Creeping on Hans (cough*Francis*cough)

It all started when I saw the black pea coat. The guy was dressed like a Euro, and he was carrying a small black book. As Holland and I took pictures in front of the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art, I noticed him sitting and scribbling something in the book. A writer? An artist?

Our interests piqued, Holland made a covert glance over his shoulder as we passed by. 

“He’s sketching!” she mouthed to me, pointing at the book.

We walked up the steps and took more pictures, but we would pause and look at him, wondering if perhaps he was disturbed by our girlish squeals of hilarity as we posed in front of the museum’s metal doors. He was sitting several flights down from us on the outdoor steps, still absorbed in artsy-ness.

 I then had the grand idea that I should pose with him in the view of the camera lens. There was something delicious about the sneakiness of it all, and I just had to try!

And so, unbeknownst to him, I struck several dramatic “be-still-my-beating-heart” poses behind his back, putting every ounce of gooey drama I could. Holland was just as good. We would snap a picture, then run up and laugh silently, catching our breath as quietly as we could manage. 

And then, it happened.

Perhaps he heard us, or perhaps he just knew he was the subject of our photos, but he turned around and did a double take.

Holland froze.

 “You guys want a picture together?” he asked with a smile, rising from his seat on the step.

Holland burst into giggles, but I, feeling rather abashed, took the lead role of “mature one.”  I mean, we didn’t really need a picture of us two together. We had some already. 

But what was I going say? “Oh no, actually, we were just taking pictures of your hunched, pea-coated back…”

So instead I said, as innocently as I could muster, “Yeah, could you?” 

I walked up and handed him the camera. His hand was holding the sketchbook open in one hand. It was opened to a yellow page, and in black pen, I saw a sketch of the sprawling museum lawn.

“I like it,” I said, tapping the page.

“Thanks…”

I stepped back quickly. So, an artist then.

“You guys taking fashion shots are something?” he asked with a wide smile. The smile, I noticed, was rather goofy. And he had a gap in his teeth, similar to Holland’s. The wisp of an Eastern European accent wove its way into his words. His shaggy light brown hair curled over his ears. His shoes were definitely not of this country. Brown leather, with the coolest designs on the sides.

“Yeah, sort of,” I said casually. Holland was still collapsing into flushed giggles behind me.

“What sort of composition would you like?”

Definitely an artist.

“Um…” I look behind me, and I felt like a real dork when I blurted out the words, “Pillars.”

“Pillars?”

“Yeah, if you could get the museum in the background, we weren’t getting it very well when it was just us…”

Which was a whole lot of rubbish. Our stand-back pics were great ones of both us and the museum. It was just a lame excuse for him to take our picture and for to escape looking like an idiot.

I stood beside Holland. She put an awkward arm around me.

“I love you,” she said. Mostly, I think, out of needing something to say.

He took two pictures of us. Taking the camera away, I studied them carefully. The pillars were indeed a main part of the picture. Holland had composed herself for two seconds, long enough for her to look like she had swallowed an avocado pit. I stood smiling as goofily as he had. Probably because inside, I was as full of giggles as Holland. 

He looked at us expectantly, but my only thought was to leave. We had been found out. Him talking to us had never been part of the plan.

“We should get Abigail from the airport now,” I said airily, not looking at him, beginning to walk away. Perhaps looking a tad disappointed, he sat down on his step again, picking up his sketchbook again.

I don’t think I even said thanks.

Holland and I scurried away as fast as we could. She pressed her mouth into her scarf.

“I can’t believe that!” she gasped when she came up for air. “You kept your cool.”

“Just barely,” I hissed. “You were freaking out!”

We had a good, out-loud laugh as we approached my car. I half-hoped he could hear us.

“I wonder what his name was,” I mused. “I should have asked him. I mean, we still could. But that would be weird.”

“We should have asked him, man!”

“Well maybe he’s an awesome Bible-reading guy who is thinking the same thing about you that you are about him!”

“No,” I returned. “He’s probably thinking, ‘Crazy hippie girls…’ I still wonder what his name was! Maybe I should have asked him.”

“Probably something like Raphael, or Emanuzika,” Holland said, rolling her r’s as she stepped toward the passenger side.

“Or maybe…Hans.” I nodded my head. “I think he was German. We’ll call him Hans.”

“Hans?” Holland screwed up her face as we got into the car. “That sounds Mexican. Maybe it was…Francis.”

“Mexican? Francis?” I admonished. “Hans is a classic German name. And Francis is too girlie. No way.”

“Well, he’ll be Hans for you, and Francis for me,” Holland decided.

And so it was thus. Hans, wherever you are, I apologize for sneaking pictures. But truly, that was some of the best fun I have ever had.

When you are a famous artist someday, I will write on your blog, and I will say, “Hey there…remember us? We wanted pillars in the background. We were the fashion-shot girls…”