He stood outside. It was raining. Cold. Hard.
He looked to his left. A bleached obelisk stood straight, narrow; puncturing through a perilous sky. To his left was nothing; a tree, a bench, some minor foliage. Few remained outside; those he dared carried an umbrella or threw their black briefcase over their head. Badges with serial numbers dangled at forty-five degree angles from metal necklaces. Pink blossoms littered in crevices and small gullies. Rain lingered, shallow lakes formed.
Alone. Cold. It was mid-July and thunderstorms from the North brewed. He shook himself off, running inside to escape.
The museum he ran into was filled with people; hardly surprising but still discomforting. He slinked low along narrow passageways with walls of denim jeans, cheap purses, disposable cameras, Sesame Street sunglasses, strollers, diaper bags, and tawdry t-shirts. Slowly he wound his way to the center of the lobby.
One side of the lobby lead into a room with skeletons of Pterodactyls, Brontosauruses, Stegosauruses, and a Tyrannosaurus Rex. The lightning competed with flashes from Kodak cameras for attention.
The other side lead into stuffed carcasses of African fauna. Lions stalked antelope. Giraffes ate from trees made in China. Endless savannah splashed against the wall. Evolution beckoned from the end. Scents of sweat-drenched summer humidity wafted along air-conditioned breezes.
Neither side looked appealing so he slinked toward a narrow passageway most were ignoring. “Central American Exhibition,” a largely ignored banner whispered from across the top.
There was something about archaeology that had always intrigued him and he began to forget the bleak loneliness. Statues, ruins, pottery. Lots of pottery.
Each was displayed in a rectangular glass case with a yellow light shining at it either from above or below. A small white placard explained in the concise manner of such exhibitions: “Guatemala. Circa 1300 A.D.”; “Nicaragua. Circa 1400 A.D.”; “Belize. Circa 900 A.D.”
Most of the artifacts contained within were nothing special. An ancient plate here, “Mexico. Circa 500 B.C.”, a pile of rubble there, “Belize. Circa 1450 A.D.” The walls were eggshell white. The carpet, a threadbare brown.
It was, all in all, very much deserving of the paltry attention paid to it. It was an afterthought in the minds of the curators; perhaps only there because of some visiting dignitary from the region who would applaud its existence but opt to see a baseball game instead.
However, as he was walking by one of statues, he felt something tugging at him and so he turned around in the direction of one of the most insignificant of the lot. It could be no more than the height of a Coke can, and only a little wider. “Guatemala. Date Unknown.” Odd, he thought.
The edges of the small statue were worn smooth, and while you could still make out the finely detailed etches along its lower torso, its face was blank. Looking closer, it seemed as if the statue was hiding its face behind its hands, but the features were so dim that it was hard to see. It looked as though a small god.
Still, he looked and he stood there with his hands in his pockets until it came to his attention that he must look rather strange standing there so firmly. So after a short amount of time, he left.
****************
Mid-July is an interesting time in Washington, DC. As the day begins, it is hot and muggy with not a cloud to be seen. By noon, the skies crackle and you can scarcely see two feet in front of you. By fifteen minutes after noon, the skies are once again the clearest blue. Wet grass quickly dries under a baking sun, and the humidity returns by 1 pm.
Tourists never seem to notice though. To them, it’s all such an odd and fascinating event. When the humidity returns, you have to wonder whether they notice that everyone else can quite clearly make out that birth-mark on their chest.
And if you aren’t careful, you will have someone else’s camera thrust into your hands every block as they pose in front of the Capitol or Washington Monument or some other bleached memorial. Anybody who lives in Washington DC for more than a few months quickly turns into a pro photographer by necessity of circumstance.
When Cullen emerged from the museum, the sun had come again and the scene of a million tourists returned. They dawdled over water fountains and hot-dogs that vendors fetched from the garbage. Only barbeque chips remained where the shallow lakes once formed, and large sunglasses peered out at you from every direction.
He ignored them and the beseeching cries of “Will you take our picture?” Damn ignorant tourists. But within moments, Cullen disappeared into the yawning tunnels of the Metro and returned to his flat in Dupont.
