right to call the Smithsonian “that grab bag of our nation’s refuse,” an interesting argument in the case of “The Throne,” which was constructed entirely of trash.) “But in James Hampton’s lifetime? No one knew he was even building The Throne. And that lack of recognition isn’t my fear. It’s a PETTY FEAR,” I said, staring hard first at Kevin and then at Beatrice. “The fear of not being recognized is a petty fear because the artistic work done in anonymity is often the bravest and most worthy work.” I was crying by that point. I don’t know what had gotten into me. “No. My fear is that I won’t fucking do the work at all.”
I was sobbing, and Beatrice—who I’d just been really nasty to—kindly handed me a box of Kleenex. The rest of the group looked at me, nodding sympathetically, and finally Beatrice said, “Amazing work, Roxy.”
The other OMers kept nodding. A few looked at me with deep sympathy, and a couple muttered, “Glad you’re here.”
I should have left then; I really should have. But the vibe of acceptance was so strong, it kept me stuck to my spot on the floor. The furballs are great company, but they are immune to my artistic angst and philosophies. And those numbnut OMers may or may not have understood the point I was trying to make, but I could see that, regardless, they listened without judgment.
“Okay,” Beatrice said. “I think it’s time. Who’s driving?”
Several of the OMers raised their hands. “Driving?” I asked. Was this OM-speak for the first males to glove up? What were they talking about?
“We’re going to the OM Convention at the Hyatt,” Beatrice said.
“Convention?” Alarm bells rang in my head. “That sounds next level. I’m new. I’m not going to a convention.”
Beatrice chimed in, “But Nina will be there!”
“Nina Sylvester?” I asked. Now I was interested.
“Imagine seeing Nina in person,” Beatrice cooed. “It’ll be revelatory.”
“A rare appearance,” Kevin agreed. He looked right at me. “You’re so lucky.”
“But I don’t think—” I stammered.
Samantha, the Botox lady, chimed in, “I’m not sure Roxy is ready for the convention.” She spoke in an annoying, motherly tone that made it clear why she has a rebellious daughter.
“Roxy’s a natural,” Kevin said. “I mean, we all saw her ability to be so incredibly emotionally open.” All the OMers paused and stared at me, nodding slowly in agreement and approval.
The force of their acceptance overwhelmed my better judgment. “What the hell,” I said. “I’ll go.”
In retrospect, I clearly should have made a break for it, but the “Greatest Fear” exercise had succeeded in stripping me of my natural defensiveness and sense of self. And I hate saying no to a challenge. So I moved with the amorphous blob of OMers outside and, still sniffling, climbed into the backseat of a blue minivan driven by the Australian. Kevin sat next to me. I was suspicious of him as an OMer—he was so fantastically handsome it was hard to imagine him being concerned with perfecting his clit-rubbing technique. Perhaps he had some sort of erectile dysfunction? Or OMing provided him with access to women he perceived as “sexually loose”? Regardless, I started thinking I wouldn’t mind being OMed by him. As the old nerdy Australian drove us downtown, I asked Kevin what plays he’s been in recently. “I’m between plays right now, so mostly doing commercials,” he said with faux humbleness. “And a couple of J.Crew catalog shoots.”
“What do you think about Lululemon? Would you ever do a shoot with them?” I asked suspiciously.
“I don’t have anything against them. Why do you ask?”
“No reason, never mind,” I said. Kevin then proceeded to gently ask me about my art, but I told him I wasn’t interested in talking about it with him right then. “Your share was really brave,” he said. “It’s orgasmic to be so open. It usually takes newbies a while to get to that point.”
For a second I thought about hollering for the old Australian guy to turn the van around and take me back to my car, but I abruptly felt indescribably weary and also very, very mellow. Looking back on it, the Klonopin must have kicked in, so it was easier to just sit there in the backseat of the van as it rolled along the highway than fight the current and make a fuss. Everett, I should have known then that complacency is the enemy. But I was too sad and lonely and disappointed in myself and my life,