I'll Never Finish This Book

FIVE

October 12:

During the fifth grade, the class took a trip to an automobile museum. That was my first and last time going to a museum. I learned two things from that trip. The first thing was that all the boys in my class could identify any car within a millisecond of seeing it. The second thing I learned was how to follow signs that told me not to touch the displays.

Eli drove us to The Metropolitan Museum of Art that Saturday afternoon. His theory was that I would learn to open up more with my writing by seeing how others opened up with their artwork. I doubted it would work, but he was excited about it.

We parked far from the building, but he deserved that for not taking public transport like everyone else in the city. Once we made it to the broad staircase, I stood in one of the many independently forming lines.

"What are you doing?" he questioned.

"Waiting in line for some tickets."

"That's for tourists." He grabbed my arm lightly. "Come on." He led me past the lines and through the door as if we belonged there. I was terrified we'd get caught entering without paying. What if they wanted to check our tickets? The embarrassment.

No one noticed us.

We were welcomed by large windows covering the even more massive walls and ceiling. Sunlight flooded the room and cast shadows everywhere. There were a few signature art pieces displayed in the entrance hall.

Everything moved slowly. People strolled past us in search of the next piece of artwork to gawk at. They traveled in groups guided by curiosity and as couples guiding each other by the hand. They were all alone, even if they had someone with them. They were all living inside their heads, whether it was to take in their surroundings or to come up with what to say next. They were all lost in thought.

The paintings were displayed simply with an image or two to a wall, yet they left a mark on every person that observed them. We wandered along from one area to the next, being guided by the artwork. We sipped from apple juice boxes that we pretend were champagne flutes.

The culture was so different. People flaunted designer handbags and filled the air with expensive perfume. Eli and I discovered we were more similar than we thought.

We stopped and stared at every painting with a focused look on our faces. At one point, Eli stared at a blank wall so intensely that people began gathering around us.

I didn't know what I had to focus on or look for in the paintings. I noticed the colors and how everything fit together, but there had to be something more to it all. I wanted to find the reason why the artists created those paintings in the first place. There was more to every painting that went beyond how pretty it looked. I refused to believe that was the only purpose behind every piece of artwork. I wanted to feel the emotion behind it all.

Eli managed to gather a group of people and had them believe he was a tour guide. They followed and listened to his in-depth discussion on the color yellow. I joined the group, asking questions just to see him struggle to answer. My face hurt from smiling so much.

Once he retired from his career as a tour guide, he chose a crowded room for us to sit in. We laid our jackets in the middle of the room and had a picnic in the center of it. We feasted on the snacks I had in my purse: a chocolate chip cookie, a crumbled granola bar, and fruit snacks.

"How was your time here, Rhodes?" Eli asked, struggling to open the cookie package.

"Not gonna lie- it was pretty great." I ripped open the fruit snack pouch, dropping a few in my lap.