"Only a blur" by Nancy Wiltbank Johnson

"Only a blur"

by Nancy Wiltbank Johnson

1996

In front of the ornate door of a great museum, perhaps the Louvre, I am surrounded by a pressing crowd, all breathlessly awaiting the turn and click of the key that will allow our entry. Inside, we have been told, is beauty, greatness, monuments of human genius, maybe even a touch of the divine.

Click.

The weight of the anxious mob throws the door open. We pour inside. Everyone knows treasure is here somewhere. I must hurry if I am to get to it first. And first I must be. How can a treasure be cherished unless I am the first, and better, only beholder of it? For a moment I question my reasoning and wonder if I am misunderstanding the nature of museums. The crowd rushes ahead of me as I hesitate. They seem to realize the importance of being first. It isn't possible that so many could be wrong. I race to catch up with the others.

The numerous halls form a confusing maze and a I lose sight of the group. Where is everyone? Frantically I search for the direction the group has taken. Where. . . ? There. There they are. But, I'm so far behind. What if I lose them again? What if they all leave me? They can't leave me here. Alone.

Well, not exactly alone. There are the others. The slow ones. The ones we all pass by. A few who just don't get it. They could move faster, they simply aren't trying. Lazy, that's what they are. Or foolish. Many are actually going in the wrong direction. A few aren't moving at all. They stand staring at something on the wall or inside a glass case or behind velvet rope barriers. Idiots.

"Get with the program, you guys," I yell as I rush by. "You're stupid. Get moving or get out! You don't deserve to be a part of this race." It feels good to realize that there are some slower than me. I know I'm being rude but really I'm just tryng to help these poor jerks. Some are intimidated by my taunting and reluctantly run to catch up with the rest. Others ignore me and continue their ridiculous scrutinizing.

I come upon a group of these oddballs, loitering together, listening to a woman who points to something which is a grayish blur as I race by. I try to catch what is said but my shoes strike the floor with a loud clatter. And I certainly won't slow down.

But what did she say? The Mona what? Well, I've no time for such nonsense. I remind myself that these are fools.

Some of them call to me, bidding me to stop and join them. Curiosity makes my feet hesitate. But then I realize their ploy. They want me to slow down so that they can beat me. My pace quickens and I sneer at their foiled plot as I dash by.

I push myself harder and begin passing the other runners. I grin as I gain on those in front. Triumphantly I pass them only to discover another group even farther ahead. I'm dissappointed but I grit my teeth and give the race everything I've got.

Ahead is a door topped by a red sign. I don't read French. Perhaps the treasures are through there. Everyone else seems to be struggling toward the door. They must know. I'm sure the prize lies beyond it. We elbow and shove, climbing over those that fall, each hoping to pass through the door first.

I make it. Not first. Hands on my knees, I breathe in deep gasps of air, and try to console myself. So I wasn't first but I didn't place too badly considering the large number of competitors. That should count for something. I join in with the crowd as we argue about who was first, second, third. The door slams shut behind us.

Click.

Suddenly I remember the prize. I look around, searching for the promised beauty, genius, inspiration. We are surrounded by dented metal garbage cans overflowing, not with human genius, but with human refuse. Greasy rags. Smashed bottles. Spoiled fruit. The air is rank. Ragged women and filthy men lean against old buildings and watch us with vacant eyes. They apparently have nothing else to do.

One especially repulsive, foul-smelling man lays next to the closed door snoring beneath a blanket of old newspapers. Our shuffling and arguments wake him. His eyes focus into the same empty stare as the others. But when he notices us they flash and his mouth twists into a smirk, full of rotten teeth.

He says three words. Three words that condemn me, and the rest: "I beat you!"

—END—