Lunch Break

Monday Lunch

The man sat staring expressionless, staring ahead at the canvas. Hazy light seemed to drown the paintings in near darkness, tugging his thoughts with them. His stomach growled, a Subway sandwich was uneaten and growing stale in the briefcase at his feet. Wrongly Richard had assumed it would be quiet in here at lunchtime but it seemed the tourists never relented.

How many years since his last visit? It was too long ago to try and remember. The building was on his way to work, imposed itself on the Thames, a constant stream of people in and out, talking, laughing, animated by what they had seen or just their own self-importance. Always a group of students, high on adrenalin, arguing about the meaning of art. It made him nauseous. People just had to talk wherever they went. Galleries were a natural sleeping pill, made him lethargic. Perhaps that’s why he had wanted to come, he couldn’t remember the last time he properly slept.

Sleep wasn’t so easy these days. These days. He sounded old. Time was being greedily lapped up and then vomited all over him. Sick. The word fled out of his mouth uninvited. A florally clad woman next to him stood, stabbing him with a sour look. She lifted her daughter hastily and flounced off. The girl stared back at him over her shoulder. Cold and emotionless. What was wrong with him today? The other art gazers drifted out, over-syllabled sentences following them.

The silence was an immediate relief. Darkness soothing. Red, black, maroon throbbed behind his eyes.

“There’s something unsettling about Rothko. Gets me here again and again.”

He looked up, sure everyone else had left. There was a man behind him, back to back with Richard. He was the only other person in the room. It must have been him that had spoken but he did not move or turn round. There was a definite smell emanating from him though. Unwashed clothes and stale smoke, clearly a tramp! It was difficult to see what he looked like from this position, but the voice struck Richard as incongruous. Educated was the word that came to mind. Richard felt a sudden irritation. His stomach rumbled again. There was a distinct giggle from behind. He stood abruptly, irritated. Lifting his briefcase with a loud sigh, he strode out. Deliberately walking too fast, he headed straight for the exit.

Tuesday Lunch

12.41. Richard sighed at his own indecision. It was so unlike him, made him impatient, ragged with the world. He sighed again, and walked reluctantly inside. Hoards of people, as ever, crowded the lobby marvelling at the winding man-made crack. He resisted the urge to nudge some Japanese students out of the way and tried to stride masterfully towards the escalators. A small group clad in tweed and corduroy dawdled at the bottom, apparently deep in discussion, probably lecturers. Losing patience, Richard stepped in front of the two women just as the man boarded the moving stairway in front of him. Their conversation continued regardless of his presence. The man slouching against the handrail, elbow haphazardly touching Richard’s arm. He closed his eyes, and forced his mouth shut. Bottom teeth sharp into his lip.

The third floor was quieter today. An aura of calm pervaded the hall but he was not tempted to look around, he knew where he was headed. Holding his breath in, he walked precisely, head down, deliberately ignoring the paintings until he could sit down, draw them into himself. The room felt empty, just one man sat already, silent and unmoving. The gloom seemed unnatural for daytime, like entering an old parish church. He breathed in. It smelt fresh though, not dank as his nose was expecting. All his movements felt slow, his body more his own. It was decades now since he had dared to enter a church.

“You’re back then.”

A statement not a question. Startled, Richard turned to the man on his right. His look went unreturned. Richard stared a moment longer than necessary, irritation creeping back. The tramp from yesterday.

“Oh, it’s you.”

He tried to sound disdainful but the words fell like a wet cloth. Silence resumed and several moments went unnoticed. The nearest canvas a wall of maroon, absorbing inchoate thoughts. It was an effort to stay still, his foot jittered, its tap against the floor alerting him. The old man was motionless, Richard tried to casually glance over without turning his head. The man was dressed in a heavy leather coat, woollen gloves still on and hat pulled down low, Nike tick like a taunt across his forehead. It was hard to tell his age but he should definitely be drawing his pension. He was leaning back, weight on his hands, obviously relaxed. Richard couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed.

“You meditating or something?”

His voice sounded gruff, he hadn’t meant for it to be more than a thought, and looked away quickly, embarrassed. The man chuckled quietly, shoulders wobbling.

“You’re obviously quite taken with this place yourself.”

His voice was rich and smoky. Like earth and log fires. Richard had a waft of stale cigarettes. He stopped himself from coughing.

“I’m on lunch break.”

It sounded loud and brash, and he cringed, aware how outrageous his Cambridge accent sometimes sounded.

“Needed to get out the office,” he conceded.

The man nodded slowly, gazing at the painting, a low hum seemed to emanate from him. Richard waited for it to stop. He wasn’t at all sure where this exchange was going. Silence always disconcerted him. Words tumbled out to fill the gap,

“Do you come here often?”

