Installation 30: Stop the Violence previous
Everyone was stunned by the brutal beating of James Trehorn in the parking ramp, particularly because the act seemed to be random.
“It's not safe walking out to my car at night,” Mary Ellen Hightower complained in the staff room. “We need to organize patrols, hire more security guards, something...”
The employees took to walking out of the museum en masse in the evening, forming a molecule of human bodies. The women linked arms. Lars Auerbach suggested they all sing, “We Shall Overcome.” Henry Rickenbottom suggested “Stop the Violence.”
In the Marketing and Public Relations suite, Fern, who was usually silent as she went about her work, couldn't stop blathering on about how it could have been her, too, if James had been kind enough to walk her to her car.
“Imagine,” she said. “If the perp was looking for James and found me too? I would have been kicked to a bloody pulp.”
“I think you might be exaggerating,” Phoebe said.
“And where is James right now?” Fern asked, spit flying from the gap in her front teeth. “In the hospital, right?”
“Yes,” Phoebe said. “But you don't know if it would have happened to you...”
“You don't seem particularly upset about this,” Fern said, narrowing her eye slits until they became nothing more than thin lines in her face.
Phoebe blushed and got very interested in the purchase order she was filling out.
“Did you hear me?” Fern demanded.
“I believe,” Phoebe said. “That I was in counseling all day. And then I left because I was quite exhausted from reliving my childhood. You saw me collect my things.”
“Of course I'm not suggesting you did it,” Fern said. “You've got arms like strings. I'm saying maybe you hired someone.”
“You watch too much Law & Order,” Phoebe said. “You need to get out more.” She got up from her desk. “I need to use the restroom, be back in ten minutes.”
“Not so fast,” Fern said. “Carlotta said you're not allowed to go to the bathroom alone until you've completed your program.”
“Fine,” Phoebe said. “Come along. But bring something to read. I've got to go number two.”
Fern grabbed her copy of Administrative Assistant Today and ran to catch up with Phoebe.
The violence directed against James Trehorn had a strange affect on The Museum. Instead of bringing people closer (except for the evening walk to the parking ramp) it seemed to drive a wedge of discontent and suspicion even further into a gaping wound. People lashed out at each other. They stopped saying hello in the hallways. They kept to their offices. The staff room was empty of treats except for a bag of orange, puffy Circus Peanuts someone dropped on the counter, not unlike a bag of dog turds. No one touched them.
In the middle of this, Carlotta and Julia called a meeting to discuss the promotion of Ride the Snake. Despite early meetings and attempts to get things done according to a time line, nothing had been accomplished. To drive home the point of needing to get everyone on board, Carlotta invited just about everyone who worked in the museum to the meeting and wasted no time taking charge.
“We have a problem people,” she began. “We have a major show to promote, which opens in less than a year, and nothing is getting done. Except for Julia, she's done all her work. Right, Julia?”
“Yes,” Julia said. “Press kits have gone out. However, I need to know what programming we're planning around the exhibit and I really have no idea...”
“Like children's programming,” Carlotta said. “What are the programs for children? For families?” She glared at Emily Dunn, Director of Educational Programs.
“Listen,” Emily said. “We've been working hard on programming for Pale Youth. Do you think it's easy to come up with programs for kids around an exhibit that's basically soft porn?”
Richard Aberdack, Curator of Paintings, choked on his coffee.
“I resent that,” he said. “Especially coming from someone with no formal training in art, art history, art appreciation...”
“Oh, stuff it, Richard,” Emily said.
“We're getting off course here,” Carlotta said. “The point is, Emily, that you haven't done any planning yet, although we asked you months ago. When you don't do your job, all of us suffer. We can't promote it, we can't include it on the printed materials...”
“We have a year,” Emily said. “Is anyone in the public going to mark down a date for a free children's program one year in the future? One could be doing any number of things in a year. One could be dead. Is there a point in planning that far ahead?”
“Save the Zen bullshit,” Julia said. “This is serious museum business we're talking about.”
“What do you want me to say?” Emily asked. “That I'm sorry? Fine, I'm sorry. It's all my fault that the entire exhibit is falling apart. Should I report to the parking lot for a stoning?”
“In light of what happened to James,” Carlotta said. “I don't find that funny. I find it offensive.”
“Other people are also at fault,” Julia said. “Ken, your people were supposed to give us mock-ups over a week ago. Where are the mock-ups?”
“Mock-ups?” Ken asked. “What, ah, what mock-ups are we talking about?”
“Mock-ups!” Julia said and slammed the table with open palms, making everyone jump. “Does anyone here not know what a mock-up is?”
The room descended into icy silence. Phoebe looked at the ceiling. She was finding some of what she'd learned with Holly Jean during counseling to be helpful. Breathe in, breathe out. Visualize a field of waving grass. Run through the grass.
“Julia,” Mary Ellen Hightower said. “We all know what a mock-up is. I think Ken was asking which mock-ups you requested...”
“Goddamn it,” Julia said. “I want all mock-ups! I need to get this stuff approved before I go on vacation.”
“Oh,” Sigrid Danforth said. “That's what this is really about. Off on another trip, Julia?”
“That's none of your business,” Julia said.
“If it's so important to The Museum,” Sigrid said. “Why don't you postpone your trip, try to get some work done?”
Julia went from a raging shade of red to bluish purple.
“I will not,” she spat. “Delay going to Amsterdam just because people here don't adhere to deadlines.”
“What deadlines?” Ken asked.
“The deadline for smoking reefer,” Sigrid muttered. Those seated closest to her snickered in appreciation.
“Does anyone here not know what a deadline is?” Carlotta screamed. “Here's the point, people; let me break it down for you. You're all lazy pieces of shit who don't deserve to work at a museum. You should be working the registers at WalMart.”
“Some of you should be greeters at WalMart,” Julia said, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
“How this is helping any of us?” Sigrid said, “What can we do to fix the problem?”
“Maybe,” Phoebe said, raising her hand to speak as if in second grade. “We could make a chart...”
“Fixing the problem is not our problem,” Carlotta said. “Our problem is telling you there's a problem and then it becomes your problem to fix.”
Phoebe visualized a sunny beach. With shells. In her mind, she bent to pick up some shells.
“I'm not following this,” Ken said.
“That's your problem!” Carlotta yelled. She looked at her watch. “Shit, I've got a lunch meeting. Listen, I hope no one thinks I'm blaming them for anything. That was not my intent. It's not about blame, it's about getting the work done.”
“I'm leaving, too,” Julia said. “Because this is ridiculous. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”
Both women rose from their seats. The rest of the room stared back at them.
“Phoebe? Fern?” Carlotta said. “Come on.”
Fern popped out of her seat like a well-trained dog and trotted to Carlotta's side, notepad and pen held at the ready. Phoebe stared down at her hands.
“Phoebe,” Carlotta said. “Come!”
Phoebe stood and pushed back her chair with a long squeak and joined Fern, head hanging.
“What are we supposed to do?” Sigrid asked. “What are the next steps?”
“There's nothing for you to do,” Julia said. “Except feel bad.”
Carlotta, Julia, Fern and Phoebe went out. The conference door clicked shut behind them.