Can't Touch This by Marley Gibson Page B

the white-walled gallery with the rest of the group.  Kyle wastes no time excusing himself, high-tailing it to the bar where he quickly strikes up a conversation with a swanky-looking older woman from the bus.  Nearly a hundred people crowd the gallery, which is filled with works of art and paintings by Forest Lynch.  I don’t know the first thing about art and can’t tell if the stuff is inspirational or schlock.
    Upon closer inspection, I have to go with the latter.
    “Would you like some?”  A waiter offers a tray full of hors d’oeuvres.  I snag a couple of Phyllo pastries stuffed with mushrooms.  Next, I take an offered glass of champagne with a small raspberry floating in the animated amber liquid.  As I sip and nibble, I scrutinize the so-called art.
    To my left, encased in glass, are four silver toasters welded together and painted in neon colors.  Each sport several “FL” initials.  Ah, the artist.  Looking around the room, I notice everything is decorated with his initials.   After perusing one room filled with yard sale welding projects, I make my way into a second corridor full of portraits.  Okay, this is better.  Real art supplies like oil paints and nylon brushes were used to create these pieces.
    But as I look around the starch white room, I notice every portrait on the wall is basically the same thing:  a lone pig.  Only it’s a different color in each portrait.  It’s some kind of warped, wanna-be Andy Warhol Impressionistic crap.
    “Do people actually buy this?” I ask out loud before realizing it came out.  A woman in Chanel looks down her nose at me and keeps walking.  Best to keep my mouth shut.
    I finish my glass of champagne and snag a fresh one from a passing server.  Another waiter offers me a chicken pastry purse.  After tasting the delectable treat, I take three more.  Might as well enjoy myself.  There’s a small buffet table in the back of the pig display room, so I help myself to crudités, blocks of cheese, and strawberries the size of your fist.  The second glass of champagne doesn’t last long either, and I quickly delve into a third.  Good thing I have a high tolerance for alcohol.
    I stand and stare at one pig portrait in particular that makes me think of Arnold from the “Green Acres” re-runs on cable.  Behind Arnold stands another pig.  I wonder what Foster Lynch was trying to say with this portrait, if anything, or if he just has a thing for the porcine persuasion.
    “Shouldn’t you be networking, Vanessa?” Kyle asks as he nudges me with his shoulder.
    Laughing, I say, “Actually, I’m trying to interpret this painting of an animal with short legs, cloven hooves, bristly hair, and a cartilaginous snout.”
    The woman from the bar is standing there next to Kyle.  I feel a bit ridiculous for going of on the painting within her hearing range.  She seems unfazed.
    Instead, she shakes his hand and says, “It was great meeting you, Kyle, and let me know if you’re coming out to Salt Lake any time for a customer visit.  I’ll show you a good time.”
    I bet she will.
    She winks and swishes away.
    Kyle doesn’t get it, though, not even while watching her slink away from him.  He’s oblivious to all the women staring at him.
    “A client?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
    “Yep.  And a satisfied one at that,” he notes.
    I snicker.  “I’m sure she is.”
    “That’ll make Jiles happy.  Sar-Com Products were threatening to go to SalesTracker just last week, so I may have saved that account by telling her what she wanted to hear.  A little good will goes a long way.”  He smiles and then takes a sip from his beer.
    “I’m glad I’m not in customer service.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Because, you have to lie.”  I try sipping my champagne without swallowing the raspberry.
    Kyle’s lips flatten.  “Oh, come off it, Vanessa, I don’t lie.  I just try to make customers happy.”
    “By lying.”
    “By listening to