The old man looked at him and started to laugh, rocking on the seat. Richard felt peeved, uncertain whether to be confused or embarrassed. He picked a piece of fluff from the cuff of his jacket. 13:10.

“I really should go.”

Relieved, Richard stood and started to walk hurriedly away. Pausing he realised he had forgotten his briefcase and went back to pick it up. The old man had regained his creased composure now and smiled.

“See you tomorrow” he stated quietly.

An affable challenge. Richard turned again and walked a little less hurriedly back towards the office.

Thursday Lunch

The scrawny girl laughed:

“Its just colours! How can someone paint a red square and call it art?”

She scoffed, a high pitched nasal sound, and the couple walked out. The room now empty of all but two voyeurs. Richard exchanged a conspiratorial grin with the old man sat next to him.

“An astute analysis don’t you think?”
“Everyone’s a bloody critic!”

They chuckled then fell into sudden silence as more people drifted in. Noise melting into lack of noise once more as the newcomers browsed for wares.

The two men sat, gazing ahead. Statues: one starting to graze middle-age; features taut, the other clearly an example of later years; paper bag skin folded around the eyes. Richard reached down for his briefcase, unclipped it and opened it enough to pull out two ham and cheese Subs.

“You hungry?” he offered, cautiously holding out one to the other man, carefully not looking up. There was a pause before the sandwich was taken.

Richard had eaten several bites, ketchup staining his fingers, before any more was spoken.

“What brings a big shot like you here each day, eh?”

Richard wasn’t certain the question was even directed at him. He awkwardly dislodged a serviette from the briefcase, trying not to get ketchup on anything else, and slowly wiped his hands. Avoiding answering. Avoiding even thinking of an answer. He felt a surge of indignation and tried to swallow it. The old man wasn’t looking at him, just chewing wistfully, loudly, gazing into the canvas ahead.

The colours seemed messy today, just a mass of paint strokes, no design, no meaning, no nothing. He wanted to be angry about something:

“What do you know about art anyway, you’re nothing.”

The words riled him; he stood and walked away still doing up the clasps of his briefcase. Richard paused as he reached the doorway but could not force himself to turn back. It was probably getting late anyway. He had a full diary. He strode to the escalator, wiping a brusque hand across his eyes. It was always so stuffy in here.

Friday Lunch

The old man shuffled into the room and paused. Gait unsteady but face fixed, eyes adjusting to the light. The lunch break rush. Two suited business women divided to pass him, exchanging unconcealed taunting looks over his head. It was a long time since he had been bothered about how he smelt.

A few people stood the respectable foot or two away from the canvases, discussing in hushed tones. Only one person was seated. Had probably been there longer than the rest. He was hunched over, suit jacket folded by his side, elbows squashed into knees, hands propping up his head. Staring. The old man smiled, absentmindedly scratching a patch of stubble, and stumbled towards him, wishing again he had not lost his walking stick.

Lowering himself painfully down to the bench, he tried to unzip the creaky leather jacket as quietly as possible. He twisted his neck to look at the watch on Richard’s wrist. Nearly half past one.

“Having a late lunch today?” he ventured, watching the other man’s reaction.

Richard continued to stare ahead, seemingly deaf to his surroundings. His cheeks were darker, stubble creeping across his face, eyes sockets blackening. He tried to speak, voice choking, then coughed before he spoke again.

“Its like...maybe there’s a door in here...I have to wait for it to open so I can escape...Sometimes I can see it in the black...But then it goes, it never stays long enough...Maybe if I just keep coming back... There’s got to be something on the other side. Different to all this.”

He noticed his hands were trembling which made his whole head feel strange. Everything felt strange these days. He sat up, stretching, shaking his head, and turned to the man beside him. He was smiling.

“Doors in paintings, eh?”

He patted Richard’s shoulder absently, keeping rhythm with his words,

“I think what you need is an afternoon off. Go look round. Some people spend hours in here you know!”

His eyes seemed dark, beyond the pupils.

“Maybe I’ll come with you.”

Richard paused a moment, let time pass with nothing happening, then reached into his jacket and brought out a mobile phone. Holding down the first digit, he put it gently to his ear, hands still trembling slightly.

“Its Richard,” he blurted out, “I don’t feel well. I don’t feel like myself. I won’t be back this afternoon.”

He pressed the red button before he lost his nerve, and dropped the phone in his jacket pocket. Feeling immediately less tense, he sprang to his feet. A puppy ready for its walk. He laughed as the image came to mind, then quickly offered the old man his arm. The other struggled to his feet and gladly took the proffered support. The two men headed slowly across the floor, eyes following the expanse of maroon as they left.