Running With Scissors

The Six Stages of Grief

Peter took a trenchcoat, still in his pajamas, and drove to the Gato restaurant to force his way into the kitchen. Of course, he didn't even get inside the restaurant, partially because he didn't have a reservation, and partially because he looked like a drunk—if handsome—hobo.

"Charging fifteen bucks for a Burrata is a crime, Flay!" he yelled from the entrance before punching the Maître d' and running into traffic. Because, again, fuck it.

He went for a few corn dogs down at the pier, which he proceeded to throw up. Not because of his condition, but mostly because pier corn dogs are gross.

With nothing more interesting to do, Peter decided to head to the Museum of Modern Art, just to make fun of those who find MoMA actually entertaining. It took two hours for someone to realize that the half-empty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon Peter left in the middle of the hallway was not part of an Avant-Garde exhibit.

Peter wouldn't admit it, but he felt a certain captivation for one of MoMA's biggest pieces: Vincent van Gogh's The Starry Night. There was something sublime and awestrucking about the piece that made Peter just stare at it for the better part of an hour.

Maybe the way it reflected the inner struggle of its creator, juxtaposed to the beautiful view from his asylum window reminded Peter of his own situation. Maybe it was because he liked the color blue. A toss-up, really.

He would've stared at that painting all day were it not for an individual approaching him with a rather interesting proposition.

"Wanna make fifty bucks?" said the man.

Peter took one good look at him. He was tall and lean, wearing a bowtie, thick glasses and an unironical handlebar mustache. A blood-red beret and black spandex pants made him look like the world's weirdest mime. And if Peter knew one thing, it was that you should never trust a mime. Even less a hipster mime.

"Do I look like I need fifty bucks?" asked Peter.

The hipster mime took one scanning look at him, from his unshaven face, all the way down his mismatched Crocs-and-socks combo. "You look like you need a bowl of soup and lots of deodorant."

Peter wanted to tell the guy where he could shove his deodorant, but again, fuck it.

"Sure, why not?" said Peter. "Fifty bucks is fifty bucks."

"Good, good," said the man. He took a $50 bill and slipped it into Peter's coat. "All you have to do is go to the next room and cause a diversion."

"Like, a fire?" said Peter.

"Nothing fancy," said the man, leaning on Peter. "Just fall down or something. Cause a ruckus. Just generally draw attention to yourself."

"Why?" asked Peter. "You wanna have some alone time with old Starry here? 'Cuz they have cameras," said Peter, pointing at the different cameras on each corner of the room. "Not to mention the guards."

For the first time, Peter looked at the man in the eyes. There was something there, something deeper. The man was not a simple hipster mime. No, there was purpose there. He had that look in his eyes that only few men have had through the years. The eyes of a revolutionary.

"I want them to see," said the man. Followed by a solemn silence.

Peter nodded, not daring to disturb such silence. He simply walked away into another room, feeling like there was something bigger than him at play. Fuck it, he thought.

People were milling around the contiguous room, photographing and commenting on different sculptures, all of them mostly red. Peter hated red.

He tried to think of different ways to make a commotion. First, he tried to slip and fall, but one of the guards was quick enough to catch him before he fell.