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Outside, the sun persisted and the heat complied. The brightest star demanded sweat from all who tempted a walk beneath. Not even a leaf on the tallest tree could shade the perspiration yearning to escape the pours. It had to be at least 98 degrees on that July day, but the sun manipulated the heat to make it feel like 103. As I walked toward the steps of the Brooklyn Museum I focused on my shadow, longing to walk in its shadow praying that in the seclusion there concealed a cool breeze.

All my years raised, breathed, moved through Brooklyn, and I had never been to this museum. I had even done picnics in Prospect Park on concert days in the summer, and still had never ventured to the museum. I’m sure I’m not the only Brooklynite to have made this mishap. When you dwell in a city as large as New York, your life is usually lived through the eyes of tourists. I’m sure someone from Milwaukee on a week vacation has visited more places in this city than I have living here for twenty-six years.

The air conditioning hiding within the lobby of the Brooklyn Museum was a welcomed break from the dreadful underling the sun had at work. The lobby of the museum reminded me of the floor at the New York stock exchange. The events and exhibitions rotated around the electronic sign like a hula-hoop.  Looking up, I felt like I was watching a literary chandelier.

The cashiers forced to stand beneath the metallic chandelier appeared board with their current state. I could only imagine how many dreams deferred lead them to this current employment. As Devon approached the desk to purchase our entrance, one cashier mustered a fake smile and a pre rehearsed greeting. How artificial things seemed. Nonetheless, I welcomed the relief the air-conditioning provided from the summer heat.

As I looked to my left, I saw a group that intrigued me. Four statues of thinkers formed a postulate circle. I decided to stand in the middle of their thoughts. The museum captured a smorgasbord of cultures, creativity, and intellect. Taken from free minds, all art had become property of a public that would critique them like a slave standing on an auction block. I wondered how many thoughts had persecuted the collections. How many no’s and you don’t have the talent had the artists heard before making it to the Brooklyn Museum? How many creations had the sculptors and painters and weavers destroyed in a fit of frustration when trying to conform to a false right way? I began to think that maybe the museum could house the moon. After all, the curators spend their existence chasing after and capturing the beauties of the world.

“So, you ready for a stroll on the moon?” Devon’s question broke up the monotony of my thoughts and the gazes of the thinking statues.

“Definitely.” I responded, secretly hesitant to leave the circle.

As we walked up the stairs, I noticed a room with a giant decapitated head lying on a large white slab like a corpse in an autopsy room. It had to be at least 100 feet in size. Well, perhaps that’s an exaggeration, but it was definitely huge. The closer I got to it, the more the enormous head reminded me of Mathew McGrory.

“Hey, did you ever see the movie Big Fish?” I inquired of Devon.

“Yeah, it was a great film. I caught a fish that size once.” Devon affirmed.

“Umm, I’m sure you have.” I affirmed sarcastically. “Doesn’t this head remind you of that really tall guy Mathew McGrory from that movie?” I asked excitedly.

“You mean the one who performed at the circus and used to walk with that really short guy?” Devon wondered.

“Well, yeah he was the only really tall person in the movie. And I don’t know how short that guy was. I think he just looked really short because he was standing next to Mathew McGrory.” I chuckled. “But anyway, doesn’t this head look a lot like him?”

“No, not really.” Devon smiled. “But I can see why you think so.”

Devon could always see why someone saw something a certain way. Actress shoplifts, average person says, “Isn’t that crazy?” Devon would say, “Perhaps, but I can see why she did it. Some people are just adrenaline junkies.” Hit and run, average person would say, “That’s horrible, but karma is a mother.” Devon would say, “True, but I could see how it could happen. Perhaps a DUI or they fell asleep at the wheel and didn’t even realize they hit something.” One time, I tested my observation and said to Devon, “Have you ever noticed that at sunset, the sky is a tinge of purple? “ Devon replied, “Umm, I’d say it’s more of an orange, but I guess I could see why you say purple. Colors tend to blend together.” Devon’s ability to see everyone’s rationale was both a blessing and a curse. This malleability allowed him to be both patient and clandestine.

As we strolled through the museum, the next thing that caught my eyes was a fifteen foot naked hippie statue. Eerily accurate, the testicles were noticeably larger than the flaccid penis.  I wanted to touch the pubic hair encircling the uncircumcised penis, but as I got closer to the statue I spotted the reprimanding look of the security guard. Before this, I had never seen a penis that had hair on the shaft itself and I prayed I would never see one in real life. Devon grabbed my hand to guide me toward another room.

“I just saved you.” Devon whispered into my ear.

“What do you mean?” I was confused

“You were about to feel that statue up and one of two things would have happened.” He explained. “One scenario, he could have pressed charges for sexual harassment and I don’t think you would ever have lived that media frenzy down. Or two, touching a hairy limp dick might have turned you off of penises for the rest of your life and that would be no good for the both of us.” Devon said this with such a straight face that I could not help but laugh.

Putting his arm around my shoulder (a move I would later come to cringe at), Devon let me know it was time to head to the moon. From the ceiling on the fifth floor of the museum hung a five foot tall crochet tent whose front reminded me of an octopus. As strangely beautiful as the piece was, it definitely wasn’t the moon.

“Welcome to the moon.” Devon smiled as he gestured toward the odd piece.

“What are you talking about?” I inquired as I circled around the towering mask looking for some kind of embroidering of the moon.

“This piece is called Mothership 1.” Devon explained. “It has a flavor similar to the masks of the Dogon people in Africa. They believed that the creators were aliens who came from space and that one day they will return. It’s the closest you or I will come to going into outer space. It’s one of my favorite pieces in the museum. So what do you think?” Devon asked me as if he had crocheted the piece himself and I was an art critique.

“Well, I wish I could stand within it. The head piece looks like it has a lot of stories to tell.” I responded.

“Indeed.” Was all Devon replied with a look of admiration.

“Come with me.” Devon gently embraced my hand.

I’d go with him anywhere no questions asked. This blind trust would later prove my downfall. But, at that time, it felt natural, right. It’s funny how that misleading word right creeps into life. Nothing is either right or wrong. Those words are merely labels we apply to actions to justify and live with our decisions. Devon led me into a room containing African art. We sat on a bench between a pharaoh and Bast. I felt like royalty.

“You should be hanging on one of these walls.” Devon smiled.

“Sitting in this room, those are odd choices of words. I really wouldn’t want to be hanging from anything.” I laughed. “But what do you mean?”

“Kororo, you’re crazy. All I meant was you’re a work of art. But I could see why you didn’t see where I was coming from initially.” Devon explained.

“Thanks, but that has to be one of the cheesiest lines I have ever heard.” I shook my head in disapproval.

“Perhaps it is, but it is also true. So I hope you’re not lactose intolerant.” Devon chuckled.

“No, definitely not.” As I stared into Devon’s eyes I saw an extension of myself; the me I had been too afraid to discover, the me I longed to know. The more I talked with him the more I communed with myself. Perhaps, that’s why I enjoyed his company so much. It never felt like another person was there. We were one. Before I knew it, Devon’s lips had embraced mine. It was our first kiss, but it felt like it was the first kiss I had ever had. It seemed to both erase the past and freeze the present. His lips were so soft. I felt like I was kissing skin made of cashmere. His kiss was like a warm hug on the coldest day of December. Just as I was losing myself, I saw a bright flash in the corner of my eyes. As I opened them, I saw a Japanese tourist smiling eagerly. He turned to his wife and said, “How interesting, interactive art.”