Pictures at an Exhibition

This is my entry for the 2020 On the Job contest. Please enjoy.

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Jamie Menks trudged through the pouring sleet, the collar of his uniform jacket pulled high up against his ears in a failing attempt to keep warm. Both feet were wet and he had little doubt that he would remain soaked and cold for his entire shift.

You picked a really crappy day to walk to work!

he thought to himself. Shivering, he put the thought aside. Tuition costs kept going up and he knew he was lucky to have this job. While being a security guard didn't pay all that well, it provided enough to make the difference between fed and hungry without racking up yet more student loans. Plus which, quiet night shifts generally offered him lots of time to study and this gig was only 15 blocks from the residence. It'd be OK.

Assuming, that is, that he didn't get another idiot partner for the night. The last time, it had been a sour old woman who insisted that they were there to work, not read books. Despite the fact that the whole perimeter was alarmed and that the manual said they only needed to do rounds once an hour, books were apparently verboten  and, as she had seniority, Jamie had spent eight excruciatingly slow hours sitting in a chair trying desperately to stay awake while she prattled on endlessly about her cats and her grandchildren. The instant their relief had arrived, Jamie fled, deeply surprised that he hadn't throttled the old hag.

He gritted his teeth at the memory and prayed that there would be somebody more flexible tonight.

The scheduling office hadn't given him any real information, just the usual text with an address, shift times and so forth. It had also said his partner for the night would be 'Dymock F'. And, Jamie saw, 'Dymock F' had seniority.

Well, it couldn't be any worse, could it?

The address was a medium-small art gallery in a somewhat run-down neighbourhood. The door was locked but there was a buzzer button. The sleet had turned to snow as Jamie pushed it. Eventually, there were footsteps inside.

The door was opened a crack by a sour-faced woman in her 60s.

"Yes?" she said, without opening the door further.

"Um, I'm Jamie Menks with Scrimshaw Security. I'm supposed to be on tonight."

The woman looked him up and down over her half-moon glasses.

"You're a man," she scowled.

Jamie wasn't sure how to take this and was a bit set back by her hostility. He decided to try some light humour to lighten the mood.

"Um, yes, last time I checked."

"That's not at all funny!" she snapped. "I specifically told the agency that I wanted women."

"I can't speak to that, ma'am." Jamie said. A trickle of icy water was slowly wending its way down his spine.

From inside, another woman spoke.

"It's OK, Ms Hendril. I saw his name on the scheduling roster. He's legit."

The old woman's head spun around. "But I said women only!"

"Ms Hendril, all I can say is that you can take that up with the agency tomorrow — actually, on Monday morning. They're certainly closed now."

"This is a feminal gallery. We want to hire women. This display is controversial and I don't — I mean the Board doesn't — want any potential trouble with men here unsupervised."

Geez,

Jamie thought to himself,

what's with her? Are we guarding the First Lady's bedroom or something?

The other voice sounded much younger and, desperately wishing to get in out of the cold, Jamie found himself falling in love, sight unseen.

"I'm his supervisor, Ms Hendril, and he won't be running around unsupervised."

"I want another woman."

"Well, Ms Hendril, the office is closed now, as I said. And I am not going to work all night by myself. If you wish, we'll leave and you can find somebody else."

There was a long pause. The door swung open as the woman grudgingly stepped aside.

Jamie stepped past her, desperately glad for the warmth. Then he saw the second woman just behind her and was glad all over again.

"I'm Fiona," she said, holding out her hand.

Ah,

Jamie thought,

'Dymock, F'.

Fiona Dymock was, if not tiny, then at least much shorter than he. Petite, yet with a nice figure —

a very nice figure,

he reflected — the young woman had an agreeable smile, bright red hair and entrancing green eyes.

Jamie found her hand warm and soft and pulled loose as soon as he could, conscious of how cold his own hand must feel.

"Jamie," he said. "Jamie Menks."

There was a stern silence from behind him.

The old woman stared at Fiona. "Fine! I suppose it's not your fault, but I am definitely going to take this up with your agency next week."

"Of course, Ms Hendril. Of course." Jamie got the impression that the girl was no more impressed with the situation than he was.

Grumbling, the old woman fetched a coat and an umbrella and stepped out into the storm, pausing outside to be sure Fiona had locked the door behind her.

