by Harley Fox
And with that she turns on her heel and leaves. She marches out the door and down the hallway. Her sounds disappear and I’m left staring at the empty open doorway.
Did she just open up to me?
Shaking my head, I ignore her warnings and dip back down into my work. Reconsider this particular profession. Fuck off, Coolidge. This is my passion, and has been since I was a little girl. There’s no way in hell I’m giving it up just because you’re throwing a little extra work my way.
Time ticks past. I finish index card after index card, and when the stack is done I get up, cracking my back, and swap it out for the next stack. I haven’t counted the number of stacks there are. I don’t want to. Instead I just buckle into it, focus on what needs to be done. Transfer pertinent data over. Record any anomalies. Mark down the card, the associated artifact. Wash, rinse, repeat.
A whirring noise kicks me out of my deep focus and I realize it’s the cleaning crew. They’re cleaning the floor. A brown-skinned man appears in the doorway, maneuvering a large machine that looks like a miniature Zamboni and leaves a thick wet streak behind it. He looks up and sees me when he enters. We lock eyes for a moment. But he doesn’t say anything, and instead just goes back to work. A minute later so do I, trying not to get distracted by the loud whir of the machine as it moves over the floor of the room.
Fifteen minutes later he leaves, and the sound of his machine is dampened by the walls between us. I keep working, moving to swap this stack for the next, plugging away at it. I run out of submission forms so I grab some more. My brain starts to feel fried, but I keep at it. Eventually the whirring sound of the machine stops and then it’s just silence. A few minutes later the lights all flick off, out in the hallway and in the archival room too, replaced by a much dimmer glow. I almost cry out, but realize the cleaning staff must’ve thought I’d left already. So I get up and make my way over to the wall where the light switches are. I flick it from Automatic to On, lighting the room up again. Then I resume my place at the table.
The work continues. My stomach growls but I don’t break for anything to eat. Not only did I not bring anything for dinner—not anticipating I’d be staying this late—but I’m certain if I leave to get anything then I’ll be locked out. Am I really planning on finishing this week’s work in one go? I think I am. I take my phone out of my pocket and check the time. It’s past nine now. I blink my eyes hard and give my head a shake, then keep at it.
I lose track of time. All I can see or think about are names, dates, most I recognize, the others I think I know but can’t place. That’s the problem with history. It goes back to the beginning of time. I finish a stack of cards and go swap them for another. Although I didn’t count the number of stacks before, now they’re getting to a point where I can count them. Ten left. Not bad. Not bad. I go back to the table and keep working.
Footsteps echo up the hallway and I raise my head before they reach the doorway. I see the beam of a flashlight cutting through the dim glow outside, narrowing up to a point of origin, held in the hand by a man in a security guard’s uniform. His concerned face relaxes when he sees me.
“Ah, Persephone,” he says, flicking off the flashlight. “I didn’t know why the lights in here were left on.”
“Hey Robert,” I say to him. “Sorry, I should have told you I was working late.”
He nods, glancing around the empty room. “You here on your own?”
“Yep. Just me.” I give him a smile but it feels strange, like I’ve forgotten how to use the muscles on my face. He smiles back, but it’s a weak one.
“You know, you shouldn’t be here.” Now he looks a bit nervous. “We’re not supposed to let you stay past eight.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I’ve just … I’m on a roll here, you know? Is it okay if I stay till I finish? I would be so grateful.”
His eyes narrow, and he glances at the archival room door, although there isn’t anyone there.
“How much longer you think you’re going to be?”
“Um,” I do some quick math. “Maybe an hour?”
He nods. “Okay. Just, uh … get finished up before eleven, okay? I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Sure,” I say, relieved. I would have been so disappointed to get this far only to be kicked out at the last minute. “I should be done by then.”
“Before eleven,” he repeats, and I nod. He glances around the room again, then leaves me again. I sniff, recovering from the break in concentration, and dive back into it.
The rest of the work goes by like a blur. Index cards melt into one another, but I keep working, keep filling out submission forms. Trade one stack of cards for the next, and then the next after that.
Six … five … four …
I check my cell phone. Eleven is approaching. Now that I have a deadline I feel adrenaline replace weariness. My eyelids feel like they might never close to sleep again.
Three … two … one …
I work fast, copying information down. I must’ve done hundreds of these by now. Maybe a thousand. Dr. Coolidge is going to be so surprised when she sees the week’s work done in a night. Who should reconsider their particular profession now, bitch? The pile dwindles down, down, until I flip the index card and see the last one of the stack. My heart skips with elation. I could do this with my eyes closed by now. Copy information over, note any anomalies. Pertinent information, cross-reference index card, and … done!
