The Trip to the Museum

Roger is not a fan of the arts. Not the fine arts anyway. Comic art he's all over.

Every once in a while I'll drag him with me to the city's art museum. It's a modest affair. It's a two story building sectioned by artistic style; heavy on the impressionist and modernists. There are no haystacks by Monet, no coy-smiling ladies, and no Greek statues with missing limbs. While there are some interesting pieces, nothing that has set the art world on fire.

Though there is nothing of interest in the museum of our modest sized city, the curator managed to convince the caretakers of an art nouveau exhibit to bring their pieces here. How he managed it only I and a few privileged others know and I've been sworn to secrecy. But I don't think I'd be breaking the oath just by saying that a call girl, a man with an abnormal sexual appetite lucky enough to marry into a rich family, and a forged Alphonse Mucha piece were involved.

If you don't know what art nouveau is I suggest you google it. You know those pieces, usually with lovely women and swirly foliage all around, occasionally looking more like posters then fine art, that's art nouveau. The reason that some of them look like posters is because that's exactly what they were. A lot of art nouveau artists made their living creating advertisements for dancers, absinthe, burlesque shows, etc. Some really fabulous stuff. I could give you a brief lesson, but I'm not an art teacher and for all you know, I'd be talking out my ass more than sharing wisdom. Besides I'm not here to share Mucha or Lautrec stories, but those of my friend, Roger.

Roger reluctantly agreed to accompany me to the museum one Sunday evening. Since my store doesn't close until five and the museum closed at seven he knew he wouldn't be tortured for too terribly long. Besides, he owed me and he knew it. Roger and I work on an informal barter system. I'll go with him to things he enjoys and keep the bitching down to a minimum and he does the same for me. I went with him to a comic convention the month before. It lasted hours. Hours of Vulcan ears and chubby men in spandex (I told Roger I would refuse to go if he went in a costume of any kind). Hours standing in line to meet people just to have them sign a comic, while watching Roger stress if the autograph would add to the value or diminish its mint condition. Ten hours at a comic convention versus the two hours in the museum was not a fair trade and Roger was sweating how I was going to make him pay me back.

The sun was just setting behind us as we entered the building. The days were getting longer, but true spring was still elusive. I've never liked museum lobbies. They're noisy and crowded. People haven't gotten into proper museum mode where everyone is quiet and patient. Here they're noisy and pushy. There are coats are being taken off, bags slung across shoulders, and strollers being unfolded. People are rude: throwing elbows, stopping suddenly, and being generally obnoxious. It's the perfect environment for a pick pocket.

I saw him before Roger did. Something about it green jacket caught my eye. It was open over a yellow shirt and faded blue jeans. His dark scraggly mustache and goatee placed him about twenty, twenty two. He was leaning in close to a blonde woman with ramrod straight posture. I thought them an odd couple.

She seemed to be ignoring him, talking with other blonde women with matching purses. He seemed to be looking around the lobby for someone while one hand quickly dipped into her purse.

I nudged Roger and nodded over to the guy who was slowly moving away still looking around him. "Pick pocket."

Roger spotted him, his eyes narrow. "The guy in the yellow shirt?"

"That's the one. You'll still owe me you know."

Roger sighed, "Figures. You won't give me a reprieve if I catch the guy?" Roger was watching the pick pocket make his way to the doors of the museum. I don't think he was even blinking.

"Depends on how much style you put into it I suppose."

"You stay and enjoy the exhibit. I'll see you at your place later tonight."

"Right and let you have all the fun. Do you have your mask this time?" I swung my bag up to my chest to begin looking for the spare I started carrying with me after the last time.

I looked up triumphant, but Roger was already gone. I caught a flash of a button down shirt and pants fly to a trash can and land about two feet short. Seriously, the man as no game.

So much for my art nouveau exhibit. I followed slowly behind, pausing to pick up the discarded shirt and pants. I noticed he switched to snaps instead of buttons. Rockabilly on the weekends? They easily stowed in my bulbous shoulder bag.

Down at the bottom of the stairs, Leviathan had already caught the guy. Not the most exciting chase this time around. I realized I should have said something to the blonde woman, but she would find out soon enough when she went to make her 'donation' to the museum.

Walking heavily, in no hurry, I went down the steps watching Leviathan in his moment of glory. He was sitting on the pick pocket's back, hands on his hips, head up proudly surveying the scene around him. Museum security, one older with white hair and a slim build, the other younger but with a sizable pot belly, ran past me down the stairs. Rent-a-cops with whistles.

Leviathan stood up, placed one foot on the guy's back. "Do not fear my magnitude, fellow law enforcers! This gentleman is a pick pocket. I believe you will find a wallet belonging to a blonde female patron of the museum in his inside jacket pocket."

The mall security guys rushed over, the older one stared at Roger, pointing his whistle at him. Pot Belly was roughly turning the pick pocket over and feeling inside his jacket. He found the wallet, opened the clasp and held up a driver's license for White Hair to see.

"Looks like that woman that was freaking out inside all right," Pot Belly said, panting slightly.

"Perhaps so," White Hair's eye brows were drawn, continuing to stare at Leviathan, "I think I need to ask you some questions."

"That won't be necessary, my good man." Roger was trying to stay in the jubilant character he adopted as Leviathan, but I could tell he was starting to panic. "There are others out there who need me." Roger took his foot off of the pick pocket and bounded out of reach of White Hair. "Besides, my size is sure to attract unwanted negative attention to the museum within moments. I wish to be gone as to not adversely affect you in any way."

The two guards glanced at each other. Roger began moving away again. I started to walk in the same direction trying not to draw attention to myself.

"Now hold on! I need you to stay here, buddy!"

Leviathan began waving. "No, no. I really must be available to all who need me and my talents. Perhaps another time." With that and a slight bow, Roger turned and began bounding away down the street.