Fourteen

Alison clutched her pearls.

“Oh, my!” she gasped, haughtily.

“Oh, my!” repeated Paige, mirroring Alison in word and gesture, but upping the ante slightly on intensity.

“Oh, rather!”

“Oh, my rather!”

Paige pushed Alison a little to the left as she ushered herself into the frame of the mirror they were sharing. Neither of them had worn pearls before, let alone clutched them, but they had to admit it was good fun. This was, of course, the point where the gag evolved into irreverence.

“My word, Lady Hall. Are you really going to the gala in that pauper’s gown?” Alison asked, her Queen’s English intensifying. “You don’t expect to acquire a man in those rags.”

Paige yes-anded. “Lady Ashe! Did you think this was a costumed masquerade? Are you going as the little match girl?”

“How’s your husband, anyway? Still in prison for stealing that loaf of bread?”

An interstellar force shifted at that moment, bringing with it a certain cosmic balance. For just as light cannot exist without darkness, Paige Hall’s now-classic snort was answered by a strange and otherworldly sonic disturbance emitted from dear Alison. It was an impish laugh, in the neighborhood of a cackle, but with soft, elven notes, a sly smile, and a glance that peered beyond this plane and into another world: a world where teacup handles had little bat wings on them. This laugh would come again– and when it did– it would be known as Alison’s Goblin Laugh. Perhaps another day, the reader will become acquainted with Suzie Garcia’s Horsey Sneeze, but that day is not today.

Even so, it was a big day for Suzie. Tonight was the grand opening gala for Renaissance Readymades, her series of oil portraits of the works of Marcel Duchamp. Included were various urinals signed by the infamous R. Mutt, a bicycle wheel seated on a stool, and her personal favorite, an exact black-and-white recreation of the Mona Lisa, but with a mustache. The gala would be a black tie affair, and would feature various performance art installations arranged by her good friend Alison Ashe. Most importantly, for both Suzie and Alison, the event was scheduled at the Altman Gallery in the Rockefeller Library. This meant a lot to Suzie, as her works would be displayed alongside Brown’s collection of Duchamp’s pieces themselves, providing a fascinating contrast and reigniting the question “What is art?” The location meant a lot to Alison, too, because this was where the Chariot Raja was displayed– and tonight, she was going to steal it.

A university is a big place with many, many doors. Brown, like many large operations, did not have a lot of uniformity when it came to limiting access to its doors. Some spaces had keycard access, others had numeric keypads from the decade before. Others still had regular old keys. Certainly, breaking into a restricted space was a move of questionable legality, not to mention judgement. Even so, it felt less bad for some reason to go for doors with numeric key-codes, as though accidentally guessing the right numbers somehow made it okay to be in a restricted area. By this logic, The Lord Chamberlain’s Men identified a handful of key targets in the administrative and maintenance wings of Rockefeller Library, and sent the model asset to swipe the codes.

That asset was none other than Brian Ward: runner for our Footmen, all around cool guy, and, importantly, a very quiet person. Mind, a person can be quiet all day and still not be a quiet person. You can tell if a Kathy is going to be chatty. Not Brian Ward. He wasn’t going to say a word unless it was absolutely necessary, and everybody knew it. Just ask him- he’ll tell you all about it. Or he won’t. In any case, he was pitch perfect for this mission. A clipboard mission. It is probably not news to this audience that a clipboard offers a special modicum of “I’m supposed to be here” energy. Combine that with a nice, quiet boy, and you’ve got yourself an invisible Brian. Aly sent him out on reconnaissance with instructions to wander around and write down codes. They say even the security cameras couldn’t detect his presence.

It would not be entirely shocking to the casual observer that Alison was not a fan of dresses. After all, they had a hole in the bottom. Why? On this occasion, however, it wasn’t exactly a dress, it was a costume. This was more than acceptable, it was exciting. She got to pretend to be the type of person who would dress fancy for a fancy dress party. Now, the color of the dress was another matter entirely. Grey dresses were hard to come by, so that was out. White? What is it, her wedding? Green? Prom. Blue? Prom. Red? Woah, buddy, cool your jets. So she wore a black dress, and lo, it was actually a cute look. Paige wore yellow. Paige looked good in everything.

“Shall we, darling?” asked Alison, applying the finishing touches on a big, black rose in her expertly pinned hair.

“We’ve quaffed, we’ve zhuzhed, we’ve fiddled. I think we shall!” Paige replied with the biggest smirk she owned.

