As a challenge to myself, I wrote a flash fiction piece that is exactly 1,000 words. I have submitted it to several journals and magazines and nobody wants it. It’s quite possible that it sucks. But, for now, it’s all I’ve got. I’ve been working on adapting Forever 51 into a television series. No, Hollywood isn’t knocking down my door. I’ve been doing it as a challenge to myself and I’m finding it quite fun. I’m not exactly known for my page long descriptions of a person or a setting, but I am pretty good at nailing the telling detail and dialogue.

Anyway, this little piece is about death. It was inspired by my daughter’s job as a gallery attendant at The Modern.

“Please step away from the artwork. Thank you,” Patricia chirped into the exalted air of gallery four. She no longer bothered to count the times she said this rote expression during an eight-hour shift, but it had to be more than fifty. After twenty-three years at the Modern, that statement had become as perfunctory as “hello” or “good morning” when someone finally managed to notice her watchful presence. Through the years, the wording of this warning had to be changed to coddle the line crossing culprits. The big wigs upstairs worried that short, direct pronouncements from lowly polyester wearing personnel might scare paying guests from returning. It really didn’t matter how she worded the admonishment; the sentiment remained the same—please back the fuck up, in as pleasant a tone as she could muster. She was always pleasant. Not that anyone noticed. Patrons rarely looked in her direction as she reprimanded their proximity to the paintings. Most folks let the sing-song intonation of her words roll off their skin, as if they weren’t really doing anything wrong by leaning in too close to examine a brush stroke or an illegible signature. In their minds they were okay, not like the other rabble who couldn’t tell a Rothko from a Rembrandt. Not that the Modern had any Rembrandt’s. Patricia would have liked that.

Today was her favorite day to be on shift. On Tuesdays, adult traffic was typically low, but the galleries still bustled with busloads of children from the local schools. She watched as volunteer docents lead the gaggle through her gallery, stopping at certain pieces to impart a tidbit of interesting information about the artist or the painting’s provenance. Most of the kids were carefully attentive, happy to be out of the classroom, but there were a few whose eyes wandered to where she stood. In the past, one of these children would catch her shifting into a different sex or skin color. They’d quickly avert their eyes, tug on their teacher’s shirt sleeve, then sneak another look while the road maps of age traveled over every inch of her visible skin. Their eyes widened in amazement as her hair grew, changed hue, or receded as if frightened, back into the pores of her freckled scalp. But, with a solitary blink of their disbelieving eyes, the transition would end as if it had never begun. To the young and imaginative, she was simply another work of art.

It would have been nice if she’d felt treasured but there was little time for that, as her transformation lasted less than thirty seconds. It didn’t help that the return to her body felt disgusting and squishy, like she was a formless blob rising from the bottom of a murky, algae-filled lake with leeches attempting to attach to her flesh. The instant she resumed residence into her own skin, she would gasp for air as if she’d been holding her breath, which she might have been. She never knew what transpired in those missing moments. So as not to frighten those around her, she masked this gasp with a cough, but this practice had become equally disturbing to patrons. Inevitably, the sauntering art snobs would glare in her direction, huff their displeasure, then stomp off to the next gallery as if she’d single-handedly ruined their whole museum experience. She tried not to take their annoyance personally. Perhaps if she understood the reason she changed, who she changed into, or what she did when not herself, it might be different, but it never happened when she was alone in the comfort of her own studio apartment. There were always people, usually adults, mulling around her looking either pensive or forlorn.

Three children led by a young, frazzled teacher entered the gallery. As they approached the Koons piece in the center of the room, the teacher gripped the shoulder of an exuberant boy who looked as if he might explode out of his skin. She whispered something near his right ear, then looked apologetically at Patricia. 

Patricia smiled in response, yet remained immobile, her gaze following the towheaded boy as he wriggled free from his teacher’s grasp. The boy whooped into the quiet room then zigzagged  towards the next gallery as if he were dodging bullets. Patricia’s fingers began to tingle. She quickly brought the radio to her lips and quietly intoned, “code three, gallery five,” before she was lost to the moment.

The boy and his teacher were now in the next room. His shrieks of happiness dissipated as if he were a memory.

“Grandma!” a little girl, no more than five squealed, tugging at Patricia’s fingers.

Startled, Patricia gazed at her other hand which still held the radio. Mottled with age and adorned with pink polish, it was not her own. She tucked the radio into the pocket of her blazer..

“I missed you,” the girl hugged Patricia’s legs, which were now swimming in loose fabric.

“I’m afraid,” Patricia leaned over, whispering to the girl. “I don’t know where I am.”

“Don’t be afraid, grandma. I’ve got you.” The girl grasped Patricia’s hand tighter. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”  Patricia’s gaze darted around the white walled room. “This isn’t right.”.

“Mommy said you went to heaven, but she was wrong. You’re here.”

“Is this heaven?”

“I don’t think so, grandma, we’re at the museum.”

The radio came to life in Patricia’s pocket. “Gallery four. We need you in gallery seven to relieve John for lunch.”

Patricia released the girl’s hand to inspect the chirping foreign object. She brought it closer to her face.

A crazed woman rushed into the room, scooping the girl into her arms. “Don’t ever run off like that. I was so worried.”

“Look mom,” the girl pointed at Patricia. “It’s grandma!”

Patricia coughed violently into her shoulder.

“That’s just a nice lady who works at the museum. It’s not nice to point.” She turned to Patricia. “Thank you so much for watching her.”

“You’re welcome. I’m always here.”