That’s it. That’s it! I did it! I can’t believe I just did all this work! I stare at the stack of submission papers on the table and gawk, realizing for the first time just how big it is. Usually when people hand in these papers they’ve got five, ten at a time. The stack I have is almost half a foot high. I let out a laugh of surprise, of relief, and stand up, excitement coursing through my body.
Okay. Finish the job. Then you can celebrate.
And how, exactly, am I going to celebrate? There’s no chance in hell I’m going to join the others at the bar. And the thought of just going back to my lonely apartment is depressing. I could get a pizza? Maybe throw on an episode of Planet Earth? The idea of going to get a drink at some other bar fleetingly crosses my mind, but I flick it away. The thought of Kiara having more fuel for her slut-shaming rampage just fills me with dread.
Putting that train of thought on the back burner, I pick up the final stack of index cards and take it back to join the others. Then I return to the table and close my notebook, slipping my pen in the spiral wire binding it. I grab the stack of submission papers and carry them and my notebook with me to the door of the archival room, where I turn the light back to Automatic before leaving.
Down the hall, turn, down again to the office corridor. I reach Dr. Coolidge’s door with the plastic memo folder screwed into the wall beside it. Reaching up, I try to fit the stack of submission papers in. They barely fit, flopping over the edge of it. I can hardly wait to see the look on her face when she sees them. Maybe I’ll come in early just to make sure I do.
That’s it! I walk down the dim hallway, a spring in my step despite my mind’s exhaustion and the stiffness of my body. Robert isn’t around for me to tell him I’m leaving. I pass by exhibits that pepper the halls to keep the decor interesting. I slow down enough to admire a few of them. It’s nice, being able to appreciate the artifacts without crowds of people jostling you or breaking your attention.
I reach the foyer and am about to head to the front doors when a glowing aura catches my eye. Over by the cafeteria stand a stack of vending machines, their illuminated signage challenging the soft overhead light.
I stop, staring at one of the soda machines. I could really go for a Coke right now. And you know what? I’m going to have it. So instead of aiming for the doors, I veer and head to the machine instead, fishing a dollar bill out of my pocket. I feed it in and hit the button. Inner mechanisms sound loud in the otherwise quiet of the space, and then that metallic ka-chunk as it spits out my can of sugary soft drink.
&n
bsp; I bend down and take it out, feeling the cold of it against my fingertips.
Ksssh-kk.
I bring the can up to my lips and drink, drink deep, not realizing how parched I was until the fizzy liquid hits my lips and cools my throat. I guzzle it down, emptying half the can before I lower it. Then a bubble of gas builds in me like a singing frog’s throat and I let out a long, deep, and utterly satisfying burp.
“Ohh yeah,” I say to no one.
My lips smack, and I take another sip of the cold soda. I turn to the front doors … but then keep turning. My eyes rove around the foyer. I’m all alone. All alone in this vast, famous museum. One of my favorite places in the world … and right now it’s all mine.
The realization of freedom slowly dawns on me. How am I going to celebrate? Why not by spending some rare alone time with the very things I love most in this world?
Tucking the notebook under my arm, I fish my cell phone out and check the time. Just past eleven. I bite my lip, thinking of Robert. Well, he just gave that deadline for me to finish my work. It’s not like it was set in stone or anything. And besides, if he stops me, I’ll just tell him I lost track of time.
With a thrill that makes me feel like a little girl again rushing through me, I go in the opposite direction of the front doors and head into the museum again. And I know exactly which exhibit I’m going to check out first.
I make my way to the stairs and climb up them, reveling in the echoing silence of my footsteps in all this space. Nobody moving slowly, no kids picking their noses and smearing boogers on the handrails. Up to the fourth floor and I move through the exhibits. But I slow down as I do, telling myself to take my time, appreciate what’s around me. So I walk slowly. I take my time. The artifacts all look surreal in the dim overhead light. I sip at my soda as I walk along, reading the placards, really looking at the exhibits and appreciating them for what they are.
It takes me a while, and I know I shouldn’t be in the museum this late, but when else am I going to have an opportunity like this? I check the time again: almost a quarter to midnight. Robert would kill me. I bite my lip. Just one more thing, and then I'll go.
Finally I reach it: the Forbidden Necklace. My breath catches in my throat when I see it. In this soft light, it looks even more beautiful than ever. Haunting, mysterious … it’s the stuff history is made of. I put my notebook and can of Coke down on the floor so I can lean over, staring, gawking, appreciating it as I never could when other people are around.
As I admire this incredible found specimen, I glance over to where, mere hours before, Marc stepped up and joined me in looking at this very artifact. I smile, thinking about him. He was cute. More than cute: he was fucking hot. A flutter goes through my stomach, and I take another sip of soda to calm myself. Okay, okay. Take it easy, Persephone. If he calls he calls. And if not, then you had a nice time showing him around.