“Fancy.”

“Fancy.”

“Fancy.”

“Quite fancy.”

The gala was about as fancy as an event on campus could be, all things considered. Two bars were stocked and gratis. The lights were moody, but not so low that you couldn’t appreciate Suzie’s art. A three-part jazz combination kept the mood in ¾ time, and the drummer even had those little metal brushes you see in the movies. They blended into the background like they were a permanent fixture. If they had been, it would make sense, anytime, day or night, for the Rockefeller was one of Brown’s proudest features. Red brick walkways and classic street lamps gave way to the black wrought iron fencing that encircled the long facade. Every angle was cut to the golden ratio, with perfect rectangles crosshatched within smaller, somehow more perfect rectangles to form the building cuts, courses, and windows. The walls crawled with real ivy. Within, exposed maple beams resembled a Viking longhouse. Glass walls enclosed study spaces that curved around corners as paths wound towards reading rooms, community spaces, and galleries. And all roads led to the stacks, which spilled into all other spaces, their mahogany majesty touching as far as the eye could see.

Upon Alison’s request, there were also little men running around serving cocktail wieners. She said it was to make sure there was always movement during the operation, but everyone knew the truth: she was going to get hungry. They may have gone over budget on the wieners.

Aly and Paige strolled in, arm in arm, thirty one minutes late. This was late enough to qualify as fashionable, but early enough to make sure everything looked peachy. Even though she planned the whole thing, Alison was taken aback by the pomp and circumstance. It wasn’t her style, but it was very fun to pretend that it was, if only for the night.

That reminds me, she thought, slipping an earbud into position and fiddling coolly with her phone. She flicked her music app deftly to favorites and grabbed Only for the Night, by Rx Bandits. A cacophony of flawlessly mixed et cetera exploded into her mind: horns, bass, loud guitars, and patently articulate drums. Everything slid into the musical space with an intensity and So-Cal chill that only Matt Embree and his bandits could dish out. His voice bled desperation and control at the same time as he wailed the fleeting loss of a moment in time. The song was beautiful and intense and short, like a play, or a year of college, or life.

There’s a girl stuck in the mirror
And she stares into my eyes
She says she kiss me tender
I say I don’t love her but I know it’s a lie

And lately she’s been lonely
I couldn’t tell you why
Oh no
She lives without emotion
She makes me better
Only for the night
Only for the night

Scanning the room, she found several faces to mingle with, and one she’d like to mangle. Reed Baker, her self-proclaimed nemesis, leaned against a low wall with a champagne flute. The wall was exactly elbow height, not terribly surprising in a world made for men that are five foot, nine and three quarters. He had his weight on one leg, the other in a practiced cross in front. He’d look just like a movie star if not for the red hair. Instead, he was a sort of voodoo doll of Conan O’Brien. Still, he seemed rather in place for someone that was not invited. She’d deal with him later, however. No need to ruin a perfectly good song.

The intrepid duo split at the foyer. Paige needed a drink to swish around and Alison needed about nine of those cocktail weenies before she was ready to schmooze. When they circled back, it was at the arm of the guest of honor.

Suzie Garcia wore an opalescent silver gown that sparkled prisms of red, gold, and green in the ambient light. Alison took a moment to finish the chorus of Karma Chameleon that was running in her head, and then greeted Suzie warmly.

“Fabulous series, darling!”

“Alison, thank you! I can’t believe you threw such an extravagant opening for little old me!”

“Oh, it was the least I could do.”

Paige chimed in here. “I can’t think of a better way to celebrate women than to paint a bunch of urinals.” Her audience giggled as she continued. “The Da Vinci piece, though. How did you even do that?”

“Oh, simple. I just did everything Da Vinci did and then everything Duchamp did, and then a little more.”

“I’m sure you were paid just as well, too.”

Alison laughed heartily, but her face fell into a deep grimace as Reed Baker elbowed his way into the conversation. She frowned, then checked her teeth for remnants of cocktail wieners, then unleashed a big fake smile. Her etiquette school skills were, in this moment, remedial.

“I just wanted to say,” said Reed with his mid-Atlantic charm, “that your series is absolutely stunning.”