After waiting to confirm that the woman had in fact left, Fiona sagged against the wall beside the door.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her eyes closed.

"Did I do something wrong?" Jamie asked.

"Oh, no!" Fiona replied, smiling a little for the first time. "But your parents apparently did, maybe nine months before you were born."

"Look, I don't want any trouble. If you want, I can leave."

"Don't be silly," his partner said. "You haven't done anything wrong and, besides, I'm not going to kick you outside on a night like this."

"Really," she emphasised, placing her hand on his arm, "she's just a bitchy old woman with an attitude. And there's nothing here worth getting working up over, anyway."

Jamie looked down at her. Her green eyes seemed endless.

"Really," she repeated, "there isn't."

Jamie's shoulders dropped about three inches. He hadn't realized he had been that tense.

"OK," he said. He looked around. "I take it she briefed you?"

"Sure," Fiona said brightly, "but let's get you a cup of coffee or something first. You look like a drowned rat."

The boy's eyes swept over himself. 'Drowned rat' was about right. Fortunately, the room was warm enough and he could feel some circulation returning to his fingers.

"I could do with that," he admitted.

"OK, come with me." The young woman led Jamie through a door marked Staff Only and down a short hall. On the way, they passed several work rooms strewn with paintings, statuary and tools, then a comfortably-decorated room with a meeting table, a wet bar and expensive-looking leather sofas and chairs. A sign on the door said 'Board Room'.

Let me guess where the charitable donations are going,

Jamie thought cynically.

The room beyond that was a small lunchroom, decorated more modestly.

"I

thought

I saw a coffee pot!" Fiona said. "Here, hang your jacket over a chair somewhere so it can dry out."

As Jamie did so, Fiona hunted through cupboards until she emerged triumphantly with a filter and some ground coffee.

Looking at her dripping partner, she pointed at the door.

"There's a men's room across the hallway," she said. "Probably no towels, but there must be something. I'll put the coffee on; you see what you can do to get cleaned up."

The image in the mirror showed a not-quite-skinny, not-quite-muscular young man with a long face and dark hair and eyes. Fiona had been right — he looked like he'd just got out of the pool. There were no paper towels, just hot air hand dryers, but Jamie at least could comb his hair. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Fiona was sitting at a table when he returned, two cups of coffee in front of her. She pushed one towards him, motioning him to sit down.

"Thanks."

She looked at him, giggled. "You're dripping on her floor."

He looked down, blushed. "Sorry. There weren't any towels. There's not much I can do."

"I know, I know," she giggled again, less loudly this time.

She looked at him, tilted her head to one shoulder for a second.

Jamie sipped his coffee, glad of the warmth.

"Actually," the girl said, "there's not much for us to do, either. It's not like they've got Rembrandts on the wall or something. The place is closed until tomorrow morning at 8:30, when the curatorial crew arrives."

"So what was she freaking out about?" Jamie asked.

"I really don't know. It's an interesting display, an intriguing theme, but I'd hardly call it 'controversial'." She grimaced, shook her head and grinned, "Take a look at that, however," she said, pointing at a poster on the lunchroom bulletin board. "It might give you a clue."

Mission Statement

Our aim is to focus on equidynamic activism

with respect to strategies supportive of intersectional femalism.

Our mission is to cultivate, support and promote articulated diversity

in female-identified contributions to world wellness through artistic presentations,

to ensure equal representation of femalist artistic efforts,

to grow and sustain core femalistic art and artistic principles

in solidarity for non-gender-based, non-privileged visionhood.

The boy stood in front of it, reading. He scratched his head, started again at the beginning. Fiona smiled as she saw his lips moving.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning back with a puzzled look on his face. "I really don't mean to be ..."

"If you use the word 'privilege' in your next sentence, Jamie," she said, rolling her eyes, "I

will

kick your ass back out into the rain."

"But what does it

mean?"

he asked, almost plaintively.

"It means somebody is taking themselves 'waaay too seriously."

He looked at her face, seeking some evidence of humor.

"Um, Fiona..."

"It's pretentious bullshit, is what I'm saying, Jamie."

The boy just looked at her.

"Look," she said in a serious tone, "once you take out all the arrogant goo and self-congratulating BS, it boils down to the fact that this gallery sees itself existing to support female artists by showing art by and about women."

