Metropolitan Stories

by Christine Coulson

  Walter felt for a pulse and confirmed what he already knew. The corpse was curled around itself like a puppy sleeping in a stream of sunlight. The Rubber Band Man looked as he always did: frail, sprightly, but in a ghostly way, with long strands of thin hair pulled away from his face and bound by hundreds of rubber bands into a stiff rod extending from the nape of his neck down his back. His face was the translucent ivory of a polychromed statue of a saint, its surface creased with a life’s worth of effort and concentration; his shriveled hands, mapped with gray veins that pushed below his skin like a fragile root system. His eyelids were closed, two moths’ wings hung upon the serene and aged face.

  Walter knelt down and gently held the Rubber Band Man’s head in his hands for a moment—at once a greeting and a farewell—an unspoken “It’s ok, I’ve got you” between strangers. Without thought, Walter scooped the body into his powerful arms, as much to relieve it from its current state as to initiate any other action. He was disarmed by its lightness and the direct sensation of bones through cloth. It felt like the muslin bag of wooden blocks he used to keep in his locker for his son.

  He carefully crossed the museum through the basement’s winding passages and automatically headed to the Sentry Booth—more than three blocks away—the only place that would be occupied that early in the morning. From the security cameras, it looked as though he were carrying a small load of laundry.

  Walter found the loneliness of this singular procession heartbreaking, and felt the wet path of a tear slip down his cheek and land in a small, salty puddle on his lower lip. He didn’t even know the Rubber Band Man’s name.

  * * *

  —

  The Met mourns rigorously. Not to any one god or any group of gods, or according to any doctrine or religion. But along deep, internal traditions, and with carefully tended rites that evolved in a tribal, rather than orthodox, way.

  The news of the Rubber Band Man’s death arrived in President Lily Martin’s office by 8:00 AM, after the ambulance had taken the body away and the police had spoken to Walter. Moving the body complicated things, but it was clear the cause was natural.

  By 8:45, a team assembled in the President’s Office on the Fifth Floor to start organizing the staff’s grief.

  Bruno Parker looked to his boss, Dick Trachner, who responded with an imperceptible nod giving Parker permission to speak. Trachner’s control was legendary, exerted from the large, sparsely furnished office he occupied toward the back of the museum. He spoke with similar economy, as if he had been given a set amount of words for a lifetime and, at age sixty-two, was running low.

  Parker began, benevolent as always, but a little grave. “The time of death is still undetermined, but the police don’t think an autopsy is needed. We’re working with Human Resources to identify any family.”

  The President interrupted; she had a penchant (and skill) for structuring others’ mourning, but details were needed. “Wait. Can we back up? What was the guy’s name? Did anyone in this room know him as anything other than the Rubber Band Man? We can’t even write an all-staff memo without his name.”

  “Constantine Srossic,” Chief Legal Counsel Martha Driscoll responded. She remained unflappable in the face of all inquiries and was known as “The Velvet Hammer” for the brutal strength that sat just below her pearls.

  Driscoll continued, “He was eighty-seven years old. HR sent his papers over. He has worked here since he was nineteen. No family, no contacts on his emergency form.”

  The President leaned back in her chair. “Constantine Sewersick.” She mispronounced his name, making it sound like a disease you caught on the subway. No one corrected her. She seemed wistful all of a sudden, as if giving him an identity filled her with regret for a relationship they’d never had. “So he worked here for fifty-six years…”

  “Sixty-eight,” Driscoll clarified.

  “What?”

  “Sixty-eight,” she repeated, “He was eighty-seven.”

  “Right. Whatever. Sixty-eight years. Jesus. That’s twice as long as I’ve been here, and I feel like I should have an accession number on me,” the President responded, referring to the number that every work of art is given when it becomes part of the permanent collection. “Where is he now?” she added bluntly.

  “Who?” Parker responded, general whereabouts usually being his concern.

