NT FRANKLIN - ME AND BART GO TO THE MUSEUM

I write after my real job hoping one day to have it be my real job. When I’m not reading or writing short stories, you might find me fishing or solving crossword puzzles.

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Me and Bart Go to the Museum
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   Bart slept over on Friday because his mom was having another one of her parties. I’d never been to one her parties but I liked them anyway because Bart got to sleep over at my house. We listened to the radio, talked about baseball, and played checkers. We were pretty even in checkers, but I think I won more games than Bart did.
   In the morning, Bart helped me with yardwork. We were nearly done weeding the beans when we saw his mom marching across the street. The high heels and floppy dress she was wearing were not gardening clothes.
   Bart stopped weeding. “I know that look. Someone’s in trouble.”
   “But you’ve been with me all night. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
   She continued right up to the garden and said, “Bart, come home now. We have some planning to do.”  
   “Thanks for the help in the garden,” I called to Bart as he left with his mom.
Something big was up. It was never good when adults made plans because their plans always interfered with ours.
   I fretted the rest of the morning. I even had a hard time finishing my PB&J and chocolate milk for lunch. Man, I had to know what was going on.
   As I put my dishes in the sink, I saw Bart out the window. He was walking quickly, almost skipping. Whatever his mom thought he did, it couldn’t have been that bad.
I dashed outside and before I had a chance to ask what was going on, Bart said, “We need culture.”
   “So you didn’t do anything wrong?”
   No, we need culture, that’s all.”
   “Huh?”
   “Some college professor from somewhere who was at my mom’s party said there’s no culture in our town. He sounded like an egghead.”
   “What does that mean, no culture?”
   Bart sat on the front steps and said, “Theater.” He hunched over and picked at crack in the front steps with his finger.
    “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I said. We have a movie theater in town.”
   “Nah, theater like live actors and plays and stuff.”
   “The high school puts on a play every year. I hear they’re pretty good.”
   “I dunno. My mom went on and on about being stuck here with no culture when Dad is out of town travelling all the time, getting culture and stuff. And museums. There’s no museum in town.”
   “They always have antique tractors in the parade.” I was trying to be helpful and cheer Bart up.
   “No. museums with great works of art and stuff. Paintings and things. That’s all I’ve heard about for hours this morning.”
   “So, do you have to get cultured, whatever that means?”
   Bart thought about it for a minute. “I’m going to have to do something, but I’m not sure what. Mom’s talking on the phone to the professor guy. Figure I’ll know soon enough.”
   The next morning Bart came over and said “We’re going to The City and we going to The Museum of Modern Art.”
   “Neat. When?” I asked.
   “This Friday. All day. At least I won’t miss our baseball game on Thursday. My mom already asked and your mom said you could come, too, if you wanted.”
   “Sure. Sounds like fun, I like looking at paintings of trees and mountains.”
   Friday morning came and we three were off in Bart’s Mom’s car to the City to see a “Rauschenberg Exhibit.” I didn’t know what it was but it didn’t really matter, as I couldn’t remember the last time I’d visited the City.
   Me and Bart rode in the back seat so we could talk. After an hour, I dozed off and when I woke up, Bart was asleep. We parked in a big garage full of cars. Bart woke up when the front bumper hit the parking garage wall.
   “We’re here?” Bart asked.
   “Yup.” Was his mom’s response.
  “I’ll bet that’s the professor guy,” said Bart, pointing at a tall man wearing a suit jacket.
   “He has patches on his elbows. He kinda looks like an egghead,” I said. “His elbows must’ve worn through his sleeves.”
   He kissed Bart’s mom on the cheek like they do on TV in Europe. It was a little weird and I was glad Bart didn’t see it, he was too busy looking out the window.
   She looked at Bart and said, “Enjoy the museum. Here’s some money for lunch. The cafeteria is on this first floor. At 3:30 sharp, be right here. You boys won’t be late, right?”
   “No, Mom.”
  The museum was huge. We followed Bart’s mom and the professor to the “Rauschenberg Exhibit” on the first floor, but lost sight of them as we entered the room. We saw a painting that was all white. Nothing but white paint. A small crowd had gathered around it.
