“Simon, if I were to end up in a million rooms a million times, I never thought I’d end up in this room. This must mean it’s the wrong room.”
The small freckled penguin seemed to bristle and adjusted his fisherman jacket, along with the tackle, bait, and portable blender. “Well Justin, I suppose if something were to occur for the very first time at a single moment, and that moment were to happen a million different times simultaneously and only in one of those the thing happened, it ought not to have happened at all by your logic. That’s preposterous.” I chuckled. “If you were to boil it down to strictly a logical argument–” Simon chittered, interrupting my thought. “But I’m not, Justin. We live in this reality. This moment. Not a different one.” A grimace crawled across my face, like a restless caterpillar wishing to make my disdain known. I tried to swallow it, but turns out you cannot swallow metaphorical caterpillars crawling across your face, then you would be swallowing your face. And that does not work; I have tried.
“Right. It’s here. Speaking of, would you care for a cigarette? I’ve never smoked myself, but I have to imagine it’s traditional at this sort of event.” I pulled a pack out of my pocket, opened it up, and offered it to him. Simon lifted a flipper and hastily accepted. “Don’t tell Linda, she says it’ll be the death of us all. And maybe it will be. But at least I’ll die smoking.” I smiled. “Well, I suppose there’s not really a point in staying in this moment forever. Should we move onto the next?” Simon blew out his lit cigarette. “I think you’re talking about moving to the next place.” I shook my head. “If time is movement through space, and we choose to move somewhere, are we not moving into the next moment? Why not grant me that, Simon?” Simon sighed. “If we are where we are, then I shall grant you that, Justin. Let us move into the next moment.”
The double doors in front of us, surrounded by a brick wall. An awning covered it, supported by two white pillars. Upon closer inspection, these pillars were concrete and then wrapped in some sort of plastic. Amazing. Here we were at the Gallery, and They still cut corners. I guess it made sense. Once the idea of having takes over, the idea of letting go is poisoned and secluded. Why waste when you can neglect?
I stood for a moment. “Shouldn’t it say something about smoking?” Simon looked at me, his penguin face betraying a look of perhaps… incredulity? “We’re at the very end of our journey and you’re asking about a no smoking sign?” I shrugged. “I mean you’d think a place with this class would care.” Simon shook his head, and pushed through the double doors, holding it open, and looked back. “Well are you coming?” I nodded. “I suppose it’s time we go.”
It was really as nice as I was expecting. Glossy wooden floors, with a sheen that made you want to take your shoes off and slide across. A clean, earthy, woody smell, that of new houses and yet home all the same. White, clean walls, no texture or touch. No contamination but for the walls of paintings, all over the Gallery. A chorus of voices bubbled and swam through the air, like a newly thawed stream. It was all so… here. I’d never been here, but I was somehow expecting this. “Amazing, Simon, isn’t it?” My words hung in the air, given no answer, so I looked down to see where my companion had gone. No Simon. I frantically looked around. Perhaps…? No. To the right? No.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black flipper, and swiveled my head. The foot moved around a corner, to another hallway. I began to steadily walk towards that. All of a sudden, the stream of voices began to separate, to find their own currents. They turned greedy, salivating deep down while shining at the surface. “500 dollars for Man’s Best Friend, Boy’s Harshest Lesson!” What a strange title for a painting. Well perhaps Simon could wait. I turned around. I saw a beagle, in an ill-fitting Halloween store Sherlock Holmes costume. He was using the plastic magnifying glass to highlight parts of the painting he was standing in front of. I looked closer.
“You there!” The crowd parted, I pointed to myself, questioning. “Yes, you! Bring yourself down to feast your eyes upon a great American tragedy!” I walked towards the beagle with the transatlantic accent. “Why these are simply paintings, and why would you be so excited about a tragedy?” The beagle chuckled, and grabbed my hand with his paws and shook it vigorously. “Why my friend, there is no greater art than that of tragedy, and no better stage to perform it on than America!” I pulled away to look at it.
A dog laid prone upon a barn floor. Dust and hay cradled the corpse of the bleeding Beagle. Blood poured out from a hole in its head. A sturdy yet lanky blood boy held a stone above his head, his hands splattered with blood. His eyes were closed, tears streaming down. There was a single light hanging from the ceiling. The boy’s father, screaming at him. Whiskey in one hand. A gun in the other. Gruesome.
