Showtime with Tim

It’s raining out, overcast and gray. Kind of like clockwork the weather becomes this way when I have to lug photos or paintings to a show. But they are ready to go, packed in a crate, newspapers protecting them from each other and the elements. The big photograph in plastic bags, frame edges already ripping holes in the thin covering. We arrive at the gallery, several minutes ahead of time. Don’t want to get there too early or too late, don’t want to spend any more time than we have to there but surprisingly, Tim the curator pulls up just ahead of us by the front entrance. He nods to us and, armed with several of his photo creations, he disappears into the gallery. Frank and I have rehearsed our strategy. I will go inside with my photos,
quickly write down the relative photo information, and after telling Tim thank-you, say I have an appointment and leave. Tim is a nice guy, an older guy with graying long hair tied in a ponytail. He either reminds me of an aging hippie from the 60’s or a farmer just coming in from the fields. A heavyset man, who always seems out of breath and redfaced, even when not moving. My past interactions with him, well just last year, have pegged him as needy or lonelyor something because you can never just have a few words with him. Out of his mouth comes a story, and it doesn’t stop at one, and hours can pass before you realize it. I myself know, as an aspiring writer, that Tim has a wealth of material that could be transcribed into written word. But today I am in a hurry, that’s why the plan for the quick getaway and I hope the strategy works. I wait for Frank to park the car and come in but he never does. I guess this
was more my part of the plan than his. Thought Frank would come into the gallery, divert Tim's attention for a minute or so, while I did the appropriate paperwork. Then we’d both make a quick bolt for the door. No, I guess Frank figures I’ll be quicker if he waits outside for me. And besides, I reason, it is my show so I’ll deal with the details from here. Frank’s already helped me out so much with the framing, he’s probably tired. So, I stand in the gallery main area watching Tim come ambling slowly towards me. He is carrying my crate filled with photos, huffing and puffing. I had left the crate at the front door, figuring Frank would carry it in. It was too heavy for me. Now Tim has the task, and he is sweating profusely, trying hard to catch his breath and I want to grab a seat for him. Instead, he sets the crate down and turns his head this way and that, mumbling that the director has changed everything on him. The photos he’s
arranged just so on shelves and in cases have been rearranged. He shakes his head in an aggravated way. Walking by the office desk where four small photos sit in a row, he mutters that on a chaotic day with people milling around, those photos won’t have a chance and they’ll get knocked down like dominos. Apparently, he and the director have some control issues. I, myself, think the gallery looks rather nice, and thank heaven that I am left out of whatever issues the two of them have. After a few more looks around, he decides to focus on the task at hand, namely me and my photographs. Tim wanders around, looking for tools, looking for a ladder, muttering again under his breath that someone has moved everything on him. He says to me, “Wish I had some of those carpenter overall things with pockets, then I could just put all my tools in them, keep better track of them”. He then tells me to assemble all my photos and lean them against the wall. After getting his equipment together, he asks me to draw on paper diagrams of the photos as they will be on the wall with numbers to correspond with the list I am writing, photo name, price, etc. I realize that my quick getaway is becoming a distant memory now and the clock in my mind ticks oh so slowly. Realizing I may be here for the long haul, I settle as best I can into the plastic chair. The hammering of nails in wall echos loudly in the empty room, Tim misses the nail several times, blessedly escapes finger injury, continues doggedly on. Every so often he includes me in his project, asking if the photo’s location looks right, or if its crooked and other minor details. I am agreeable, everything is fine and I nod and smile pleasantly, figuring if I behave in this way the whole thing will go much faster. He climbs on a ladder, slowly again, so slowly. The ladder wobbles to and fro and I want to rush to hold it steady. He wheezes as he moves up the ladder. In my mind I see the framed photo he’s holding slip out of his grasp and go crashing into a million pieces. Instead, as ungraceful as he seems,
a big giant, he succeeds in putting up photo after photo in small motion, assembly-like fashion, and the wall fills with images of flowers in every color of the rainbow. I am mesmorized by my garden wall and am always surprised and pleased how the photos look in a group, in mass quantity. It’s almost overwhelming, but in a good way. While I sit in cool comfort, lost in my accomplishment, sweat drops continue making a path down Tim’s face, which is now red as a beet. I envision puddles of sweat building up on the floor and him slipping and falling, scenarios not at all pleasant. Finally, five gaspy breath lately, with five photos hung, he says he needs a
break and wanders to the office area, sitting down and taking a long swig from some bottled water. The moment I have really dreaded and hoped to avoid, has arrived.

