Cheeseburger Subversive

by Richard Scarsbrook

  “Then, you had better enrol right away, dickwad. Besides, that girl you like just started working at the art gallery,” she says tauntingly, as if liking a girl is something that will embarrass me.

  “What girl?”

  “You know, the one you drool over, who thinks you’re a total dork. The one you took on that romantic date where you blew up your car.”

  “Zoe Perry? Zoe works at the art gallery?”

  “God, Dak, put your tongue back in your mouth!”

  My sister wishes she’d kept her mouth shut when I ask Dad if I too can have six hundred bucks to take the art history course. Cleverly, I ask him while my grandparents are visiting, so that rather than risk appearing biased against my cultural education and favouring my sister, Dad is forced to fork over the money.

  “You’ll drive your sister, of course,” Dad says with a tight-lipped grin.

  Charlotte is outraged, and out of earshot of our parents and grandparents, she forbids me to sit near her or talk to her during the classes. Fine by me!

  Three weeks later, after two hours a night every Monday and Thursday, I pass the final exam and am awarded my Certificate of Achievement from the Faireville Community Learning Centre. As far as academic credentials go, the certificate might as well be printed on a sheet of toilet paper, but it serves my purpose. The next morning I drive to the Faireville Gallery of Reproduction Masterpiece Art, brimming over with fresh artistic knowledge. Needless to say, I leave my sister at home — as if she’d have a chance at beating me for the job anyway.

  A sign taped to the gallery’s glass door reads: “Tour Guide Wanted: Knowledge of Art History Essential!” I carefully pull the sign off, fold it into quarters, and slip it into my back pocket. No further applicants need apply!

  “Hello-o-o!” My voice echoes through the gallery’s front hallway, which is filled with plaster replicas of famous sculptures, an impressive selection of prints, and some reasonably good forgeries of famous paintings. While waiting for a non-plaster human figure to appear, I pause to read the gallery’s dedication plaque:

  The Faireville Gallery of Reproduction Masterpiece Art was opened on December 29, 1971, with the mandate of making the great works of the Ancient, Classical, and Renaissance Eras accessible to our fair town’s citizens and tourists.

  The gallery’s continued operation is made possible by a self-perpetuating donation made in trust by Jeremiah Faire III, Owner and CEO, The Krispy Green Pickle Company

  Well, well. The energy from some poor sap’s pickle pushing efforts at Krispy Green has been indirectly transformed into reproduction artworks for the citizens of Faireville to enjoy. I glance down at the scar on my wrist, which I earned during my first and only day as a Krispy Green employee. It now looks like a little pink caterpillar.

  Maybe the few hundred jars of pickles I managed to help fill at the factory pushed the owner’s annual earnings a few dollars into a higher tax bracket, and as a result of a deduction-seeking donation, there is now another fake Manet hanging in the gallery. The world works in strange ways.

  A small group of elderly people shuffles into the far end of the gallery’s main hallway, led by Zoe. She’s wearing a green jacket with the gallery’s logo on the lapel, and a matching skirt that clings to her legs six inches above her knees. My heart skips a beat.

  “If you look to your left as we pass through the hallway,” Zoe explains to the group, “you will see several beautifully reproduced examples of Greek sculpture from several different periods of history. The earliest, on the pedestal beside us, is a Kore, a sculpture of a female figure.”

  She sees me, nods, and raises her voice a little.

  “The particular Kore from which this example was copied, was made during what is known as the Archaic Period of Greek art. An interesting fact about Greek sculpture in this early period is that it was very generic — practically all human figures carved at this time had the same facial expression — the tight-lipped, enigmatic smile which you see in front of you. They call it the Archaic Smile.”

  She has a similar expression on her own face as she once again glances in my direction.

  “Of course,” she continues, as she leads the tour group into an adjacent room, “this changed dramatically as Greek artists later entered a more expressive period of creation known as the Classical Era. Reproductions of several famous sculptures from this period appear to your left . . . ”

  Wow. Zoe’s voice could make a reading from the Faireville phone directory sound like a symphony.