*********************
When you live in DC, the first question asked of you by others who live there too is, “Who do you work for?” They aren’t asking what your job is, or where you work; that’s not important. In this world of buttoned-down shirts and brown suits, the only thing that matters is your boss. If you have a good enough answer, you’ll then be asked what you do. Money, here, isn’t important. This isn’t New York. Nor is fashion. This isn’t Los Angeles. You could be cutting edge with a million dollars, and you’d be ignored. In this world, the ones with the $40,000 per year salaries and dull shoes rule supreme.
So when Cullen left for the Capitol Lounge on Independence Avenue that night, he wasn’t surprised to get that question a dozen times in the first ten minutes. He was attractive with clean teeth, but his boss was only Congressman Jim Starling (R) of Florida.
"Who?” was the unanimous response before the woman escaped as fast as possible to the fat balding men in the corners who worked for Jim McDermott, Mitch McConnell, Roy Blunt, and Steny Hoyer. Outside of this world, these people were unknowns. Inside this world, they were the movie stars. Washington DC is the Hollywood for ugly people.
He looked around him. There weren’t many people he knew these days. Two years ago, in the glory days of the Republican party, Capital Lounge was for the elephants. Then the donkeys came back and retook their places of privilege. Nowadays, the Democrats stood at the front of the bar, relegating the Republicans to an ever shrinking section near the kitchen.
He stayed only for an hour, and left early, around 9.
The sun was still out, although barely peeking over the horizon. This meant tourists were still out in droves, so the Smithsonian usually stayed open until 10 at this time of year.
Cullen had two options before him Metro-wise. Either he could take Capitol South to get back to Dupont, and this station was only around the corner, or he could opt for a walk and take the Smithsonian station instead. He opted for the latter, preferring to spend some time by himself and not scrunched next to a hundred other souls with poor senses of hygiene in an overcrowded train car.
But despite his intended purpose of walking to the Smithsonian station, he instead once again found himself walking toward the Museum of Natural History, just as he had earlier today. Even at this late hour, tourists still sprawled out on the steps comparing plastic souvenirs as though they were trophies won with blood.
He walked through the doors, and again emerged into a lobby packed with people. Much less crowded than earlier, but still the odors of jam-packed bodies persisted. Within moments, though, Cullen once again found himself in front of the small statue that captivated him earlier today.
He must have been a strange sight there in a brown suit and white shirt with the top unbuttoned (he wore no tie), staring at a thing no bigger than a Coke can. This time, he tried his best to look pensive as he stared, but he could still feel the gawking looks of people passing by. Yet, it’s always tough to care about what tourists think. Besides, they always assume you’re a Congressman.
Cullen stared until the museum closed. Then he retuned to Dupont.
**********************
There is something oddly comforting in one’s despair. You turn ever more inward, and comfort yourself with bleak thoughts. You make sarcastic comments about others, and make unkind observations concerning the world around you. In all of this anger and hate, you find comfort.
But comfort can be found in a variety of places when one is in despair. It could be the morning fog, the report of an accident on the morning news, a fire. It can be innocuous or disturbing. In the statue of the small god, Cullen found comfort.
Every day when he would normally take his lunch break, he instead took the fifteen minute walk from the Cannon House Office Building to the Museum of Natural History. He would stay inside for thirty minutes before leaving again. The mornings were spent in anticipation of this, and the afternoons were spent in anticipation of the evening when he would return again. The nights were spent waiting for noon to come.
The statue was a grotesque figure for though its face was hidden, its lower torso was obscene and twisted. Yet a feeling of camaraderie persisted between him and the small god.
Until the middle of August.
By this time, Congress has departed from the humidity of Washington DC. The Congressmen leave for their districts, delegations to Iraq, or, more likely, summer break in the Caribbean on the pay stub of lobbyists. Congressional employees collectively breath a sigh of relief as they once again can go to work in jeans and practice their putting in the Congressman’s office.
Tourists, too, begin to thin out. The Smithsonian closes once again at 5 pm every day, and traffic on the Metro eases up some.
