"What Does This Have To Do With That?" by Dave Gregory

What Does This Have To Do With That?

It is the sixth straight day of protest following another police killing of an unarmed black man. Barricades, gridlocked streets, and chanting mobs make the city unbearable. I retreat into the National Gallery and find sanctuary among tall, bright rooms, and walls lined with gilded frames. My footsteps echo across gleaming, wooden floors. Lavender perfume, from a woman studying a Canova Venus, lingers. I drift to the Grand Hall, toward my favorite spot, where a Rembrandt and a Caravaggio hang side by side against a massive burgundy wall.
A golden cocoon, the size of a small child in a sleeping bag, clings to the wall between the two monumental works. I’ve never seen it before. It could be modern art but nothing in the museum is less than a century old. The absence of an exhibit label suggests it isn’t a recent acquisition.
No one acts alarmed. Four guards, one at each exit, stand sleepily, hands in pockets. A docent, leading a party of three, remarks on everything in the room without acknowledging the undocumented curiosity.
Edging closer, I perceive my own reflection. The pupa’s surface shines like polished brass. Or George Floyd’s casket. I remember a guide, at a butterfly farm, revealing allergy capsule-sized chrysalises clinging to a branch’s underside. They resembled glistening nuggets of gold. I try recalling the name of that species and notice the hanging wall sack pulsates and distends like a lung in slow motion, growing with each “breath.” Faint movement, resembling a capillary network, stirs below the thin membrane.
An arm’s length from the embryo, I hear a drumbeat. Ta-ta-tum, ta-ta-tum.
Entranced, I stare, unblinking. Surely, experts have been notified. Appropriate safety measures must already be in place. But when the drumming rises another decibel, the mood of the room alters. Tension mounts. Lights brighten. A maintenance brigade arrives with ladders, drop cloths, and mammoth red toolboxes. The docent leads her group away.
A guard addresses me, “We need to clear the room for routine maintenance.”
“Would this have anything to do with that?” I point.
She refuses to look at the throbbing creature, but her head bobs to the drumbeat. “Not at all, sir. We’re updating an installation.”
The door closes, blocking my view without muffling the sound. I hear a lightning tear of fabric. I raise one hand to my jaw as a great belch echoes off the walls. Something clatters to the floor, followed by an orchestra of harmonicas, ukuleles, didgeridoos, and bongos. Combining sultry tango and airy bossa nova, the instruments accompany a haka, tribal chanting, and the hymn of a gospel choir.
Lulled by the rhythm, the hand falls to my side. Not knowing the words, I hum along and welcome the inevitable.
Above the music, a swell of anger howls, taunting mobs shout, no-longer-silenced voices scream. Rallying cries from the streets nearby reverberate through the Grand Hall and shake the building’s foundation.
The cacophony rises. It resounds, loud as the rolling sea.

Dave Gregory

Dave Gregory is a Canadian writer, a retired sailor, and an associate editor with the Los Angeles-based Exposition Review. His work has most recently appeared in Ellipsis Zine, Write City Magazine, & Literally Stories. Please follow him on Twitter @CourtlandAvenue.

Headshot: Dave Gregory

Photo Credit: Staff