  During the time it takes Zoe to return, I examine the reproductions in the main hallway, most of which I recognize from the course I’ve just finished. In twenty-two minutes (I’ve been checking my watch) Zoe is back in the main hallway without the tour group.

  “Hey, Sifter,” she says, “what are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to apply for a job as a tour guide.”

  “Whoa. First poetry, now art. You’re becoming a real Renaissance Man.”

  I like where this is going.

  “Did you like the poem I read in class the other day?” I ask hopefully.

  She forms one of those unreadable archaic smiles, and evades the question with another.

  “What do you know about art history anyway?”

  I pull my toilet paper certificate from my pocket and unfold it for her to see.

  “Hmm. I’m impressed. But you’ll have to impress Hilda if you want to be a tour guide here.”

  “And Hilda would be?”

  “Hilda’s the curator. My boss, and . . . ” (her voice drops to a whisper) “she’s also the most incredible bitch I’ve ever met. She screams at me over the slightest thing! Yesterday, she threw a fountain pen at me for mispronouncing Caravaggio! She’s a friggin’ Nazi!”

  I picture in my mind what Hilda must look like: greying, brassy blonde hair pulled into a tight, scalp-numbing bun, her drab green business suit fitting as sexless as a military stenographer’s uniform. Hilda, the female Gestapo officer. Then my vision of Hilda disappears as Zoe sits atop the desk and crosses her lovely legs while my own legs nearly buckle beneath me.

  “You’ll be able to handle Hilda, though,” Zoe says. “She likes young men.”

  Hilda is not who I want to handle at the moment. It occurs to me that someone should do a sculpture of Zoe’s legs, or perhaps her entire nude body. But I try to purge the thought from my head before there’s further blood relocation.

  A sweet, grandmotherly voice with an English accent sings out from behind us:

  “Miss Perry! Tsk tsk! You shouldn’t be cavorting with young gentlemen while on duty!”

  Zoe leaps from the desktop, her heels skittering across the floor. I spin on my heels to face a smiling, portly woman with rosy cheeks and bifocal glasses. She is dressed in a floral pastel smock, and she is dipping a tea bag into a delicate china cup. She smells like marshmallows. She reminds me of my Kindergarten teacher.

  “Please be a good girl and have your boyfriend run along now, dear.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Zoe stammers, “well, he’s sort of . . . he’s a . . . ,” she shrugs in my direction, looking desperate. “His name is Dak Sifter. He’s here to apply for a job as a tour guide.”

  “Ah,” Hilda says, sizing me up over the rims of her tiny spectacles. “You want to be a guide, do you, Mr. Sifter?”

  I grin sheepishly and nod.

  “And why do you want to be a tour guide, young man?”

  I feel as if she can see right inside my head, that she somehow knows that I want to be a tour guide just so I can spend each day watching Zoe’s short skirt shift back and forth as she walks. Nevertheless, I hold my art course certificate out for Hilda’s perusal.

  “Ah,” she sighs happily, scrutinizing the cheap certificate with her plump chin raised high. “A scholar of the arts — rare in young men these days. Very well then, Mr. Sifter. You may give the next tour of the gallery — a bus is scheduled to arrive any moment. I will observe and Miss Pe
rry can help out if necessary. Agreed?”

  “Oh, yes,” I say, “agreed!”

  The phone rings in Hilda’s office.

  “Oh!” Hilda, says, scurrying away, “I’ve been expecting a call about a copy of a Renoir we’ve been after — excuse me, please. I’ll join your tour in progress.”

  As soon as the latch on Hilda’s office door has snapped closed, Zoe clicks her heels together and salutes, “Hail Hilda!”

  “What?” I shrug. “She seems nice enough to me.”

  “Ever notice how all the psychopathic killers in movies have English accents just like hers? It’s not coincidental. Did you know she has a print from Dante’s Inferno hanging in her office, of a man being dragged down to hell? Once, during one of her rages, she picked up a fake Ming vase, and she — ”

  Zoe is interrupted as another tour group from the local retirement home shuffles in from their bus. She grins and says, “Good luck, Artmeister. You’re on.”

  Full of Zoe-inspired bravado, I bounce out in front of the new arrivals, my voice booming as if I’ve just been possessed by a game show announcer.