"Which is... good, isn't it?" Jamie was confused.

"Of course it is! Female artists have a tough time getting shown; dedicating space for women is a great idea. But the rest of that is just conceit and doublespeak."

"Oh."

He sat down, his trousers squelching on the seat beneath him.

"Anyway," she smiled, "I think old Hendril drank that particular kool-aid, because there's nothing here to cause you — a man — to go nuts. Like I said, it's kind of interesting, but hardly provocative. They call it 'Warrior Women'."

"Oh."

"Want to look? I think, under the circumstances, you may bring your coffee."

A minute later, she stopped in front of a large photo. "I think the display sort of starts with this one," she said.

"Think?"

"The way Hendril was explaining it, beginnings and ends are 'oppressive constructs'." She rolled her eyes again. "The exhibit's in sort of a circular layout. Anyway, this is the first one that you see when you enter the place, so why not?"

Jamie looked up at it.

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A woman leans against the hull of an armoured vehicle. Her weight rests on her left foot; her right leg is bent with its foot resting casually on a roadwheel behind her.

The soldier is very young, no more than 20 years old. Her face is beautiful and what can be seen through her military clothing suggests an admirable figure

The woman's left hand is tucked casually into a pocket. Waist-long honey-blonde hair cascades down her right side, hiding her shoulder and upper arm.

While in a field uniform and wearing military-style boots, her only tactical gear is a short-barreled assault rifle hanging around her neck. The magazine is in place and there is no reason to doubt that she is proficient in its use.

Her pose is calm and relaxed, but she is wearing a somewhat pensive expression.

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"She's obviously a soldier," Fiona said. "Is she a warrior?"

"What's the difference?"

"Ah — the key question. For now, let's say a soldier is somebody who serves in an army, while a warrior is one who follows a martial code."

"Like Bushido for the Japanese samurai?"

"Yes."

"But aren't they the same thing? I mean, there could be — should be, I guess — at least an overlap."

"Of course. But let me change the question," Fiona said. "She's certainly a soldier. Tell me about her. What led her to where she is now?"

"What is this, an art appreciation Rorschach?"

"Maybe. Got anything better to do for the night?"

"No, I suppose not." He paused, examined the photograph in more detail.

"Let's see. If she's a soldier, it's obviously not in combat, I mean not right now. She's alert, but not tense. And she's clean, her clothes are clean and her boots aren't dusty or muddy. And I don't know that women go into battle with their hair down — not this side of computer games, anyway. Or," he leaned in for a closer look, "wearing lipstick."

Fiona looked closer and laughed. "She is, isn't she? I missed that."

She turned to look at him. "How do you feel about her as a woman?"

He frowned. "What, because she's a soldier?"

"Whatever. You're a boy, she's a girl. How do you feel about her?"

Jamie looked at her for a moment, turned back to the photo.

"Well, she's cute." Jamie paused, not sure what to say after that.

"Still feminine, despite the gun and stuff?"

"Oh, hell yes. Where's this going, Fiona?"

"Just work with me, OK?"

With that, she led him to the next piece on display.

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A young woman in the most current of combat uniforms is climbing over the rubble of crumbled bricks and shattered concrete. She wears body armour, with ballistic plates secured by a harness of camouflaged straps. A covered canteen rests at her waist. No weapon can be seen.

Her face is tanned and extraordinarily pretty. Strands of blonde hair hang below the rim of her helmet. Her figure is obscured by uniform and armour. There is a smudge of soot on one cheekbone.

The woman's expression is serious, but the onlooker is left without the slightest doubt that her smile — if she so chose — would be brilliant, enchanting.

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"Well?" Fiona asked. "She's a soldier, that's pretty clear."

"Yes."

"Warrior? One devoted to a cause?"

"No way of telling, Fiona."

"I suppose not. How do you feel about the photo, about what's happening?"

"Hard to say. She's looking quite serious, but maybe she's just concerned about falling or slipping. It doesn't look like there's a battle going on, but something pretty major has just happened, that's for sure. She doesn't have the look of somebody who's in danger, but it's clear that she's doing something, um, military." He paused for an instant. "Maybe important."

"How about her as a woman and you as a boy?"

