Closing Time

by  Kevin Wells

Gavin stood behind the service desk, grimacing at a crumpled shape sitting near the far wall of the dim art gallery. “I’m not staying late again for him to sit there,” he said with haste. “The guy’s done this to me all week. Just sits on that bench, a staring mope. It’s an opaque canvas, man—three tubes of black acrylic smeared around with a brush. What’s so interesting?”

Darrell continued to sit quietly beside Gavin at the service desk as he had done the whole evening. His legs pressed into each other, and his upper body leaned slightly forward—a habit he was developing in his approaching middle age. Darrell looked up from a sheet of paper he was trimming and considered the silent man sitting at the far end of the gallery. “His daughter died,” he said. “He prays for her soul.”

Gavin turned his grimace to his coworker. “Have you been talking to him? Don’t do that. It’ll encourage him to keep coming.”

“I like that he comes,” Darrell said.

“You shouldn’t. Him sitting there brooding all night—it’s bad for business.”

Darrell snorted. “What business? No one else cares about the exhibit.”

“I wouldn’t either! Not with some weepy guy in the way. Let him cry at home—this is an art gallery, not a chapel.”

“It’s a chapel to him,” Darrell said.

The cleaning lady passed in front of the two attendants. She moved along a wall with earbuds in her ears, staring at the floor-duster she pushed. She reached the far wall, turned, and crossed in front of the silent man without either seeming to notice the other.

“Look,” Gavin said. “He’s even getting in Dorothy’s way. Why doesn’t he just leave? Nothing’s going to jump out of that bleak canvas that already hasn’t.”

Darrell shifted in his chair before he spoke. “I think that’s his worry, Gavin—the part about not escaping the bleakness.”

“Oh, shut up. You sound like a tour guide.”

“Just give him a few more minutes,” Darrell said, and returned to his paper trimming.

Gavin flicked his wrist and inspected the watch clasped around his pulse with a gold band. “He’s got three minutes. I’m leaving at eight o’clock.” Gavin tapped his foot, checked email, mixed up files. “Why aren’t you one anyway?” he then asked. “A tour guide, I mean. You’ve certainly been here long enough.”

Darrell smiled without looking up. “Then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of spending my evenings with you, Gavin.”

“Don’t be a smartass. It’s nearly eight—are you telling him we’re closed, or am I?”

Darrell shook his head. “I haven’t finished making the wristbands for tomorrow.”

“You’re never finished making the wristbands for tomorrow. Or the calendar for next month. Or—” Gavin grabbed a pile of decorative papers on the desk “—designing information cards for exhibits that don’t exist!”

“Hey,” Darrell replied, a little upset. “Don’t crinkle those. They’re templates for future shows.”

Gavin rolled his eyes and plopped the pile down. “Templates—right. Templates to exhibits that don’t exist for visitors that won’t come. Got it.” He spun around, leaned his butt on the desk, and rapidly tapped the screen of his phone.

“You have a date tonight,” Darrell guessed. “That’s why you’re anxious.”

“Try it sometime. You might learn to use a clock. Something else maybe, too.”

Darrell sighed. “I don’t know if that’s in the cards for me.”

“Oh, knock off that fate bullshit. You don’t get dates because you don’t change your clothes.” Gavin shoved the phone into his pocket and faced Darrell. “You’ve worked here years longer than me and you’re making less money. Absolutely no initiative. You know why that pretty thing is going to slip her slit over my dick tonight?—It’s because I know how to tell her what time it is. Observe.” He pointed to his golden watch. “It’s eight-fucking-o’clock, sweetheart. Shut down the computers. We’re closed.” Gavin turned and stalked to the end of the gallery, the heels of his dress shoes cracking against the floor.

Darrell shuddered. He logged off and tidied the desk, avoiding the sight of the silent man shuffling out of the gallery with Gavin one step behind him. When the two attendants stepped through the back exit moments later, Darrell lingered to lock the door.

“Try eating out tonight,” Gavin shouted at him as he bounced into his car. “Just try it.” His car door slammed and the engine ignited in the same instant before he sped down the street.

Darrell shook his head and meandered toward the bus stop. He felt stung by the comment about his clothes. Gavin had never before said anything like that to him. As Darrell walked, he worried about tomorrow. It would be Thursday; he wore his blue shirt on Thursdays. But would Gavin dislike that? He looked up at the sky as if the answer was pinned there, and saw dark clouds gathering over the city. Darrell smiled. Tomorrow would be cold, he told himself. He could wear his nice cotton jacket over the blue shirt.