No thank you, said Mrs. Chattington, before swanning off. I gave during the last revolution.
         Well okay!
         These rich people were getting to her a little, so Trish left Chris at the donation table and took a look round the gallery. It wasn’t a very interesting show: paintings amateurish, installations indifferent, mixed media meh. Everything had sexually transgressive names like Hatefuck, Goonstate, and Collaborative Vasectomies. That one was called Jane Russell’s Chest: well, it certainly was. She was put in mind of Carolee Schneemann, COUM, Guerrilla Girls. The music sounded like Lydia Lunch. These points of reference were all several decades old. Was she out of touch, or were the artists? No, it’s the children who are wrong, she decided, feeling elderly.
         Titties and Demigods, Whore of Fang Rock. You nerds! A murky brown gouache called Dumpy People Having Affairs. A mannequin-based thing called Hand Jobs for the Whole Family. Oh come on now. She went back to the table.
         The dumpy people in the painting made a note of her indifference. An association meeting was called—at the very least, they agreed, they had a public image problem.
         Sure, I’m not Clark Gable, said one of the dumpy people. But used to be even Elliott Gould could be a sex symbol.
         Harold, you’re no Elliott Gould, said Harriet.
         And you’re no… no Jane Russell, Harriet. My point is that I think we’ve let our standards slip a little.
         Harry, there are twelve of us in here, plus Jesus, said Arthur, and we’ve already had sex in every conceivable combination.
         He’s right, you know, said Mabel. I’m sick of every dick in here. Don’t look so hurt, Harold. It’s just overfamiliarity. We’re not giving it our all anymore.
         They brainstormed. Group counseling seemed implausible. But what to do about this rut? Hazel was the one who suggested they open it up a little.
         Open it up?
         To Jane Russell maybe? asked Harold.
         Well, I wasn’t thinking the collaborative vasectomy guys, said Hazel. But maybe also go, you know, a little exotic?
         You’re so bad, laughed Gladys, mock-slapping Hazel’s shoulder.
         Later, after most of the guests had left, Trish took one last turn around the gallery. The dumpy-people thing looked even more overcrowded than it had earlier, but maybe a smidge livelier than she’d given it credit for.
         At the table Chris was nowhere to be found. That was the problem with volunteers, she thought. No buy-in, they just want to get their hours done and go home. Kids! She packed up the flyers and the buttons and let herself out.
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