   “It’s blank,” I said to Bart.
   “I guess,” Bart said. “Let’s listen in to what they’re saying.”
  Bart started repeating the comments from the museum patrons. “Stunning.” “Captures the era, the hopelessness.” “Brilliant.” “I see the trials of everyday life.”
   “Bart, I can hear them. Stop, you’re gonna make me laugh.”
   Bart started making up comments like, “White paint because he ran out of blue. “I ran out of ideas to paint. I want to make people look silly commenting on it.”
   The last one made me laugh uncontrollably. The crowd stopped speaking and looked at me. I laughed harder. Then a fat museum guard pried himself off a stool and shook his head at us.
   “Maybe we should go somewhere else,” Bart whispered. 
   I finally stopped laughing. “It’s blank. How can they see anything in it?”
   Bart smiled. “At least we’re getting culture.”
   We stood back and watched people looking at it for a while.
   Bart pointed to the opposite wall, “Look, there’s a black one.”
   Sure enough, there was a painting that was all black. No trees, just black paint. I didn’t need to hear people talking about that one, I was sure they’d see a lot of underlying meaning it.
   “Let’s get a hot dog at the cafeteria,” Bart offered.
   “Sounds good to me,”
   Bart’s Mom had given him enough money for two hot dogs, two Cokes, and two fries for each of us. We had money left over but didn’t have room left over. We were stuffed.
   After sitting for a while and moaning about eating too much, we decided to see more art. In the room next to the one with the black painting and white painting, was a life-sized stuffed animal, like in the fancy sporting goods store.
   “Would you look at that,” Bart said.
   “Is that a car tire around the hairy goat?” I asked.
   “I guess,” Bart said. “Look – there’s a hat flattened under the glass and part of a tee-shirt hanging out. That’s modern art?” 
   “Can we go now?” I asked. “I think I’m done being cultured. We should find some paintings of trees and hills and stuff. This stuff is boring.”
   Bart nodded.“Gotta be better on the second floor, let’s go.”
   We found a room with paintings of scenery from France. Trees that looked like trees; hills that looked like hills. They were nice.
   “Bart, I remember my grandfather talking about scenery like this. Do you think we’ll ever get to go to France?”
   “I don’t think so. It’s a long way from home.”
   We both spent most of the next hour and a half looking at the paintings.
   Bart asked, “Do you have room for another hot dog?”
   “I wish. I can hardly move.”
   “Well, it’s almost 3:15 so we should head back to the lobby to meet up with my mom.”
    “Okay, we’ve seen all the paintings in this room. It’s my favorite room so far. I’m glad I came. Thanks, Bart.”
    “Me too. The paintings were as good as the hotdogs.”
   “There’s your mom, coming into the building. She must’ve gone outside to look for us. Are we late?”
   “Nah, the clock says 3:20. We’re okay.”
  Bart’s mom smiled and said, “Hi, boys. Did you enjoy the museum? Were you amazed at Rauschenberg’s White Painting?”
   “We thought it was dumb,” Bart said. “The black one, too.”
   “The black one?” she asked.
   “Yeah, it was in the same room,” I said. It was painted black and nothing else.”
   “And the hairy goat,” Bart chimed in.
   “There was a goat painting?” she asked.
   “Not a painting of a goat, but a real goat that died and was stuffed and had a tire around it. It was dumb, too,” Bart said.
   “My, you boys really did the museum, huh?”
   “Yes,” I replied. “We liked the paintings of scenes from France on the second floor. They were our favorite. Well, after the hotdogs for lunch, thank you very much. What was your favorite painting?
   “Uh, I liked them all. Well, all right now. Let’s head home. Come along boys.”
   On the ride home, me and Bart talked about how silly the white painting and the tired goat as Bart called it, were. We both had the same favorite painting, one of a countryside in France with rolling hills and a big tree in front. A brighter sun and maybe a baseball diamond might improve it, but it was pretty good as it was. Today we had hot dogs, Coke, and culture. All in all, it was a good day and who knows, there is always tomorrow.