Come As You Are

Duke: Tomorrow, let’s do the Elevator Museum. I’ve never been.

Angel: I’ll be there.

Duke: Also, why did you say you think you’d like Gramercy Park?

Angel: It sounds lovely, but I’ve never been there.

Duke: You haven’t?

Angel: It’s a private park. You need a key.

Duke: I have one.

* * *

I stare in disbelief at the former freight elevator shaft that’s now a strange museum. “It’s actually an elevator. And it’s the size of a car.”

She nods, a hint of mischief in her eyes as she bounces on her pink-booted feet. Pink boots I want to see on my shoulders.

I blink away the filthy thought, even though it’ll surely return in seconds.

“It’s the smallest museum in all of New York. It’s five square meters,” she says as we step inside and ogle the odd displays lining all three walls.

“And it’s weird. Admit it. This is intensely weird.” I spin in a circle, gesturing to the tubes of toothpaste on the shelves, the crushed coffee cups and bags of potato chips. Each object has a letter and a number in front of it, like you could enter it on a vending machine keypad.

Only the tubes and bags and cups aren’t for sale. They’re crushed, stepped on, trampled. The exhibit placard reads “Found objects from the streets of Manhattan.”

I study the objects, searching for hidden meaning but find none. I shrug and glance at Sabrina. “I don’t want to be one of those ‘why is this art’ people, but . . . why is this art?”

“I don’t know that it’s art, so much as it’s odd,” she says, crossing her arms as she regards the display here in Tribeca on the tip of Chinatown.

I scrub a hand over my jaw, thinking. Trying to connect the dots. “So it’s odd. Is that why we’re supposed to like it?”

“I don’t even know if we have to like it.” She waves a hand at a shelf of discarded honey-roasted chip bags. “I like that it’s entertaining. That it’s strange. It makes me think about all sorts of things.”

“Okay, Rodin,” I say, naming the sculptor whose most famous work was dubbed The Thinker. “What do these trampled-on toothpaste tubes make you marinate on up there?”

Smiling, she studies a wrinkled bag. Fire-hot, it promises. “It makes me think about things we overlook. Things we ignore.”

“But shouldn’t an empty bag of chips be ignored?”

“No.” Her tone is strong, laced with unexpected emotion.

I step back, giving her some space. “No?”

“You should clean it up. Throw it out.”

“Fine, true,” I concede. “I wasn’t advocating being a slob. And I’m totally against litter. But why do old tubes of toothpaste and empty bags of chips affect you?”

As she stares at the display, sadness flickers across her eyes. Her lips form a straight line, then she breathes in deep. “I think people, places, and things get ignored. And this exhibit forces us to see what we’d rather ignore. Every day, we walk past uncomfortable sights, we weave around painful conversations. And other people ignore us. I guess I like this place because it reminds me not to do that.”

As I study a coffee cup with tire tracks on it, I suspect she might be onto something—a universal sort of truth about human nature. “How to be a better human,” I say.

“Yes.” Her lips curve into a grin. “That’s what I would call this exhibit.”

“So you’re saying that perhaps looking at trash—displaced objects—makes us think how we can treat each other better?”

“I do believe that. Is that cheesy?” she asks nervously, her right hand fluttering to her hair, patting her silver bow-shaped barrette. Her phone’s not recording, and I like that we can enjoy a few moments just for us, not for print.

“No. You actually made sense of something that I saw as kind of pointless, to tell the truth. I don’t know that I now consider it art, but I guess it does make me think a little more deeply about what we ignore. I’d like to believe I don’t ignore the people who matter. I went to see my sister and her baby earlier this week. I try to see them every week,” I say, maybe because I’m looking for points.

Sabrina’s warm smile tells me I’ve tallied several with that. But her smile disappears as she returns her focus to the display. “That’s good, because no one wants to be ignored. I don’t like it. I don’t like being discarded.”

I draw a deep breath to ask a hard question, since I think she wants me to ask it. “Did someone do that to you?”

“Yes,” she says sharply, then fixes a pinched smile on her face as she spins and faces me. “And I didn’t like it. But that’s that. I’ve moved on.”

As I wonder who he was, a spark of anger ignites in my chest. Because some guy hurt her, and that pisses me off. What kind of idiot would let a woman like Sabrina become displaced?

Whether she wants to talk in detail or not, I won’t stand by and let her think I don’t care, when I care deeply—more than I expected I would.

I touch her shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve moved on and I feel one hundred percent confident that whoever he was, he’s a complete jerk who tramples on people, and tubes of toothpaste.”

Her smile is genuine now, and she whispers a wobbly “thank you” then squares her shoulders. “Speaking of discarded things, let’s put your brainpower to use.” She raps her knuckles against my head.

“Activating brain power for your usage,” I say robotically.

Her laughter is pretty, like bells. “Want to chat about your college days now?” She holds up the phone, ready to record.

“I was wondering why you haven’t hit that button yet.”

“We were just talking for fun before.” She shrugs playfully. “Besides, I figure all this pre-talking will get you buttered up and ready to spill all.”

I laugh. “Thanks for the warning. So the museum is a warm-up act to me sharing everything about college?”

“It sort of frees both our minds from the usual grind, don’t you think?”

I consider this, then nod my agreement. She does make a good point.

“By all means.” I gesture to the sidewalk and we stroll through Tribeca, passing shops and bakeries, boutiques and hip stores. I tell her about my days as a math major, the things I learned, and how that set the stage for starting my first company, and at a corner bodega, I stop, pointing to a pineapple for sale.

“Do you like pineapple?”

“Duh. Isn’t it impossible to dislike pineapple?”

“It is. But did you know pineapples are math?”

She squints. “Explain.”

I grab a spiky fruit, hand a few bills to the vendor, then spot an artichoke and a cauliflower. I add those to the order, and soon we find a table at a café up the street.

She shoots me a quizzical look. “We’re making artichoke, pineapple, and cauliflower salad? I’m admittedly a little skeptical.”

“No salad is forthcoming. But this pineapple is why I studied math,” I say, spinning the fruit in a circle.

She takes out her phone and hits the record button once again.

This is the interview portion, the reminder that even though the time at the museum felt like a quirky little date, Sabrina and I are now on the clock for her article. Hell, I need the reminder because it’s too easy to get lost in how I feel with her.