mouth to breathe, and he tasted it in his mouth, and he felt himself gagging. The throbbing in his head only grew more intense. Loud noises sounded in his ears. The clattering of footsteps never ending. Echoing louder. The first footstep, and the second, and the third. Blaring in his face without pause. The chair complaining loudly under the stress of Dante’s twisting and writhing frame. The hum of a nearby water fountain, like the roar of a jet engine. The aggravating noises of the in-between, that familiar cacophony of silence and nevermind. Everything was intensified. The beating on his head grew more painful.

Dante tried to let out a scream, but he was choking and drowning. He gagged, and spit up red on his white polo shirt. Dante vomited, and collapsed out of the chair onto the floor. He had no control of his body now, and he could no longer feel his mind’s faculties at work. He just seized and spasmed until his body’s involuntary dancing tired itself out.

Dante was sprawled out on the floor when Max found him a few minutes later. He had left his friend to go off to the restroom only to a bloody mess on the floor. One eye still cracked open, and lips parted and crusty. Foamy white stuff was boiling over and out of his mouth. Max couldn’t even scream, his throat was swelling and choking him, and the air was rushing out of his mouth faster than he could breathe it in. His chest cavity hollowed, and his stomach tightened. He did not know what to do. He couldn’t even touch the body, it was just too messy. Too disgusting. Not at all like the colorful paintings on the walls.