  “Sewersick.”

  “Uh, the morgue? The police put him in an ambulance.”

  More than one person around the table wondered at that moment where this was going. What did she want, an open casket in the Great Hall?

  The President’s pity for the anonymous man and his solitary life began to swell. She turned to Libby Davenport, head of Development. Death always ended up in the Development Office. “Libby, draft an all-staff memo. Since there’s no family, we’ll have to handle the arrangements.”

  To the outside world this commandeering of someone’s final wishes might seem strange, even aggressive. For the Met, this was protocol, a part of the museum’s familial staff culture.

  Davenport knew this, but immediately questioned the directive, concerned with its possible indication of a new policy. Davenport’s glass was always half-empty—and possibly made of steel. “OK, but if we do this for this guy—”

  “Constantine Srossic,” Driscoll repeated, determined to maintain some decorum.

  “Fine. Mr. Serosis, the Rubber Band Man, whatever. Are we now required to take this on for everyone? My staff can’t handle becoming a funeral parlor for every Tom, Dick, and Harry who drops dead in this museum.”

  The President understood the concern, having long advocated for firm precedents that could be cited when complaints blossomed. She replied to Davenport with a tone that acknowledged the established guidelines, while at the same time weaving a narrative to justify ignoring them. It was her singular gift to pursue these diverging paths simultaneously.

  “Right. I hear you,” the President said, “This can’t be the thin edge of the wedge, but we’re also talking about possibly the longest-standing—well, not standing, anymore—you know what I mean. The longest-serving employee here. And one that did happen to drop dead in our basement.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Parker saw Trachner smirk as the President stumbled over her words, at once compassionate and glib. Driscoll looked down and subtly shook her head, dismayed by the repeated use of the phrase “drop dead.”

  “Fine,” Davenport conceded. “But does this guy even warrant an all-staff memo? When Bill Briggs had a heart attack near the fountains, we just ignored it.”

  “Libby…” The President did not need to say anything further. The enough was implied in her headmistress tone.

  “Should a staff coffee be arranged for tomorrow?” the head of Special Events asked, from a chair at the edge of the room. She arrived after the meeting had started, and knew that if Trachner was at the table, one did not join without permission.

  “Of course,” replied the President, missing Davenport’s eye-roll and her exaggerated scribble, noting the decision on her pad.

  TO: All Staff

  FROM: Michel Larousse, Director

  RE: Constantine Srossic

  September 15, 2004

  As many of you may have heard, the Metropolitan’s longest-serving employee passed away last night at the Museum. Constantine Srossic was known to all of us as the diligent organizer of the Museum’s shopping bags. His role was critical, and his sixty-eight-year tenure demonstrated his unparalleled dedication to the Museum. The boxes in the corridor to the south of the Staff Cafeteria are a monument to his devoted service.

  A staff coffee will be held tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM in the Temple of Dendur to recognize Constantine’s contributions to The Met. Thank you.

  President Lily Martin knew one thing: There was no way that Director Michel Larousse was going to speak at a staff
coffee to honor a man who organized shopping bags. Mourning over mini-muffins never went over well with her boss; deploying his baritone for a man partially encased in office supplies would definitely not fly.

  She would do it, a sincere address from the museum’s distinguished mama lion to the nine hundred staff members who would gather for their fallen colleague.

  * * *

  —

  At exactly 9:00 AM the next day, a multigenerational span of the museum’s staff assembled. While no one claimed any friendship with the Rubber Band Man, he stood for something powerful within an institution defined by loyalty—an unspoken code of respect for those who arrived young, worked hard, and stayed for a lifetime. The Met raised these staff members as its own, unwavering in its devotion and accepting of their many eccentricities, rubber bands and all. It protected Constantine Srossic in its cocoon, even if no one knew his name.

