My appreciation for Robin Williams is well-documented. Since his passing, I miss seeing what character he will bring to life next. When my friend dared me to spend a night in our local museum, I figured it might be a way to connect with the joy he brought to the screen once more. The proprietor of the museum does have a bust of Teddy Roosevelt greeting every guest as they enter, so maybe something magical could happen. One can only hope.
I enter the museum right before the last tour of the day. I step into their group, relieved when no one questions me. No one pays much attention to me as parents wrangle children and friends share private jokes. I wander from one exhibit to the next, getting a feel for the place until a friendly, tinny voice politely reminds us that the museum will close in five minutes. I stroll slowly to the bathroom and hide in a stall.
The guard doesn’t even check the bathroom, just opens the door wide enough to slip his wrist through. I am not sure I blame him. The museum’s most valuable item is a print of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”. When the lights go out in the bathroom, I sneak out and survey my abode for the evening. I stand still, delighted to find that each display has dim lights, presumably to keep the guards from tripping over themselves as they patrol. As if my thoughts conjure a man into existence (doesn’t every single woman wish that were possible?), footsteps approach from the direction of the front door.
I crouch down and hide under a replica of a wooly mammoth, surprised to find its underside soft, but that could be the lint fuzzies. I lay down on the floor under it, holding back a sneeze as a dust cloud rises up to meet me.
“Hey, Norman.” A voice calls from a side hallway. “Get in here. We’re about to start the movie.”
“Coming. Nothing out of the ordinary here.” A voice echoes nearby.
I hold my breath and wait. When the guard’s footsteps disappear, I slowly rise up, relieved to breath fresh air again. Excitement fills me as I realize the guards will be preoccupied for at least an hour or so. I can get into all sorts of museum mayhem in that time. I pat my pocket, reassured to find my phone ready for some selfie documentation.
Before I slide under the ropes surrounding my new friend once more, I step closer and gently reach my arm up as far as I can to offer it a half hug. Snap. Exhibit A.
I roam around the exhibits, taking candid photos with each one. I tiptoe and keep my ears and eyes open in case I need to hide again. The occasional guffaws and snickers from realms forbidden to visitors cause me to whip my head up, but no one comes out to check on me.
As the evening draws to a close, I reach my last photo opportunity. I stand as tall as I can below Teddy Roosevelt on his pedestal and snap a picture. Then I slide my hand into the unzipped pocket of my backpack to pull out a framed reprint of Robin Williams as Teddy, signed by the late great himself. The frame features “thank you” in dozens of different languages. I lean the frame carefully against Teddy’s legs and snap one more photo.
After all, I have to leave my mark, so my friend knows I really conquered her challenge.
~Note: Robin Williams was born on July 21st, so maybe that is why he seemed right for the focus of this purely fictional piece. I am not nearly exciting enough to try this level of shenanigans.
Also, I would like to remind everyone that you are not alone. No matter what you are struggling with, someone out there loves you and wants to spend as much time with you in this life as they can. If you are feeling too tired or sad or unworthy to go on, please seek help.
As if the universe knew this post was coming, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is now reachable by dialing 988. Please don’t be afraid to reach out for help.~
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