  “Good evening, folks, and welcome to The Faireville Gallery of Reproduction Masterpiece Art! I’m your host, Dak Sifter! We are going to take an exciting trip through the fun-filled world of reproduction masterpiece art!”

  A few sweet-old-grandmother types in the crowd clap their hands. Zoe grins and shakes her head. The group follows me into the first chamber of the gallery as I look for paintings and sculptures I recognize from my Introduction to Western Art textbook.

  “Let’s start in 1425 with Masaccio’s Holy Trinity, which depicts everybody’s favourite deity, God, hobnobbing with the socialites who paid for the painting. And who says it doesn’t pay to support the arts?! Just like our own hometown hero, Jeremiah Faire the third, who paid for the gallery we’re standing in right now!”

  The seniors are obviously locals because they applaud upon hearing Faire’s name — most of them probably shared the same one-room schoolhouse with Jeremiah the first. Zoe applauds as well.

  “And check this out!” I cheer, as I bounce over to the next painting, “it’s The Nativity, Between the Donors and Their Patron Saints, which again shows the guys who paid for the painting hobnobbing with the Virgin Mary, Baby Jesus, and some of the better-heeled saints. What a crowd, eh? It was painted by Van Der Goes, and it goes well with any church altar!”

  Zoe groans. The old people on the tour smile contentedly. I could probably be singing “Blue Suede Shoes” for all they care — they are happy to be anywhere other than the retirement home.

  “And here’s La Primavera by Botticelli. Ol’ Botticelli was really into women with tiny bosoms and large bellies and bottoms. Guys like him could put all of the diet gurus and breast implant surgeons in the world out of business, eh?”

  Zoe leans towards me and says, “Botticelli would have liked Hilda, eh?”

  Her comment is unfortunately timed, as Hilda peeks around a partition just as Zoe speaks. Hilda frowns, jots a note down on a clipboard, then disappears again.

  “But seriously folks,” I continue, “how about that Leonardo Da Vinci? Was he a great talent or what? I mean, The Last Supper? Mona Lisa? Need I say more? So let’s hear it for Da Vinci, and for the Early Renaissance! He was so cool that he once even travelled though time to appear on an episode of Star Trek: Voyager!”

  The seniors clap happily.

  “People loved the Early Renaissance so much they made a sequel: the High Renaissance! And these guys were good. Take Michelangelo, for example — he could sculpt and paint! If you’ll be so kind as to look above your heads, you’ll see The Faireville Gallery’s painstakingly detailed copy of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

  One tiny lady says, “Oooooh!” Another squints and says, “I don’t see it!”

  I look up at the ceiling again, squinting.

  “Whoops! Sorry folks. My mistake! That’s not a reproduction of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel — it’s actually water-stained stucco.”

  Zoe giggles. A few of the tourists titter along with her. One of the old ladies says to Zoe, “He’s cute!” I wait a moment for Zoe to agree, but she just rolls her eyes at me.

  I march my followers through to the next gallery.

  “Next came the Rococo style of painting, which depicted dandy, pasty-faced courtiers in breeches, flitting around fluffy treed and fluffy clouded courtyards with sweet, frail, porcelain maidens. This style was very popular with swishy, inbred French monarchs, but has a negative effect on important current art critics — namely, me. It is similar to eating a truckload of cotton candy. Yechhh! The main artist of this style was Fragonard, who was eventually hung by the neck until he died. Or at least that’s what should have happened.”

  Hilda steps into the gallery again at this point, nodding her head in agreement. Apparently, she dislikes the Rococo style as well. Behind the tour group, Hilda follows us into the next room, and I am torn between wanting to make Zoe laugh and wanting to impress Hilda.

  “Then came the Neo-Classical style,” I continue, raising a hand dramatically each time I stroll past a painting. “It was a hard-edged, historically themed method which rebelled against the fluffy genre scenes of the Rococo technique. Next came the more emotional and patriotic Romanticism, which rebelled against the austerity of Neo-Classicism.”

  Hilda leaves the room, smiling and jotting a note on her clipboard. Time to make jokes again!