  President Martin’s speaking style, while fluid and sincere, could occasionally tilt toward the macabre, and she was often more direct than her audience expected. She took to the podium like a seasoned politician, elegant but warm, with hair that could challenge a hurricane. She also maintained her skewed pronunciation of the deceased’s name, with little consequence other than to wrongly establish his actual name.

  “Good morning and welcome. I am pleased to see so many of you here this morning to bid farewell to Constantine Sewersick.

  “He was known as the Rubber Band Man, a quiet, humble staff member who wandered our halls for sixty-eight years. The news that he was found dead—by our own Walter Howe—near his enormous pile of shopping bags sent shock waves of disbelief and grief through our museum. We all knew this timeless hero. The kind man who seemed to never leave his special section of the ground floor. For nearly seven decades, the Rubber Band Man had been seen here every day, and now that will never happen again. So many of us will miss his presence: silent, almost mute…but friendly…and welcoming to all.

  “Constantine Sewersick’s legacy will be his bags: a tidy, ordered tribute to his love of the Met. But as the Rubber Band Man, he was also part of something much bigger: a museum that considers its staff family. We work together, and we grow together, we strive and we celebrate together. And now, we mourn together for a colleague who will be long remembered by us all. May you all hold your shopping bags a little tighter today. Thank you.”

  Applause followed, along with some extended mingling among the crowd in the light-filled space that held the Egyptian temple. These gatherings worked on a primal level for the staff, securing its belief in the bigger ideals of the Met and affirming their place within its ecosystem. Still grappling with these fundamental convictions and their own mortality, they wrapped pastries into folded napkins and smuggled them back to their offices.

  * * *

  —

  Weeks passed, and chaos gripped the museum shops. No one had ever realized the impact the Rubber Band Man had on bag distribution. One shop had to drop postcards into cavernous bags made for books, while another struggled to jam thick art catalogues into paper sacks designed to hold scarves and jewelry. Bottoms tore, handles broke, near empty bags swept across the Central Park sky like so many branded kites. The tourists complained, the New Yorkers wanted refunds, sales plummeted.

  At the Weekly Executive Briefing, the report from the Merchandise Manager confirmed the mayhem. “Get a system in place,” demanded the President. “This week.”

  Edith, a young, eager woman who worked in the Merchandise Department, was dispatched to assess and report on the remains of the Rubber Band Man’s supplies, with the hope of understanding his routine. It was a tedious task in a particularly dreary part of the museum, but Edith saw the project as an opportunity to stand out among her colleagues. Armed with her master’s degree in art history, she would crack the paper bag challenge.

  Edith knew that life at the Met had long followed this course: you got your chance, took your shot, and committed yourself to your minor role within the masterpiece. It was like the great studios of the Renaissance masters, she thought. And she was in charge of painting the ankles.

  She began by confronting the hill of boxes that the Rubber Band Man had left behind. Overwhelmed before the ten-foot stack in the otherwise barren hallway, she decided that she needed to inventory them first to see what was inside, labeling them as she went. The cartons reached the ceiling in a formation that reminded her of the Egyptian Tomb of Perneb, a high façade constructed in the alternating pattern of a brick wall. It was heavy work, but armed with a Sharpie and a ladder, Edith conquered each row with quick determination.

  As she reached the boxes leaning against the back wall, she was surprised to find some of the cartons were fused together. She shook them a bit and realized they were lighter, too. The combined boxes created a broad surface that reached down to the floor and formed a three-foot wide, six-foot high slab. On one edge of the slab was a bound batch of shopping bag handles carefully wrapped in rubber bands to make a new, larger handle attached to the cardboard. Edith pulled on the handle and the boxes swung open on a series of rubber band hinges, a shocking door within the colossal mound.

  Beyond the trick box door was a real door, the entrance to a long-forgotten storage room. Ingenious, she thought. She assumed the fake door was a humorous response to a mandate that the storeroom always be accessible. Just when the Rubber Band Man was being reprimanded for ignoring the request, he would smile and reveal his clever joke.

