STUDENTS BANNED FROM WINDGATE MUSEUM OF ART

Last Saturday, The Windgate posted a pleasant, pastel-colored graphic design which read “WINDGATE EXCLUSIVITY POLICY NOW IN EFFECT,” with a link for its description. This policy forbids current college students from entering the facility, be they from Hendrix, UCA, or anywhere else. Any trespassers found on the premises will be fined $500 and arrested.

This radical new policy came without immediate explanation. The Profile, as a student organization, has been blocked by the Windgate on all social media platforms, and met with silence via email and phone.

As a student myself, I recognized that I would need to don a disguise to find the truth about the Windgate, especially give n that I am quite well-known, and popular. My assistant, Charlie, and I spent almost an hour at our whiteboard, thinking of nothing that could satisfy our needs. I would need to fully hide my body and face in a reasonable, casual way, recognizably not a student. At last, Charlie said “A-ha!” and wrote “DEADPOOL” on the board. It is true: since his films, “DEADPOOL” has become a beloved, unsuspicious bastion of wit and clarity. His famous costume hides one’s face and body, and, as anyone who ‘s seen his films can tell you, he’s not a college student.

So Charlie sat down at our office’s sewing machine and got to work, and two days later I was head to toe in red spandex, tw in katanas across my back, ready for Operation Infiltrate Windgate. I began to walk to the center of campus, embracing my inner “DEADPOOL,” rehearsing sardonic responses to standard questions.

As I walked through the front door, I was struck by all of the great art up on the walls. The front desk sign-in sheet was manned by a ~14-year-old boy whose nametag read “AXTON.” The Windgate’s former student employees, of course, had all been fired and placed under house arrest. I knew this because Axton told me, following it up with a “Serves them right, I mean, they’re not even supposed to be here!” I’d written my name by now, walking off measuredly, but swift. “What a bunch of losers,” I shouted over my shoulder in congruence, following up with “but what do I know, I’m Deadpool!”

I paused in front of a great picture of a girl with some flowers. The flowers looked really great, and the girl also looked really great. A big guy with a white shirt on came up next to me, and smiled. “You’re Deadpool, right?”

“Yeah, and you?”

“Name’s Nebuchadnezzar ‘Chad’ Windgate. I actually drew all these pictures.”

“Wow.” I said. “This one here is really great.” Chad nodded, as if he already knew. Seizing my opportunity, I asked him the million-dollar-question. “So why’d you ban all the students, Mr. Windgate? I’m sure I’ll agree with you.”

Chad paused, looked around the mostly-empty space, then back at me. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone. I’ll tell you though, because you’re Deadpool. I don’t think Hendrix Students are intelligent or wise enough to understand my art. They interpret it all wrong, trying to figure out why I painted the things I did, instead of just recognizing how great it is, and the ways by which is great.”

I had a hand across my face, like I was thinking. “Surely you had some reason in mind, though.”

Chad winced. “Maybe I did, but I don’t think that they should try to guess it. Maybe if they were smarter.”

As I began to ask my next question, Axton screeched “WAAAAIT!!” with a bony finger outstretched. “You wrote your name in the sign-in sheet as ‘D. Pool.’ Everyone knows that’s not your real name, right Mr. Wilson?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” I said, floundering like a fish. I wrote “WILSON” down on the form, crossing out “D. POOL.”

“And I’ll need your first name, too.” He handed the form back to me. I panicked, and wrote “Spider-Man,” because I didn’t fully recognize that the two were distinct. “That [EXPLETIVE] liar isn’t Deadpool!” Axton was lunging toward me now, practically breathing fire.

Chad seemed genuinely disappointed. “I thought you were Deadpool. I thought you liked my art.”

Found out, I took off my mask. “That part was genuine, Chad. I think you’ve got a gift.” Chad was stern now. He recognized me, due to my aforementioned popularity, and gave some sort of hand-signal to Axton, who cuffed and splayed me out on the tile floor. When I looked up, though, there was a little twinkle in Chad’s eye: he was happy to know that his art had resonated with me, and in some way this happiness had made me happy. I never found the truth about the Windgate, but I did find some great art. In spite of my $500 fine, looming court date, and ankle bracelet, I take solace - nay - pleasure in that.