collaborative storytelling that is equal parts critical and creative

Paying Respects

Julia Chang

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They arrive in droves, in hordes, pouring off the bus like ants from a

trampled nest. Stepping off at the far end of town, they are greeted by

the smell of hot asphalt and gasoline pooling beneath the bus. Under the

piercing white of the noon sun, their eyes wrinkle in crescent moons.

 

They watch the bus shift, groan, and lurch back onto the highway before

staggering towards the Museum. Hair graying, stomachs saggy, they stop

at the McDonalds before paying their visit to the Museum. Wiping hamburger

grease off their hands with flimsy paper napkins, they suck down the last of

 

their sodas until the ice rattles in their to-go cups like plastic bones. They peer

up at the Museum’s gaudy exterior, peeling away in cyan blue and orange trim.

From where I slouch behind the front desk, I wave my hands to beckon them

through the entrance. Emptying their pockets of bills and coins, they pile ticket

 

fare onto the counter separating us. I reach over and stamp their clammy,

decaying hands. They hardly look my way before surging upstairs in a procession.

If I caught their eyes I would recoil at what I found. On the second floor, they arrive

at a room cloaked in heavy red velvet. Musty curtains force out light and cling to

 

particles of dust. Like ants to bygone crumbs, they heave towards the altar and

clumsily wipe away the dust collected on the frame of a photograph no larger

than a postcard. Against the wall on which it hangs, they place red umbrellas,

buckets of marigolds, mardi gras beads, love notes, flickering tea candles,

 

condolence cards, teddy bears, colored lanterns, candy necklaces, paper money,

mylar balloons. They begin to moan, swaying side to side. A thin wail rises above,

shatters the still. Soon they are screeching a polyphonic symphony, grabbing at the

frame of the photograph, choking on their cries for retribution, stomping their feet on the 

 

carpeted ground, shouting questions that hang in the air above, emptied and unanswered.

Their fingers grasp the frame like vines reaching for light. The noise forces its way out of

the Museum’s windows. A flock of birds stir from their perch, take to the air. After an hour,

the cacophony pitches to a murmur and they file downstairs in a single line, shuffling past

 

my desk without lifting their heads. The bus is waiting for them. I collect the remnants

of their salty grief and vanish the items in bulging trash bags, shake out the curtains

and straighten the frame. Sitting back down at my desk, I glance past the glassy front

doors in time to witness the next bus, pulling up in front of the Museum.