  Dreading more boxes that would need to be counted, Edith flipped on the light switch, stepped inside, and immediately knew the inventory was over.

  She stood inside a marvel: a breathtaking room constructed entirely of white paper.

  And not just any room, a miniature octagonal eighteenth-century French parlor, with elaborate three-dimensional carving reproduced through tiny cuts to the paper. About ten feet across, the space was a perfectly balanced Neoclassical triumph. Egg and dart moldings, bound laurel garlands, playful rosettes, swirls of foliage—layers upon layers of decoration, lined up to define every interior detail: surrounding the ceiling, framing another door opposite the entrance, and outlining two recessed areas, one with a paper daybed, and one with a paper desk and what looked like a large cabinet held closed by an elaborate latch. Narrow panels appeared rhythmically within the architecture, circumscribing each section with minutely recreated decorative molding. A cardboard chandelier hung from paper chains, nine illuminated arms around a centerpiece the size and shape of an inverted eggplant.

  Edith couldn’t help but touch one of the garlands, admiring the meticulous cuts that allowed it to curve and exist in three dimensions. She knocked on a wall and heard the solid structure beyond it. Only two materials had been used to create this wonder: the white interior of Met shopping bags and the corrugated boxes that housed those bags outside the room.

  The whole formed a confection of spun sugar. It sat like a vivid memory, tactile and authentic, but also strange and disconnected. Only later would Edith realize that the Rubber Band Man had crafted a reduced version of the 1775 room from the Hôtel de Crillon in the Wrightsman Galleries. He had left out the elaborate arabesque painting that is the hallmark of the original, and in doing so, captured the room’s unheralded architectural achievement.

  The daybed fit perfectly into its two-foot deep alcove, its high sides and back adorned with regimented swags, and its front legs topped with little Egyptian heads—all the rage in late eighteenth-century France—their paper faces appearing like mice emerging from a hole. Edith imagined the Rubber Band Man curled on the bed and recalled the rumor she had heard about his position in the hallway when he was found dead. An overwhelming tenderness toward this stranger and his wonderland came over her. He must have known this day would come, the moment when his invisible creation would be found. Had he envisioned this very instant?

  A writing desk sat within the opposite alcove. It was elegantly coupled with
a low chair featuring tapered legs that ended in outsized scrolls supporting a seat circled by acanthus leaves. The table simulated eighteenth-century mechanical furniture, with a sliding top that revealed a small surface propped up like a painting on an easel; in its original form, it would likely have been a mirror.

  Edith opened the drawer of the desk and was amused to find a single object: scissors. She scooped up the tool that had given life to a fantasy, respecting its heft in her hand. As she leaned down to put the scissors back in the drawer, she got a better look at the easel surface. The frame itself followed the restrained design of the desk. But inside the frame, behind a piece of glass, was something genuine and historic: a museum memo from 1963.

  THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART

  NEW YORK 28 N.Y.

  March 6, 1963

  To All Employees:

  More than a few; many, many of the members of the Museum staff and their families could – and should – be singled out for devotion and service to the Museum during the recent weeks of pressure while the Mona Lisa was on exhibition. Some were heroic in their actions and their restraint under provoking circumstances.

  To the Captain and the Lieutenants and their men we wish to express particular appreciation and pride. The curators and their staffs and all of the service departments have cooperated in many noticed and unnoticed directions. With what the staff of the Junior Museum had to face, and the telephone operators and the engineers; they will tell their stories for years to come. Mr. Noble, Mr. McGregor, Lil Green and her staff, Membership and Joan Stack and her helpers have kept the ship from rocking while it shook from without and within. The augmented sales force under Mr. Kelleher and his crew dispensed printed paper, and the Restaurant and Parking Lot had their dollar problems. By the combined efforts of the Museum staff 1,077,521 visitors were able to view the Mona Lisa within the space of twenty-seven days.