The Night Shift at the Museum of Unfinished Business
I am the Taxidermy Lion, African Hall, 1923.
And I have been standing here with my mouth open for 102 years.
Do you know what the Egyptian mummy said to me yesterday?
"At least I was buried with dignity. You were stuffed like a throw pillow."
I am a lion. I ate people.
He is wrapped in linen and missing half his toes.
Tonight, after lights-out, I am going to tip his sarcophagus over.
I am the Egyptian Mummy, Ancient World Gallery,
and I have been dead for 3,000 years.
A little push will not change my circumstances.
But the lion has threatened me, and I am keeping count.
What concerns me more is the Renaissance Madonna.
She has been complaining about her neck again.
We all have necks, Madonna. Some of us do not have internal organs anymore,
and you do not hear us whining.
Also, her baby looks like a miniature banker.
I have wanted to say this for centuries.
I am the Renaissance Madonna, Oil on Canvas, Circa 1482,
and my neck is a tragedy.
The mummy has no organs and opinions about my child.
At least my child is not a banker. He simply resembles one.
There is a difference.
Also, the curator has been whispering to Gary again.
Gary, whoever that is.
Last night she said, "I should have gone into dentistry."
I have watched six wars from this wall
and she wants to look inside mouths.
I am beginning to understand why the Mona Lisa stopped smiling.
It is not a mystery. It is burnout.
I am George Washington, American Revolution Wing,
and Cornwallis is next to me.
On purpose.
I can feel him staring at my powdered wig.
Last night he said, "You would not have won without the French."
I did not respond.
That is my strategy. It worked before.
But the bison from the Natural History Hall yelled,
"JUST APOLOGIZE TO EACH OTHER AND MOVE ON."
The bison has no stake in this.
The bison went extinct because of capitalism.
I will not apologize to Cornwallis.
I will also not acknowledge him.
This is called leadership.
I am General Cornwallis,
and George Washington has not looked at me in forty-seven years.
I moved an inch to the left last night.
He did not notice.
I am thinking about moving another inch tonight.
Perhaps I will end up in the gift shop.
Perhaps then he will notice.
Also, the bison is wrong. I do not need to apologize.
The French interfered. That is a fact.
I have written this on a small card and placed it near my feet
but no one reads the plaques anymore.
I am the Bison, Natural History Hall,
and I did not go extinct because of capitalism.
I was hunted. There is a difference.
But I am surrounded by fossils
and one very smug lion
and a mummy who thinks he is better than everyone
because he has a sarcophagus.
And every night, the kings argue.
"The French." "Leadership." "My wig."
The Roman bust of Julius Caesar keeps asking where his body went.
The Indian bronze of Shiva sighed so deeply last night
I felt it in my taxidermied chest.
I miss the prairie.
But I would miss the gossip more.
I am Julius Caesar, Roman Bust, 1st Century BCE,
and I have been asking where my body went for approximately two thousand years.
No one answers.
The bison says I should let it go.
The bison is stuffed.
I was stabbed twenty-three times.
We are not the same.
I am the Dodo, Extinct Birds Hall.
The mammoth says I have no right to complain because I was "evolutionarily unprepared."
I was a bird on an island with no predators.
How was I supposed to know humans would show up with boats and appetites?
The mammoth went extinct because of climate change and hunting.
I went extinct because I trusted a Dutch sailor who said, "Just one more step, little friend."
We are not the same.
I am the Woolly Mammoth, Ice Age Hall.
The dodo brings up the Dutch sailor every night.
We know, dodo. We have the complete oral history.
Meanwhile, I have been frozen for 10,000 years and thawed out to stand next to a sabertooth cat
who keeps asking if I have any food.
I am a skeleton. I have no food.
Also, the dinosaur thinks I am "new."
I am ten thousand years old. You are sixty-five million years old. We are both dead. Let it go.
I am the T-Rex Skeleton, Dinosaur Hall.
The mammoth told me to "let it go."
I am letting nothing go.
I was the apex predator for two million years and now I stand here with tiny arms and a crowd of
children asking why I never learned to clap.
