Omar

   The museum replaced the vinyl Black Lives Matter sign with one made of composite aluminum, and for a while people stopped targeting it. One day a young man who called himself Omar arrived, and demanded to get into the museum. He was fairly incoherent but we managed to figure out that he seemed to think we were a Black Lives Matter museum, and, being Black, he felt entitled to free admission. The more it was explained to him that this was not the case, the angrier he got. He grew agitated and began to yell at the women behind the counter but finally left, only to try to force his way into the other entrance. A group of employees stood in front of the door and he tried to push his way through. Before he left, he took out a set of brass knuckles and brandished them menacingly. Since then, Omar has returned a number of times, usually when we're closed. He hasn't harassed anyone, he just paces back and forth beneath the metal sign, muttering to himself.

    Recently, a man approached the sign with a tire iron and stabbed two holes in it before banging furiously on one of the outside sculptures. This particular sculpture is a profoundly ugly piece by the profoundly untalented Anthony Caro. It consists of a couple of large slabs of drab brown bronze leaning against one another in a way which makes an ideal structure for huddling behind to shoot up, or for sleeping behind, or spray painting on. I don't understand why we don't just put it in storage -it is not exactly beautifying our grounds, and will have to be moved anyway once we start the renovation. I assume that once that happens, it will never see the light of day again, unless the far-off future brings a renewed interest in his work. It seems unlikely. Our conservator refuses to work on it anymore because she considers it a bio-hazard. She's not wrong; already the color of feces, the Caro is often bathed in piss and shit.

     In the middle of the night last week, someone tried to burn down the homeless man's shed. On camera you can see a figure in an orange slicker and medical mask light what looks like a flare, after which the side of the structure starts to burn. The two men I had talked to the other day were inside,; their lives were saved by the Grenada's Shear Performance sign, which kept the shed from going up in flames until they could douse the conflagration using a small fire extinguisher. 

    Just last night, someone slashed all four tires of the museum van, which we keep parked right outside the employee entrance. The night guard who was on duty listens to a lot of right wing talk radio, and as result has a lot to say about how society is going to hell, and that the only thing that will solve this problem is the church. I don't argue with him, even though I've been reading about addiction, and especially meth, and I feel like I'm gaining some insight into what I'm seeing with these people on the street; the erratic behavior, the obsessive collecting and arranging, the tent cities.

    I have no idea what to do about any of this. It all seems so overwhelmingly complicated. Our addiction to drugs is connected to our addictions to other substances, such as sugar, the internet, and, most of all, capitalism. I think about my own addictions, most notably to alcohol. I'm not equating my issues with those of someone hooked on meth, I'm just saying we all have things we're addicted to, and to demonize people whose minds are being scrambled by designer drugs is dangerously hypocritical. Seeing how difficult it is for me to resist one beer, I can only imagine how hard it must be to survive when your brain is rewired to need something as potent as methamphetamine.  

    One main feature of meth is that, unlike fentanyl, it doesn't kill you quickly. You can go for years shuffling along, moving your tent from place to place, just barely sustaining yourself unless someone stabs you or burns you alive. It feels like the entire country is doing the same. We are all just shuffling along, waiting to see what happens next,  biding our time until the inevitable collapse.

    I'm also thinking about how our addictions are connected to our feelings of isolation. I drink because I'm lonely, and the drinking makes me feel more lonely, and so I drink more. It's an endless loop of misery. Luckily, my fear of what my addictive personality might lead me to has kept me from turning to hard drugs thus far. It's not hard to imagine ending up living in a tent, or a shed on the sidewalk, and it's that imagination which helps me stay empathetic to these people, even if their addiction makes them act in ways which seem incomprehensible and often violent. 

 

     I'm not sure what, if anything, will be done with the Black Lives Matter banner. For now it's just hanging there with punctures that look like bullet holes in an NWA logo. The shed and its surrounding tents are not going anywhere. The Caro squats there, waiting for someone else to disrespect it. We've been lucky; no one at work has gotten physically injured so far. No one has broken in or damaged anything beyond repair. The van will have new tires by the end of the week. I wonder how Omar is doing, how he spends his nights, wonder if there's any hope for him. We are all feeling slashed and stabbed, banged up and burned, and more than a little on edge. I walk past the shed after work. It's quiet inside, everything soaked and windblown from the recent storm. I cross the street to the Safeway to pick up a six pack, then continue on to my warm, safe home where I can lock the door and turn on some music and drink, and drink, and drink.