I chuckled uneasily. “This is so gruesome… why would you imagine something like this? If you must will art into existence, why would you choose to create this?” The beagle chuckled. “My friend, I didn’t imagine it. This will happen. And it will happen to me.” I stepped back, dread and a cold force pulling inwards my stomach. “I beg your pardon?” I stuttered. The beagle nodded. “The boy you see there is Otis. My mother left me abandoned in an old house. The rest of my kin died and I survived, but just barely. Otis as a young boy found me. He hid me away. I owe my life to him.” I took a deep breath. “If Otis is as caring as you say he is, then why did – excuse me – why will he kill you?” The Beagle smiled, and nodded knowingly. “Otis’s father has always been, is, and will continue to be no doubt a cruel, callous man. In a community where leaving your spouse to save yourself death earns your banishment, Otis’s mother disappeared in the night. A wisp of smoke in a factory of death. Otis sends a plea of return into the night, yet the universe chooses to reply with suffering.” The Beagle trailed off.
“Right, but why does Otis kill you?” I said. The Beagle chuckled. “No good father wants to suffer alone, am I right?” His smile twisted just a bit too much, his eyes perhaps becoming more sullen. I stammered. This was… not what I was expecting. My heart rate picked up. “But you could choose to run away, you could never go back! Why must this happen?” The Beagle looked at me, all emotion falling away. “If this world would force a pure-hearted, battered child to brutalize the one thing in his life that brings him joy, then what would await me should I choose to walk down a different path?” Everyone around the museum was staring at us, the room having gone silent. The Beagle shook his head violently and yelled “So whaddya say? Wanna buy this grand piece of art? Only 20 dollars!” I shook my head. “Um, no, I’m looking for a penguin–” he sharply turned his head towards me. “But I’m a dog, can’t you see?” This was not going well. “No, I see that but –” and I was promptly clonked in the head by a very heavy magnifying glass. “THEN GET LOST, PALLY!!!”
And just like that, life returned to the room. That was very disorienting. That was very strange, and I was very upset. I simply had to find Simon, to tell him all about the lunatics here. I pursued that end where I saw the flipper moving, and I saw a fishing hook. I picked it up. “A-ha! Trying to escape me, you old cobbler! Well we made it here and I refuse to lose you now.” The stream of voices broke again. A sullen, sadder voice. “5 dollars, I guess. Maybe 6?” I turned around, and saw a young toucan with a beanie, eyeliner, and a black skirt around her. I walked towards her. She looked at the ground. I leaned over to meet her eyes. “Hi, what’s your art about?” She looked away. “It doesn’t really matter, I don’t know if you’ll really like it.” I chuckled. “Well now, you gotta be better at selling. You must project your voice across the room. Like this!” And I yelled and smiled and gave a great big jump in the air! I laughed a little, momentarily shaking off the stir of the Beagle.
She smiled. “What’s your name?” I smiled back. “Well, my name’s Justin, but–” she cut me off. “Nice to meet you Justin. You know, how about 7 dollars?” I laughed. “How about 8 dollars and you tell me what you painted?” She laughed a little louder. “Okay, okay.” I looked at the painting, and some of that happiness began to leave.
A toucan crouched under a falling tree. Smoke filled the corners of the portrait. Gruff, hairy, workers hands stretched from big metal monsters. It was hard to tell where the monsters ended and the hands began. And where the hands began, the trees began to end. And this poor toucan, with the monsters closing in. The tree falling ever closer.
“So this is me, and as you can see, I’m not doing so well.” I sighed. “I can see that. I’m sorry.” She said, “Well I’m not doing poorly now.” I cut her off. “You will do poorly later.” She nodded. “So you understand the Gallery then?” she asked. I nodded. “Do you have any questions, Justin?” I sighed. “How long do you have?” She looked down again. “2 days. They started construction a year ago. There was a lady who used to come visit us with her daughter every day. And she would yell at the metal monsters and tell them to stop. One day there was a loud noise and, well, just her daughter would come visit us. And she would always be crying.” Tears welled up in my eyes. “Well you could leave anywhere – you have wings! You could fly anywhere! There’s plenty of people who would take you!” Her eyes became wet, and a great humanity that could never be expressed by a human face looked into my soul. “Oh, Justin. This happens everywhere. You are living in a fantasy world where you can run away from what was always going to happen.” I scoffed. “But as long as you keep running, it doesn’t have to happen today! You could do other things! Have you ever tried lemonade? You really should.” She chuckled. “If tomorrow you would speak with death, it would be against nature to deny his invitation.” I sighed. “Do you want to know how fast I die?” I looked up, and nodded. A strange question, but this gallery was nothing if not strange. “The woman had fought for a year. She’d spoken to the men riding the metal monsters quite a bit, always pointing at us. When she came no more, it will happen quick. They will cut our tree down, and as I close my eyes and release my soul to the forest, my skull will be crushed. It will be like blinking.” I weeped. “But it is going to happen?” She nodded, tears falling down her beak. Now wailing, I cried, “Do you accept Apple pay? I left my wallet back at home!” She silently pulled a feather from her wing, and I held my phone up to the feather. My phone vibrated, and the feather burst into fire. She looked at me, her eyes gone murky black, leaking ink from the pupils, and said “You are now the scribe of my life, the keeper of my soul, and the herald of my death.” She burst into flames, screaming for a moment, and then disappearing. The wall began to devour the painting whole, upon which only a single piece of paper left, labeled “I’m Sorry, Ellie.” A puddle of wooden hands boiled to the surface, and reclaimed the title card, creaks and grinds drowning out faint screams.
