The Case for Signing Your Paintings and Being a Bitch

Today I woke up and thought, I’m not going to be a bitch today. This, it turns out, is impossible.

After cleaning, I walked over to the Suffolk to collect my painting, which I’d been told I could leave on display there and pick up this eve. The bartender who was very nice told me she thought it was in the security office so she went into the office and talked to the guard. When she came back to the bar she said, “He won’t give it to me. He’ll only give it to you.”

So I went into the office. The security guard said, “I can’t give you your painting. Not until the guy from PBR tells me I can.” He was smirking in the manner that all low-level fascist rent-a-cops do when they are denying you something.

“But he told me yesterday I could pick it up today. It’s 14-degrees out and I really don’t wanna walk over here again. Lemme try to get his number and call him.”

Back at the bar I asked if they had the rep’s number, but no one did.

“I’m trying *really* hard not to be a bitch today, but that guard is a dick,” I said.

“I know,” said the bartender, “He’s a dick to me too.”

“Not sure what I should do.”

“Just be a bitch.”

“OK.”

Into the guard’s little room I went.

“This is completely ridiculous,” I began. “I am not trying to commit an art heist and my painting is signed and I have ID so you’re going to have to turn over my art. I need it.” (Not sure why I claimed I needed it, but I sure as shit didn’t need to walk over there again in this cold.) I was prepared to refuse to leave until I had my painting, but I didn’t need to. Simply demanding rather than asking did the trick and a minute later, the guard was handing over my art.

Trying not to be a bitch was a stupid idea.

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