SoMa Literary Review - Project Runaway

Project Runaway

By Kemble Scott

The docent waved her hand like a giggly game show hostess. “And here we have an excellent example of 16th century textile. It’s only a fragment, most likely Dutch, but look at the colors! They’re still so pretty!” she squealed.

Dave rolled his eyes. Where does the de Young find these people? A docent shouldn’t be blonde and perky. He much preferred the museum guides who were elderly and sounded like a Pepperidge Farm commercial. This girl was just one plaid skirt short of being a cheerleader. What was she? Nineteen?

As the crowd lumbered forward, Dave leaned over the display. Okay, it was pretty. And the colors were rich and gorgeous. But when would they get to the good stuff? He didn’t come down here on a Saturday to wade through the herds of fat tourists for some old Amsterdam tapestry.

Steven had ditched him for the Sculpture and Decorate Art wing. At least that’s where he said he was going. He was probably off cruising the bathrooms, hooking up with some hottie in a stall. Steven seemed to get everyone he wanted. He had the complete package: the looks, the charm, and not a single drop of swish in his persona.

That was the key in this town, Dave lamented. To be a gay player, you had to go out of your way to look straight. He’d bought distressed A & F outfits, put a baseball cap on backwards, and let stubble grow on his chin for days, but no one was buying it. No matter what he did, he still came off as hopelessly fem.

He fanned his fingers out and looked at his nails. Time for a mani and pedi, again? From the corner of his eye he noticed an obese elderly man in a too-tight tan knit gawking in his direction. Dave quickly closed his hand and shoved it in his pocket. He threw back his shoulders and tried his best to straighten up.

“Get ready everyone,” the docent teased. “In this next room is the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” She stepped through the archway and put her arms up in the air. “Ta da!”

Oh my, Dave thought. He covered his hand over his mouth to suppress a gasp. The reds, the prints, the taffeta…it was almost too much to take in all at once.

“Welcome to the Yves Saint Laurent collection,” the docent exclaimed. “Beginning with the famous Short Evening Dress designed for Christian Dior in 1958. Notice the matching alizarin shoulder-length gloves...”

The docent’s voice seemed to evaporate. Maybe gushing over an exhibition of haute couture wasn’t going to earn him any butch points, but Dave thought this had to be the closest thing to a religious experience. Saint Laurent … Dior… oh. This was what Catholics must feel when they meet the Pope.

“You!” The docent’s shout broke through the haze. She pointed to something behind Dave. He turned around to look.

“No, I mean you,” she said.

Dave looked at the girl. Me?

“Yes, you! Wow! I didn’t notice you before. Oh. My. God. I’m sure people tell you this all the time. You look just like a very famous celebrity!”

This must be some sort of joke, Dave thought. “Me? A celebrity?”

“Totally. Hey everyone!” The docent motioned for the crowd to come in closer. “Don’t you think that… What’s your name?”

“I can’t believe…” David said under his breath.

“What is it? I didn’t hear that.”

“It’s Dave. My name is Dave.”

“Dave! Okay, everyone don’t you think that Dave is a dead ringer for a very, very, very famous person?”

Dave felt the eyes of everyone in the crowd staring at him. The fat old elderly man in the tan knit squinted. It was clear no one had any idea what the docent meant.

“Anyone want to guess? Oh, come on! The eyes. The nose. And especially the mouth.” The docent put on an exaggerated pout. “Well I’m going to give you some time to put on your thinking caps. I’ll get your answers at the end of the tour!”

Dave felt like his feet were stitched to the dark wood floors. People in the tour looked at him as if he were one of the exhibits. He felt their disapproval. Their judgment. Or was it just curiosity? He’d never been told he looked like a celebrity before. This was ridiculous!

He turned away from the group and headed to the opposite side of the gallery. He faced the display of tuxedo dresses, then tried to focus on the safari jackets. He couldn’t concentrate. Instead, he studied his face in the reflection of the glass. He tussled his hair to give it just the right amount of fashionable mess. Maybe he looked like one of the guys in those boy bands. He didn’t know all their names, but he was young enough to pass for one of those. Or perhaps he resembled some actor. He was skinny, but most men on TV were thin.

He wandered over to the trapeze dress, but again all he could focus on was his own image in the glass. The exhibition was ruined for him.

“Okay everyone. Gather round!” The docent shouted.

Dave turned to find the others in the tour surrounding him. He backed up, but the display case cut him off. He was trapped.

“This concludes our tour, but before we go we have to take care of one last bit of business. Isn’t that right, Dave?” Her wide smile beamed with the glee of someone quite clearly satisfied with herself.

“It’s really not necess—”

“Who wants to guess?” The docent raised her hand, as if to encourage others to raise theirs. No one did. “No one? Oh, come on! It’s fun!”

Dave felt the crowd sizing him up. They looked at him from head to toe, but their expressions remained blank. The fat elderly man in the knit shirt picked something from his teeth.

“If no one has a guess, then I’m going to tell you. Okay? No guesses?”

No one spoke, but Dave noticed a stir of excitement. The docent’s enthusiasm had created an air of anticipation. People were interested. They clearly wanted to know which celebrity he was such a dead ringer for.

“Cher"! The docent yelled.

“What?” Dave snapped.

“Cher ! Yes, like Sonny and Cher .”

The fat elderly man tilted his head while studying Dave’s face.

“Don’t you see it? The cheekbones especially.” The docent pointed.

“But…but Cher ’s a woman!” Dave blurted, noticing his voice was more shrill than he would have liked.

“Can you do the lip thing?” the docent asked.

“What—”

“You know! How she takes her tongue and moves it all the way across her upper lip from one side to the other.”

“I will not!”

“Oh, come on!”

“Yeah, let’s see it,” the old man deadpanned. Several others in the crowd chimed in, “Yes!”

Dave wanted to run, to push his way through the throng and race out of the gallery. The mound of humanity wouldn’t let him budge. They seemed to be getting even closer. Someone from the back yelled,

“Do it! Don’t be such a priss!”

Dave stared at the ceiling. He refused to make eye contact with any of them. Shaking his head in self-disgust, he took his tongue and slowly licked across his upper lip.

The crowd broke out in applause.

“Yay!” cheered the docent.

The old man slapped Dave on the shoulder and nodded his head.

“Yup.”

Little by little the mob wandered off, including the docent. Dave thought he saw a slight skip in her step.

“There you are,” Steven said, suddenly appearing from nowhere. “Quite a show, huh?”

Dave panicked. Had Steven seen what happened? “A show?”

“A fashion show. You know, this stuff.” Steven gestured to the displays.

Dave sighed in relief. His humiliation was apparently only witnessed by out-of-towners.

“You didn’t miss anything,” Dave said.

As they walked out the gallery, the old man in the knit shirt stood in front of Turkish kilim hanging on the wall. He grinned at Dave and said, “I’ve got you babe.”

Steven smirked as they kept walking. When they were out of earshot he whispered, “Well, you’ve been busy. I have to admit, I never took you for someone into daddies.”

Dave thought for a moment of explaining it all to Steven, of replaying the dreadful events from start to finish. He needed a friend. Maybe a shoulder to cry on. But—

“Well, you now how it is,” Dave said. “It’s like I’m a celebrity or something.”

Kemble Scott is an editor at SoMa Literary Review and the author of the bestselling novel SoMa.