I was breathing hard at this point. I looked up and around. The noise had restarted. “Well, I cannot imagine that will in any way come back to bite me.” I was more saying it to the general universe, which might be a bad idea considering all that’s happened, but I had not arrived at this destination making good decisions. It was then, I saw a trail of half-eaten fish and half-smoked cigarettes going around a corner. It was not simply about finding my friend anymore. This was a path I had to walk alone. It was a path I was always going to walk alone. I followed the trail. Stunk like my aunt’s house. Bad habit she picked up from her bad husband. This path stunk like the devil threw up into a pile of sin and that sin had the audacity to try to escape. I mean I don’t really understand what you would expect if you were an insanely magical biblical being and you just kind of vomited into a large container of intangible magical filth. I can imagine devils bile causing a quite poor reaction to sin. But that is what this smelled like.
I turned the corner, and I saw my friend. He was sat upon a bar stool, a tall one. I caught up with him. The gallery quieted as I got closer, and I realized this was the step I had to take. I chuckled. “How did you get all the way up there, friend?” Simon lit another cigarette. “This is where I needed to be, so this is where I am now.” I tilted my head. “That’s not – but — okay never mind. Just tell me about your stupid picture. And yes, I know this is how you will die and you’re not going to change your mind and yada yada yada.” Simon scoffed. “God have you been talking to Beagle? That guy will not shut up. No, frankly any of us could choose not to pursue these avenues. We just choose to anyway.” I looked at Simon’s painting.
A sun setting. Icebergs in the distance, while more and more flame consumed the perspective as one approached the point of view of the painting. A charred series of penguin corpses, next to dismembered human corpses covered in oil. An oil rig in the distance. Jackets, flags… an explosion of a story.
“Are you going to tell me about yours, Simon?” He looked at me. “What good would it do?” I laughed nervously. “Well everyone has explained to me theirs.” Simon looked at me quizzically. “But I’m not them. I’m Simon.” I looked around. “Well perhaps there is a bit of ritual to this place?” Simon shook his head. “Simply because there is a ritual doesn’t mean we need the ritual. And if we did need the ritual, the fact that we can have unnecessary rituals entitles me to not follow necessary rituals.” I shrugged. “I suppose.” Simon finished his cigarette, and threw the butt on the ground, and reached to his coat, slapping it. “Justin, I ran out of cigarettes, you wouldn’t happen to have another, would you?” I dug into my pockets, but the box was gone. “Sorry, Simon, all out.”
I stood there, staring at his painting. “You said Linda said it would be the death of you all?” Simon nodded. “She was right. On a dying planet where your kind has taken without giving, demanded without compromise, all it takes is a spark to the pile of death.” I grimaced. “Simon, that is a really edgy and obnoxious way to tell me that you will accidentally set Antarctica on fire.” Simon snapped his head. “Well Justin I must say you were very ‘edgy and obnoxious’ in your remarks before we entered this building. So what if I set it on fire? It wasn’t like it wasn’t going to happen at some point. Perhaps a worker might’ve set it. What, is only mankind allowed to let their vices destroy the world around them? It’s not good enough I talk and walk around with a portable blender, I need to all of a sudden be Mother fucking Teresa?” I backed away. “Okay Simon, alright. I understand.” He sighed. “No, I knew it would happen. I was smoking for a long time before this happens.” I looked at him incredulously. “Then why would you not stop smoking? You have children, a wife, a family?” Simon looked off into the space. “Maybe. At least this way I know I died with my family, I got to die with a smoke in my hand, and my bitch wife Linda can say ‘i tOlD yOu So’.” I looked at him. “That doesn’t sound very nice of you, Simon.” He looked back at me. “I chose to look out for myself. My family will meet the very same end they would’ve met another way. What else is there to say.”
And I turned around, walking down the hallway. And this place it felt so… empty. Hungry, even. And for a moment, silence fell, and I wondered
Wait– where’s mine?
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