LITMIR.BIZ

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to look too pleased with herself as panting joggers glanced enviously in her direction.

      She had polished off her meal and was halfway back to the gallery when she felt a buzz in her pocket. It was Lily again.

      Hey look: You left the gallery & the world didn’t break.

      You were right. Thanks. She typed in a smiley face, a colon followed by a dash and a closing parenthesis.

      The world may not have broken, but something had changed back at the gallery.

      When she first spotted the small crowd huddled together on the sidewalk, she couldn’t believe the uncanny timing. She had somehow managed to hang out her “Be Right Back” sign just as a burst of walk-in activity arrived. She tried not to chalk it up to her bad luck. But then she saw the signs and knew that impatient customers were not the problem.

      What can 311 Online help you with today?

      Those were the words staring at Alice from the laptop screen as Alice tried to decide whether to make the call.

      Child abuse isn’t art.

      Highline or Hell’s Line?

      God hates pornographers.

      Those were the words staring at Alice from the placards held by protesters lining the sidewalk outside her gallery. A few of the signs referred to biblical passages whose significance she was in no position to recognize.

      Despite his warning that he wanted no involvement in the day-to-day happenings at the gallery, she had tried phoning Drew. He wasn’t answering his cell, so she’d called Jeff. Jeff was the one who suggested calling 311, New York City’s nonemergency help line.

      The Web site made it sound simple enough. What can 311 Online help you with today? Well, you could help me kick the Bible-belting, freedom-hating nut jobs away from the only gainful employment I’ve had in a year. Wouldn’t that be nice?

      Still, Alice hadn’t called immediately. Controversy and attention were nourishment to these kinds of people. A police presence would only support their narrative: good, holy people oppressed by the godless bureaucratic machine of New York City.

      So instead she tried to ignore them. She tallied up another round of phone tag with John Lawson, an artist who incorporated Mardi Gras beads into his sculptures, trying to persuade him once again to commit to a showing this summer. She updated the gallery’s growing Web site to include the latest blogosphere references to the opening. She even added a new, meaningless status to her Facebook profile: “Wafels & Dinges!”

      It was the NY1 truck that put her over the edge. She watched as an attractive correspondent stepped from the passenger seat. She recognized her from television. What was her name? Sandra Pak, that was it. She was followed shortly by the jeans-clad, bearded cameraman who emerged from the back of the van.

      Sure enough, the man she’d pegged as the protesters’ ringleader made a beeline to the camera. The man could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy, depending on how he’d lived his life. About six feet tall, but that was taking into account the hunching. Thin. A little gaunt, in fact. Hollowed cheeks. His frame curved like a human question mark.

      She watched as the man scurried to the reporter, the crown of her dark hair bundled into a shiny beehive, the chubby cameraman struggling to keep pace, even though he wore sneakers and she balanced in ambitious four-inch platform pumps.

      She had to put an end to this.

      Three … one … one. Four rings before an answer, followed by a series of recorded messages about the opposite-side-of-the-street parking schedule. Had she really expected a sugary sweet voice to greet her with, “What can 311 help you with today?”

      When a live operator finally picked up, Alice explained the situation. Gallery manager. Protesters. Name-calling signs. She did her best to include the buzzwords she thought would make a difference. Disruptive. Harassing. Blocking the entrance.

      “Has anyone trespassed on your property?”

      “Um, no, they didn’t actually enter inside the property. Yet.”

      “Have they engaged in any physical contact with you or anyone else, ma’am?”

      Ma’am. Alice knew that being called ma’am by a government employee was not a good sign. “Well, no, nothing physical. But they’re creating a public disturbance.”

      “Please hold.”

      Three minutes until she returned. “If these people are exercising their rights to free speech, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you.”

      “But they’re creating a public disturbance.”

      “Ma’am, you’re running a business in New York City. What you think of as a public disturbance, some people call the city’s flavor. You know what I mean?”

      “Would you be saying that if I were calling from Citibank instead of some fledgling art gallery in the Meatpacking District?”

      “Please hold.”

      Three more minutes. The cameras still rolling outside.

      A male voice came on the line. That in itself bothered her for some reason.

      “Miss Humphrey?”

      She wondered if her actual name was a promotion from ma’am or simply an escalation. “Yes.”

      “If you’d like to go to your local precinct to file a report, the address is—”

      “I don’t want to go to my local precinct, because I’m at work trying to run a business. I am calling you because these extremists are disrupting that business.”

      “I realize that, ma’am, but—”

      “Shouldn’t someone at least come out here to see what’s happening and decide whether it’s legal or not? I mean, I’m not a police officer. I don’t know the difference between protected speech and public nuisance. Isn’t that what police are for?”

      “Please hold.”

      Alice looked at the time on her laptop. Minutes ticking by. Camera rolling outside.

      She heard a long, solid beep over the Muzak piped in by 311. The other line. It could be Drew. She stared at the buttons at the phone, realizing she had no clue how to click over to the other line without disconnecting the call. Fuck.

      “Highline Gallery. This is Alice.”

      “Good, you’re still at your desk.”

      She recognized her father’s voice.

      “Hey, Papa. Can I call you back?”

      Up until last year, her father had been a regular caller. Too regular, in fact. Regular enough that she’d made a point never to mention her cell phone number.

      “Don’t say anything to those cocksucking reporters.”

      “Excuse me. What?”

      “I’ve been pulled into this game before. Don’t do it. Stay away from the vultures.”

      “Wait, this mess is out there already?”

      “Your mother called me. It’s on New York One as we speak.” The magic of live television. “A group like that will want to paint you as the bad guy. Same as Daily News and the Post. Cable news might be the same if it goes national. They’re all trying to outfox Fox. I’ve fallen for it, and I’ve been burned every time. You need the New Yorker. Maybe the Times. The libertarianish blogs would be good. Huffington Post would be terrific. Make it all about free speech. Theirs and yours. The more speech, the better. That’s the high ground.”

      It had been a long time since she’d felt like this with her father. Symbiotic. Comfortable. Papa to the rescue.

      She heard the long, solid beep again. Maybe Drew had finally picked up her messages.

      “I

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