Alison, who was absolutely stunned at the moment, was thankful that it wasn’t her turn to talk, because she didn’t have anything to say that wasn’t deeply profane. She took the opportunity to scan the room for other known assets. Paige saw her cue and proceeded to keep Reed busy. Corners. Clear. East exit. Dalton was slipping into the men’s room. Floor. Clear. Altman. Clear, as far as she knew. West stacks. Somebody studying in one of the cubes. Looked in-place, but nobody’s going to study during a gala. Not when there’s jazz playing.

“Excuse me a moment, Reed, is it?” she said as she slinked out of the circle.

“You know that it is.”

“Do I?”

She did. A moment later and she was on the move, switching to coms as she fast walked. “Jeeves.”

“Sir,” chirped Teddy Dalton.

Alison enjoyed his prompt and eager response. “Can you get eyes on a study bug in the cubes at the west stacks?”

“Copy, sir. You had me at study. One cannot simply study when there’s jazz playing.”

Alison smiled a knowing smile. “Thank you, Jeeves. You’ll have to–” but that was all she could say, for every conversation in Rockefeller Library ended abruptly at that moment.

It goes without saying that Brown University’s library was designed to facilitate a great number of activities simultaneously. This to meet the diverse needs of a wide body of students. Not many forces could disrupt a gala of this caliber in full swing. However, it may now be noted by the reader that a fifty-eight-piece marching band fully clad in urinal costumes and playing John Phillip Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever could do the trick. The world stood still. Drums clattered with bawdy cadences. Trumpets blared. Trombones did that whoopty whoop thing that trombones do. And the urinals shone with the purity and innocence of sparkling ivory. The moon frowned in jealousy at their glimmering porcelain.

The players wove in and out in brilliant, choreographed procession as the partygoers parted to make room. The jazz combo, thrilled by the audacity and change of pace, joined in. We all knew they could play a song with a main idea if only they tried. The urinals twisted in delicate formation and intricate patterns, their song stealing the night with its catchy melody and upbeat resonance. As it crescendoed to its apex, the players closed in on the center of the gallery. They crowded so tightly that they began to step on each other. The central players each took a knee as the outer circle ascended, followed by a second layer to form a human pyramid. A single cymbal player rose to the center, lifted by an unseen force, and brought his two Zildjian Concertina Cymbals crashing together in explosive fury as the song came to a close, a huge smile emerging as he basked in the epicenter every partygoer’s attention. The crowd went bananas.

As the band returned from whence it came, it occurred to Alison that Paige was still babysitting Reed Baker, and she moved to remedy that situation with haste. Paige, who seemed fine just walking away from her circle without saying a word, joined Alison alone near a particularly dramatic portrait of a bicycle wheel. Alison looked a little worried as she whispered something discreet to her compatriot. Paige smiled and nodded sweetly, jabbing Alison in the ribs with one hand and reaching into her handbag with the other. From the bag, she produced a tampon, which she quietly passed to Alison. Having no bag of her own, Alison tucked it into her armpit and moved at a modest pace to the bathroom, trying her best to hide a wave of mild embarrassment from her mannerisms.

One Aperol Spritz later, Alison’s social endurance was starting to wane. She gave Paige a little nod and gestured towards the exit, and Paige sent back an eyebrow of understanding. Before she left, however, she was hoping to check in with Dalton about the wanton studier in the cubes. She took a beat and pulled him up on the coms as Paige made her final rounds. “Any word on the asset in the stacks?”

“Sir. I was able to snap a photo, but I have not yet matched his identity to any known assets. I’ll keep trying. How goes the mingling?”

Alison sighed. “No sweat, Jeeves. Just packing up in the Altman. Paige is powdering her nose, and then we’ll probably need some ice cream.”

“Very good, sir. If you’re going to Frosty Jane’s, might I recommend the Double Dutch Bus?”

“You might, indeed, Jeeves.”

Alison strolled towards the exit, making a point to keep a steady pace as Paige joined her. With the slightest motion, she opened the crook of her elbow, allowing her companion to lock arms with her as they crossed the threshold and wandered into the moonlight, whose silver beams were touched this evening with faint hints of green.

They rounded a familiar corner at Prospect and George, where they were bathed in warm lamplight from above. Paige lifted a small, white statuette into view so they could examine her handiwork a little closer. Alison smiled as she got her first good look at the Chariot Raja, its smooth, age-worn limestone features absorbing the wild energy of the night. She let out a deep breath and gave her friend a little squeeze, never breaking stride or calling undue attention. Paige slipped the statuette back into her clutch and they continued on into the cool night.

“What’d you end up putting on the pedestal in its place?”

“Bar of soap.”