A Great Place to Meet Guys

Flying Down, 2006, by David Salle

I stood looking at the painting and inwardly shuddered. Ugh. I hate these art gallery things, especially ones showing modern art -- if that‘s what this was -- but my friend Sherry had dragged me along.

“Come on,” she’d pleaded. “It’s a great place to meet guys. Besides, the artist is supposed to be great.” 

The last thing I wanted to do was go out and troll for guys. Despite my better judgment, I agreed. Everything on TV was a rerun anyway.

And now here I was, looking at the showcased canvas of this so-called great artist. Was there ever a modern artist as good people say he is? I had to question why a gallery would host a show of such artistic drivel, but the answer is perfectly obvious. Money. People will pay outrageous sums for the next Picasso or Dali.

That, of course, begged another question, one I was pondering as I sipped my wine – at least the merlot was decent – and wondered: why did I come? 

It was too late to change my mind, so I tried to find some redeeming quality to the art in front me. I was asking myself, what's with that bird, when the voice floated over my left shoulder.

“Magnificent use of slipstream economics to punctuate society’s dependence on media nourishment, wouldn’t you say?”

“What?” I swiveled around to look at the source, nearly slopping my wine all over both of us. 

“I said...” he began, and then grinned sheepishly. “Oh, right, I guess you heard what I said.”

As I looked at the man behind me, I tried to erase the look of incredulity that must have been painted on my face like that big smear between the bird and the girl with the naked butt in the middle of the picture. The tall, sandy haired man wore a light jacket over his plaid shirt and chinos. He looked like the last type of guy to utter such nonsense about art.

Boyish charm. That was the first thing that came to mind as my eyes met blue eyes twinkling in a lightly freckled face. So cute. Remember Sheriff Andy’s son Opie?  Yeah, like that, except all grown up.

“You, um, like this?” I asked. I really wanted to ask if he were out of his mind but, I mean, look at him. 

He laughed, and the angels sang. “No, not really, but don’t tell the artist. It’s pretty ghastly, isn’t it?”

About then, I decided that I was glad I’d come. Really glad. I made a mental note to buy Sherry dinner. 

“Oh, thank heavens,” I replied. “I was afraid you were serious.” 

Tearing my eyes from his -- no easy job, I might add -- I looked at the people milling around. “Is the artist here?”

“I think so,” he answered. He glanced around and then, with a look of surprise, put a hand on his chest. “Wait! I’m right here.”

Oh, crap.

Fortunately, the man of my dreams has a good sense of humor. And did I tell you how cute he is? Lousy artist, though.

By the way, Sherry was right. A gallery opening is a terrific place to meet guys. I did eventually buy Sherry dinner. She thought the food at the reception was great.

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Written for The Mag 136.

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