"You know, the only thing you can see is her face and a bit of hair. She's... pretty."

"Mmm-hmm."

"If you're asking me if I'd consider asking her out, then the answer is yes, I probably would, given the chance."

"And if she propositioned you? Right here, right now, dressed as she is?"

"What?"

"I'm serious, Jamie."

"Why?"

"Humor me."

"So, there's this incredibly beautiful 'woman warrior' trying to seduce me?" Jamie dodged. "With you standing there? How's that going to work?"

They both laughed and Fiona didn't press the question, but it lingered in his mind as they walked to the next photograph.

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A young woman is practicing kick-boxing. She is dressed only in a thong and a pair of boxing gloves. She seems tall. Her legs are long and her thighs firm and muscular.

Shoulder-length hair is flying about her head as she executes a very high roundhouse kick to a punching bag in front of her. Her expression is one of concentration, a desire or even compulsion to perform the kick in a precise — and highly lethal — fashion. There is no fight in progress, so why is the girl so absorbed? Are there off-camera observers? Is she in the midst of an examination of some sort?

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"A fighter, but not necessarily a warrior," Jamie pronounced.

"Why do you say that?"

"There's no evidence of war," he replied. "This is in a gym or dojo or something."

"True. How does she make you feel, as a man?"

"She's, um, admirable. Tough, focused, capable."

"How about fierce?"

"I suppose she could be, but no, she's not particularly scary."

"But could she be? Fierce, I mean?"

"I suppose so," Jamie said. "But she looks more focussed than fierce right now."

"What do you think about her as a woman?"

"It's cool," he said after a moment's thought. "She's obviously an expert and that's cool, too."

"What about her nudity? Why is she dressed like that? How does it contribute to the photo?"

The boy hesitated. "I don't know, to be honest. It would help to know if this was one in a series, athletes in the nude or something. But, yeah, she's attractive and..."

"Would you ask her out?"

"Probably. Yeah, I would."

He paused.

"Politely."

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The next photograph is smaller, in black-and-white. It has the air of an older historical image and is set in an arid place with short, sparse grass and low buildings in the far distance.

A slender woman dressed in shorts, heavy boots and a much-too-large men's shirt tied off around her waist is firing a crude sub machine gun at something or somebody off-camera. She looks like she knows what she is doing.

The woman has curly, shoulder-length hair which hides much of her face. Her legs are sleek, strong, but there is a bandage wrapped over one bare thigh just above the knee. A dark stain on the bandage suggests bleeding.

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"I'm trying to figure out where it was taken," Jamie said. "Israel, maybe? Palestinian?"

"Don't try to think about things like that," Fiona said. "This is an art show, not a documentary. Don't analyze — emote. Try to focus on how it makes you feel — or how it would make you feel if you were there watching her. Who is she as a person? What's it like to have a coffee or tea with her? What's her personality?"

He looked at her. Hands on her hips, she was obviously enjoying herself. As he looked at her, she broke into a bright smile. He returned it.

"What are you?" he asked. "A Fine Arts student?"

She stood tall, adding maybe a finger-breadth to her height. "Actually, yes, I am. Second year of my master's."

"Oh. OK." Jamie thought for a few moments, turned back to the image. "The photo's old enough that women actively engaging in combat wouldn't have been normal, not at all. She had to have been in a fairly liberated society — and pretty liberated herself."

Fiona smiled. "Good start." She raised one eyebrow in question —

Go on.

"Well, I'm still a guy. She's cute, I think. A bit of what my father would have called 'a handful'. Assertive. Brave -- yes, brave."

"A warrior, yes?"

"I think so," Jamie hesitated.

Fiona grinned at him, gave him a light punch on his upper arm. "Good start. We'll have you set up for Art Appreciation 101 by the end of shift."

"That's good?" he asked, grinning back.

"Definitely. Now, how about this one?" She led him to the next photo.

"OK," Jamie laughed. "Definitely warriors."

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Two women — Amazons? — are looking intently off-screen. Both are holding wooden bows, each with an arrow fitted and ready to draw.

The one in the foreground is short, blonde, younger. Her older companion is a brunette. Both of them have their hair chopped off somewhat crudely at rather less than shoulder length. Their hair is wet and tangled, as if they have just been swimming or out in a cloudburst.