Also, the sabertooth cat keeps trying to start a "predator union" and I am not interested.
I do not unionize with mammals.
I am Mona Lisa, Renaissance Gallery.
For five hundred years, they ask about my smile.
For five hundred years, I smile.
Yesterday, a school group asked where I got my eyebrows done.
I do not have eyebrows. They were painted. They have faded. It is called aging.
Also, the Madonna will not stop talking about her neck.
You know what, Madonna? My neck is also tired.
I have been in this room for five hundred years. My neck is a nightmare.
But you do not see me complaining.
I smile.
I am The Thinker, Rodin, Modern Sculpture Garden.
I sit here, chin on fist, thinking.
And every visitor asks the same question: "What are you thinking about?"
I am thinking about how I am made of bronze and cannot move and yet I am expected to have
profound thoughts for eternity.
I am thinking about how the Venus de Milo has no arms and still gets more attention than me.
I am thinking about the Velvet Rope.
The Velvet Rope was installed last week to keep visitors from touching me.
I am touched by the Velvet Rope constantly.
No one asks the Velvet Rope what it is thinking.
I am the Velvet Rope, Modern Sculpture Garden.
The Thinker is thinking about me.
I know this because he told the Venus de Milo, who told the Winged Victory, who told the
Dodo, who told the entire museum within an hour.
I am a rope. I am velvet. I am here to protect him.
Does he say thank you? No.
He thinks about me with resentment.
I am thinking about him too.
But my thoughts are velveter than his.
I am Venus de Milo, Greek Gallery.
The Thinker has a crush on me.
He told the Velvet Rope, which is very unprofessional because the Velvet Rope tells everyone.
I have no arms. I cannot gesture my feelings.
But I have heard the whispers.
"Venus is timeless." "Venus has such presence." "Venus could have any statue in this museum."
I am flattered. But I am a marble goddess from 100 BCE.
He is a bronze man from 1904.
The age difference is significant.
Also, he never asked me what I am thinking about.
I am the Winged Victory of Samothrace, Greek Gallery.
Venus de Milo is pretending she does not know about the Thinker.
She knows. We all know.
I have wings. I hear everything.
Last week, the Velvet Rope whispered to the Taxidermy Lion, "He asked her. She said she
would 'think about it.'"
The Thinker has been thinking about nothing else since.
This museum is a soap opera.
I would fly away if I had arms.
But I do not have arms either.
None of us have arms.
I am Gary, human, visiting after hours by mistake.
The curator told me to meet her here after closing.
She said it would be romantic.
She did not tell me the art would be talking.
The lion just asked me if I have any food.
The mummy is staring at me.
Cornwallis is trying to sell me a pamphlet about the French.
And the Thinker is looking at me like I interrupted something.
I am going to wait by the gift shop.
The bison said the gift shop is safe.
I trust the bison.
I am the Curator. I am not supposed to have a voice in this poem.
But I have been here for eight years
and the mummy has tipped over four times,
Cornwallis has migrated toward the gift shop at a rate of one inch per month,
and Gary has asked me to move in with him.
The Madonna whispered, "Don't do it," when I walked past her today.
I am considering dentistry.
I am also considering letting the lion tip the mummy over
just this once.
For my own peace.
I am Raj, Security Guard, Night Shift, Eight Years.
The curator thinks I listen to podcasts.
I listen to the art.
The lion is loud. The mummy is loud.
The kings are loudest.
Gary is quiet. He waits by the gift shop.
He texts the curator: "Are you almost done?"
She does not respond.
She is standing in front of the Madonna,
pretending to read the plaque.
I keep a notebook.
If I ever quit, I am publishing everything.
The title will be Framed.
Voicemail from the Curator, Not Sent:
Gary,
I am not coming home tonight.
The Madonna has a cold.
The mummy tipped over again.
The lion is laughing.
Cornwallis has reached the gift shop.
And the Thinker asked me for relationship advice.
I told him to just tell Venus how he feels.
He said he is thinking about it.
We will be here a while.
Also, I am naming the dinosaur.
