Installation 5: Driven to Drink previous

Phillip Mantou, Curator of Antiquities, was a drinker. It was a fact of life at the museum, just like the fact that Julia in PR hardly ever came to the office and Hank in Receiving had a gambling problem. It was hard to obscure certain things from co-workers, especially people trained to look at details. If one paid attention at all, one would observe that Phillip weaved a bit when returning from lunch. If he stopped to sort his mail and an envelope fell to the ground, he had a very difficult time grasping it without falling over. There was his tight smile and ruddy cheeks, much too pink for a man who disliked the outdoors because of his fear of squirrels.

The day after a signed copy of the contract for the Ride the Snake was put into his mail slot, Phillip ended his moratorium on drinking in his office. There simply seemed to be no other way to get through the days. His mornings started with a blast of Tchaikovsky on his stereo as he popped into the shower with a can of beer. There was something about washing himself while holding a can of Miller Lite that soothed him. It was also his little joke with himself, a way of thumbing his nose at everyone who had ever called him a snob. Of course he was a snob but would anyone in the Society of Antiquaries ever suspect that he started the day in full lather, sipping a lowbrow beer? Not only was it in a can (he may have been a drunk but even he realized the possible dangers of bringing a glass bottle into a shower), but it was domestic!

After the beer, he had something hot for breakfast. A hot toddy or a little Bailey’s mixed in with his coffee. At some point he would realize he’d spent too long browsing the New York Times or Art News and would dash for the museum, putting what was left of his morning drink into a travel mug and topping it off. He found that sipping his special concoctions made it easier to handle morning traffic.

He had a stash of bottles in his bottom desk drawer. He’d taken out the hanging files and filled the drawer with vodka, whiskey and wine. He knew it was a stupid thing to do, but carrying in just one small flask each day was no longer enough, and storing his liquor out in his Volvo seemed even riskier. Besides, the drawer locked and only he had the key; the only other person who might ever have an excuse for wanting to go into it was his assistant, Meredith.

Meredith Rule was twenty-six, just out of Cornell with a graduate degree in Ancient Art. She was sturdy and blond, with straight, sensible hair that fell against her cheeks and brushed her jaw line. She was shy and he liked that about her, mostly because he realized she would never question him about anything. She was a good Midwestern girl who hated confrontation. It was one of the few traits she and Phillip had in common.

Sometimes other women who worked at the museum would come to see Meredith and talk about things young women cared about – clothes, television, where to go out on the weekend for drinks or brunch. They would linger, craning their necks to see into Phillip’s office. There was a lot of curiosity about Phillip. He was a genius, everyone said, and a tragic figure who had lost his wife at age twenty-eight and never remarried despite the fact he was very handsome and smart. He was brilliant. He was beset by demons. Even Phillip was aware of what people said of him, particularly women, although he pretended not to care.

On a Tuesday morning shortly after Phillip had decided not to restrict his drinking to outside the office, Karrie Thompson came by to tell Meredith about her off-hour exploits. Karrie was an assistant in the Development Department, a department Phillip generally avoided. But now Phillip sat at his desk and mixed a drink behind his partially closed door and listened to Karrie’s careless diction. He was in the middle of approving images for Julia’s forthcoming press release about Ride the Snake (thankfully, the exhibit organizers forbid use of the image of Anka’s embalmed penis, considering that a show spoiler) and avoiding having to call back one of his peers from the British Museum who had left a message cajoling him about the exhibit.

“Oh my God, Meredith,” Karrie said out in Meredith’s tiny section of the office suite. “I was soo totally drunk.”

“Really?” Meredith’s tone could have been polite interest or complete boredom; Phillip wasn’t sure.

“All I remember was riding in this car, like, this totally cheesy car. Like a Trans-Am or something and there was a sunroof and I stood up and put my head out of it while we were going down the highway.”

“That sounds like fun,” Meredith said.

“It was until I puked,” Karrie said.

“Not again!” Meredith said.

“I’m a puker,” Karrie said. “What can I say?”

“But last weekend you puked all over that fabulous green dress…”

“My mom says she can clean it.”

“Did you tell her about the champagne shooters…?”

“Of course not,” Karrie said. “I told her I had the flu but went out anyway and got sick all over myself in the restroom of an art gallery. She thinks that’s all I do with my time; go to art galleries with fancy friends. As if I don’t get enough art around here.”

In Phillip’s boozy state, there was suddenly something intriguing about this woman. She was so robust, so outwardly healthy. She was simple things, like movies and drinks in someone’s efficiency apartment. She was someone who would carve a pumpkin for Halloween and meet a group of girlfriends for an afternoon at a spa. She was everything Phillip was not and yet from the depths of his despair he felt they had something in common, a root of loneliness and longing. He took a large gulp from his coffee mug for liquid courage (one-third coffee, one-third whiskey and one-third half-and-half) and lurched to the door of his office.

“Meredith, did you get me that file I was looking for?” he asked, holding onto the door for support while peering into the brightly lit space. He gave Karrie one of his famous tight smiles. “Oh, hello there.”

“Hello, Phillip,” Karrie said. She wore a cashmere sweater set and a barrette encrusted with cheap rhinestones. “Are you feeling OK?”

“Yes, fine,” Phillip said and adjusted his bow tie, trying to remember the last time he’d changed into a clean undershirt.

“What file is that?” Meredith asked.

“What?”

“The file…”

“I have tickets,” Phillip said, ignoring Meredith. “To Medea tomorrow night.”

The two women looked at him. He started to sweat in the tiny office and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his corduroy blazer. He wondered if he was making sense. He tried to remember exactly how much whiskey he’d had and how he’d measured it out.

“If you would like to go,” he said, gazing at Karrie. “I will take you.”

“Uh,” Karrie hedged. “I don’t know. What’s Medea?”

“Drinks,” Phillip blurted. “Of course there will be drinks. Drinks beforehand at a little place I know and drinks afterwards at anyplace you desire.”

“That sounds like fun,” Karrie said. “Like maybe if we skip Medea?”

“OK, then,” Phillip said. “Besides, we have to celebrate. Have you heard about the new exhibition I’m curating? Ride the Snake? Prince Anka?”

“No,” Karrie said. “But I don’t really pay attention during meetings.”

“It’s just as well,” Phillip said. “Its completely inappropriate for a young woman like yourself. Well, then, I suppose its time for lunch.”

Despite the fact that it was only 10:30, Phillip turned to grab his leather satchel from inside his office so he could go out. He had a strong hankering for a Bloody Mary. But the sudden movement threw him off balance and he fell, knocking his head against one of the handles on the metal filing cabinet. Meredith got up and pulled at his arms to try to raise him up but he shook her off.

“No need to help,” he said. “Just an old basketball injury. Or maybe it was football. Bad knee. Just gives out sometimes.”

“I think you should sit down and drink some water,” Meredith said. “Or coffee.”

“No, no,” Phillip said. “I’m fine. Just a little light-headed. I think I need some food.” He grabbed at Karrie’s hand, missing it. “We’ll talk.”

“OK,” Karrie said. “I have a desk over in Development. Or send me an e-mail.”

“Your forehead is bleeding,” Meredith said.

Phillip waved and walked out.

“It’s so sad,” Meredith said. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if he’s drunk all the time.”

“I think he’s cute,” Karrie said.

After Karrie left, Meredith sat at her desk and tried to organize slides for Phillip’s next presentation. But she found she was too anxious. She thought about calling her mother but decided this was silly. People didn’t call their mothers from work to cry over a drunken superior. Instead, she turned on Tchaikovsky and picked up her slides.

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