  “Then there was Realism,” I continue, “which depicted everyday people and things, and which rebelled against both Neo-Classicism and Romanticism, and threw rotten eggs at Rococo. Then a guy named Bob O’Toole-Flanagan came along and rebelled against everybody by hanging stuff other than paintings on his walls, such as farm implements, traffic signs, and car parts. And, thus, the North American restaurant franchise industry was born.”

  “Anyway, these next few paintings are by the Impressionists, whose leader was Monet. There was also another Impressionist named Manet. It’s kind of like having another talk-show host called David Betterman, eh?”

  Zoe giggles.

  “After the Impressionists,” I explain, “came the Pre-Cubists, who intentionally stuck to simple forms — cubes, cones, and spheres, and ignored the rules of mathematical perspective. So, cheer up all of you who are taking introductory oil painting! You’re not lousy painters, you’re Pre-Cubists!”

  Zoe laughs out loud.

  “We’re Pre-Cubists, Doris!” one lady chirps to another.

  Zoe is giggling uncontrollably, now. This is great! Working here with her is going to be so much fun!

  At the end of the tour, back at the gallery’s entrance, Hilda smiles warmly and extends a hand.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Sifter! The bits of your tour I was able to see were very well done. Can you start working here on Monday morning? On a trial basis, of course.”

  “Of course!” I reply. From behind Hilda, Zoe leans against the reception desk and gives me a thumbs-up.

  As if she has eyes in the back of her head, Hilda spins around and says, “Now, Miss Perry, dear, what have I told you about sitting on the desk? The desk is not a chair, dear!”

  “I wasn’t sitting, Hilda. I was only leaning.”

  Hilda’s tone of voice immediately shifts into a bulldog snarl, as she stomps toward Zoe. “Leaning on a desk is just as unbecoming as sitting, Miss Perry,” she snaps, “especially when one wears skirts as short as those you seem to favour.” Hilda glances over her shoulder at me, her voice resuming its grandmotherly sweetness, and says, “Rather unladylike, I’m afraid. Attracts the wrong sort of boys, too, I might add. Don’t you agree, Mr. Sifter?”

  “Ahh . . . Ummmmm . . . Hmmm,” is my response. Ouch. Maybe Hilda is not so nice after all.

  On Monday I return to the gallery for my first day as a tour guide.

  In my pocket, as part of my plan to win Zoe again, is a poem I have written for her, which I am going to slip into her hand whe
n the perfect moment presents itself. It begins:

  GALLERY

  (by Dak, for Zoe)

  This woman wears an Archaic Smile

  It doesn’t change - I’ve been watching for awhile

  It’s just a convention of the times

  And it nicely masks whatever’s happening inside

  She’s gone, she’s lost,

  She’s wasted on the post-modern eye

  Only the sculptor knows for sure

  What she was thinking at the time

  And here she is again, the symbolic bride

  Two thousand years have passed and she still averts her eyes

  The Renaissance has veiled her in drapes of wine

  But you’ll have to call her Venus if you want her to recline

  She’s gone, she’s lost

  She’s wasted on the Nintendo mind

  Only the painter knows for sure

  What drew him to her at the time

  Monday’s admission to the Gallery is free

  There’s one specific work I always come to see

  She wears a nametag, and she gives the tour

  These are the only things I know of her for sure

  Is she gone? Lost?

  Wasted in a digital age?

  Is she the kind of poetry

  Whose meaning lies beyond the page?

  I want so much to give this poem to Zoe, to see her unfold it in her hands. It’s practically burning a hole in my pocket. I want to be Zoe’s Renaissance Man.

  I walk through the entire gallery but Zoe is nowhere to be found. I knock on the door of Hilda’s office and gently push the door open.

  “Oh! Good morning, Mr. Sifter!” Hilda chirps, sitting upright behind her desk, dipping a tea bag into her china cup. “Come in! Come in!”

  “Good morning, Hilda. So, um, during my trial period, will I, um, be working with a partner?”

  “Oh, of course, dear,” Hilda coos. She takes a sip from her teacup. “I would never leave a new tour guide all on his own.”

  “Um, well, will I be working with Miss Perry, then?”