The break. Here is where the real talking begins. Our interactions up to this point had been businesslike and efficient, all focused on task at hand. But this will change and conversations will become personal. I am trapped now, I am his captive audience. As I stand in front of him,
not walking away, he seems encouraged by my somewhat attentive nature. I am cursed by my training in psychology, which fine tunes us into being a good listener and having unconditional regard for the client. I shake my head, this is Tim, he is not paying me for therapy, just needs someone to lend an ear. My thoughts are interrupted as Tim’s voice seems to grow a bit louder, and he proceeds to tell me about anything and everything. As he discusses the biographies of each photographer who is exhibiting, my attention stays focused and interested. But when the topic veers to his diabetes and other aches and pains, the warning signals go off. I know I’m sunk in quicksand when he says he’ll have to check out the cute new girls in the class upstairs later on. The subject matter for Tim is irrelevant, what is revelant is his release of spoken word to a captive audience, me. I cringe, feeling trapped now, and put on my passively resigned clinical face.

Twenty minutes pass, it seems an eternity. He is still talking, I think he’s covered 20 different subjects and does not yet seem ready to face the reality of hanging the rest of my photos. In addition, I realize I have not gotten a word in edgewise, just an occasional nod. Finally, when he stops talking long enough to take another of his endless swigs of water, I say “You know,
I really need to check on Frank, make sure he’s okay and all”. As if Frank is my pet dog outside and I need to make sure the window is rolled down enough so he can get air. Tim nods and I dash out the door to the car. Frank is sitting inside, actually in a rather mellow mood. I expected him to say, “what the hell’s taking you so long? Let’s go! We had a Plan!” and I’d run frantically back in, say bye and hit the road. Instead I tell him that Tim wants me help hang the photos for a few more minutes, it’s gotten a little more involved than I thought. I had hoped
Frank would come back inside and we could work together on a new getaway plan, but Frank just nods and says “That’s okay, the White Sox have come from behind and tied up the score” and he turns his attention back to the radio announcer. It’s the first game of the season, always special no matter who you’re a fan of. I’m relieved Frank is in a good mood, but resigned that only I can get myself out of the situation that waits inside, so with a determined stride, I walk back in.

Tim is still sitting in the chair, almost Buddha-like, relaxed and looking as if he has all the time in the world. It appears he’s on his second bottled water. His face has turned a paler pink now and his breathing is more even toned. Still, I just want to go.......Why cannot I be direct and tell him? I wail to myself. Because I am nice and have been taught to be a good girl and to be polite. These thoughts fill my mind, it’s my mom’s voice, dictating Miss Manners rules of etiquette.
Rather than taking my previous stance of marble statue in front of Tim the Buddha, I go back into the main gallery, hoping that magically all my photos have been hung by a magic fairy or something. No such luck. Four photos still sit against the wall. Tim lumbers up, almost reluctantly, to the area where I am standing and is deep in thought. Apparently he is trying to visualize how the photos will all be able to fit on the wall. “I can take the rest home, they don’t all have to go up”, I speak up, wanting this to end now. I feel so tired and all I’ve been doing is just sitting, waiting, listening to Tim. He’s done all the physical labor. But I am so drained, emotionally fatiqued. I have taken on too many of Tim’s stories and now they whirl in my head.

With my last ounce of energy, I assert myself. “Tim, I’ve got to go. You’re doing a great job,
I think you’ve got it under control”. Of course he does, I mutter to myself. I had earlier offered a few opinions of where the photos should go, he had nodded and proceeded to do his own thing anyway. He really just wanted an audience. So why did I still feel some guilt, a sense of feeling sorry for him? He has a wife, two sons. In fact, a photo of his son smoking a cigarette looms largely between my two walls of flowers. Tim could talk to his son’s portrait if I wasn’t there. Yet he acted as if I was the only person he had ever been able to talk to, and was only allowed out for two hours in the day for social interaction. I snapped out of my emotional wallowing, looked him in the eye, said firmly, “Thank you much” and packed up my crate and walked to the door. He said “Can you manage the stairs” I said I could. My last words “See you at the reception” trailed behind me as I walked outside. Tim nodded and turned back into the gallery. I slowly walked to the car, feeling drained of any artistic passion I had had only hours before. I got in the car, Frank turned on the engine and said “I got some gas while you were in the gallery”. I had been gone a while. He probably could have gone home and watched the game on TV and still come back and gotten me. I nodded to him and sank into the car seat. I had two weeks to recover from this encounter, my headache would dissapate soon. At the opening reception, I know Tim will be there, but there will be lots of people for him to latch onto and
his cooler of beer will keep him company. I think I’ll be safe from him. But just in case, I’’ll have a plan!
(P.S. I changed the main character's name to Tim to protect the innocent).

Marlotus O’Keefe 2008