Lunch hours also are extended for when Congress is not there, there really is not much to do. On one of these days, Cullen stayed at the statue’s side for longer than he normally did. It was at this time that a small, weak voice interrupted him.
“Uh, hello…”
His head snapped up and he abruptly turned around. His face flushed at the embarrassment of this, and he spoke quietly. “Uh, hi…” His hands thrust into his pockets and he began to walk away, ashamed that he was caught in his private reflection of the statue.
“Wait!” she cried out, stronger and more readily identifiable as female this time, which he had not noticed before. Looking up, he saw her.
Her hair was curly and black, and her body carved out a delicate hourglass ending in milky white legs that disappeared into flat, blue shoes. Her face held the fragile outline of a Roman nose and her eyes shone with the luster of emeralds.
“Uh, I mean, I’m Emily,” she said.
He began to collect himself, and presented the false face he displayed at the office. “I’m Cullen.” He stuck his hand out in a gentle, yet dominant way. A smile - fake - complimented calm, confident eyes. All an act, and an act he was good at. His voice showed no hesitation nor betrayed any lack of self-esteem. His back was straight and rigid, and his entire body stood as though influenced by military discipline. There was a reason that people mistook him sometimes for a Congressman. When he acted like this, he was charismatic, strong, and sociable.
All an act. “It’s nice to meet you,” he continued.
It took her a little aback. A moment ago, he looked forlorn, thin, and weak. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you too Cullen.” She took his hand and shook it. It took her a little bit for her to collect herself. “I was just wondering what you were doing over there.”
The act collapsed, but only for a second. Still, it was enough for Emily to notice. “I was just looking at it. It’s interesting, you know? It’s the only one here where it doesn’t have a date. I was just trying to figure out why.”
She nodded. “It’s enigmatic. The lower torso is finely detailed, or was at one time. But the upper torso is bare. It doesn’t even look like it was rubbed off. It looks like it’s always been like that. No face whatsoever.”
He stared.
She bit her lip. “I come here too.”
***********************
The next day they met for lunch at Bullfeathers on First Street Southeast. She worked for the Library of Congress, and she told him of how her office was fifty feet below the ground.
“That must suck. No windows?” Cullen said.
“No windows at all, and the lighting isn’t too good either. Plus, it smells.”
On that first day, they exchanged only pleasantries, but as time went on, they came closer. She was from southern California, and came to DC two years ago interning for a Congressman from San Diego. After four months, though, she still hadn’t found a job and so had to settle for the Library of Congress.
As the weeks passed on, the lunch dates turned into dinner dates, and the dinner dates turned into weekends. Romeo & Juliet at the Folger, Batman at the Uptown, walks along red hexagonal pathways in the Zoo, and cycling along the canal. Georgetown. Arlington. Adams Morgan. Penn Quarter. Nationals stadium. Fedex field. Everywhere together.
During this time, Cullen’s manner changed. He was no longer that pathetic fool who looked down upon tourists, or made jokes about another’s hygiene. He was happy, and life was good. Washington DC was not the cesspool by the Potomac, but that shining city on the hill. Marbled memorials, romantically lighted pathways, and candlelight dinners on white table-clothed tables in brick houses in the restaurants of Georgetown were what dominated his life now.
So it was on a whim when he woke up that day in February and turned to the obituary page of the Washington Post. He had done this so often months ago, but never now. He opened it while sitting in a Starbucks in Dupont.
He glanced over some of the obituaries, but his eyes automatically darted toward a small block of text inconspicuous among the rest.
Emily Gother, 29, Dies
Emily H. Gother, an employee at the Library of Congress, died early yesterday afternoon after being struck by a bus on Capitol Hill. Unmarried. No survivors.
He closed the newspaper, and stayed only for a minute longer. He stepped out into the frigid cold.
Cullen did not go to work that day but instead sought out the statue of the small god, which was still displayed in its small glass case in a narrow passageway in the Museum of Natural History. Unlike any time before, he prostrated himself before it.
And behind its smooth face, the small god smiled. It would not lose its only worshipper.
Ending Note: Once again, shhhhhhhhh....