But if he calls? Well, that could lead to a date. And a date could lead to a fun time spent together, laughing, conversation, and then back up to one of our apartments. We might have a nightcap, our conversation might become a bit deeper, and then in that sweet lull that inevitably arises he might lean closer to me, as though telling me a secret, and his breath might just tickle the side of my neck right before—
What was that?
I freeze, my fantasy dissolving into nothing as I strain my ears to listen. Footsteps. A flash of fear hits me before a wash of relief covers it.
It’s just Robert. He doesn’t know I’m still here, and he might have heard me walking around.
I open my mouth, about to call out to him so he’s not surprised when he sees me, but a sound makes my voice dry up in my throat.
“Be careful with that. These things take forever to make.”
“You’re sure the system was turned off?”
“We’d have noticed long ago if it hadn’t, honey.”
Voices. Not just one, but many. And footsteps. They’re getting louder. They’re coming this way!
I move quickly, quietly, sneaking around the corner and just in time. Four people appear from behind a wall, each of them carrying large duffel bags. I bring my hand to my mouth to cover my gasp. One of them I met briefly, and two I've never seen before. But that last one would be impossible to mistake.
Dressed in black garb and carrying a duffel bag of his own is none other than my recent crush, Marc Anthony.
Marc
“Man, these rent-a-guards keep getting cheaper and cheaper to pay off.”
Julian, Rebekka, Edward, and I move through the dimly lit hallways of the museum, going from artifact to artifact, the ones we marked down to take. At each one we find the corresponding replica in our duffel bags, unwrap it, carefully swap out the original for the replica, wrap the original back up, stash it away. It’s finicky work, and sometimes I think of myself as Indiana Jones, being so careful swapping out the historical artifact for a bag of sand. What we do is a bit more sophisticated, but it’s still a good way to pass the time.
“I guess they’ve got nothing to lose,” Julian points out. “It’s basically a victimless crime.”
“No crime is victimless,” Rebekka says as she wraps up a handful of currency. “If anybody knew about it, we’d be done. No one would say what we’re doing is right.”
“I just mean that no one can tell,” Julian explains.
“If they look hard enough, they can,” I point out.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe next time you should be the one making these things.”
“Shut up,” Edward snaps in a low voice. “Stick to your work.”
We quiet down, making our way slowly through the museum. The first three floors didn’t take that much time, and now that we’re on the last floor the job is almost finished. You work with a crew for so long, you get into a rhythm with them. They become like your family. You find you start thinking together without even needing to talk. Like tapping into a hivemind.
The work flows smoothly. Once this is done we’ll take it all back down to the van, drive out to the warehouse, and pack it up for delivery. Two months’ hard work, and it’ll be over by the end of the day tomorrow. Then off to the next city, the next state, the next job. Maybe we’ll have time in between. Maybe not. It all depends on our clients. One thing can definitely be said for Edward: he knows how to get and keep contacts.
I finish packing up an original comb and then turn to my favorite artifact in this whole place: that jade necklace Persephone called The Forbidden Necklace. That’s where she and I met. It’s too bad I won’t be able to see her again. She was a sweet girl. But more than that: I felt something between us. Something I haven’t felt with anyone else before. Maybe if we get a break between jobs I’ll come back to see her. Take her out on a date.
I turn to the necklace and walk over. Put my duffel bag down. Take out the replica. Unwrap it. Open up the necklace’s case. Carefully remove it, putting the replica in its place, making sure the positioning is exactly as it was before. This close, and without the glass of the case in the way, I can see the imperfections in Julian’s work. But hopefully no one else will. I wrap the actual jade necklace back up, stash it in the bag. Then I close the glass case and straighten up.
That’s when something on the ground catches my eye and makes me stop. Two things, actually, now that I’m looking: a spiral-bound notebook and a can of Coke.
I stare at these items. Glance around at the others. They’re all focused on their own tasks. No one else has the necklace, so no one else has noticed them.
I look around the museum. Maybe they were left by some school kid taking notes. People take notes at museums. Hell, I did it.
But no, the cleaning staff has already been through. We were assured we wouldn’t run into anybody. And that’s not the kind of thing the staff would just leave sitting on the floor. It’s not like they’re hidden or anything. They’re sitting there, plain as day.
So naturally, my hackles raise. My instincts heighten. We might have trou
ble.
“Guys.”
My voice is soft, but I make it carry. The levelness, the tone, all triggers my group to stop what they’re doing and look at me. I nod down at the items on the ground.
“I think somebody might be here.”
A ripple goes through the group. Rebekka’s just finished her swap so she comes over to join me. Julian and Edward finish theirs, moving quickly, silently, before coming over as well. I haven’t moved. If someone is here, they haven’t made themselves known yet. They might not know that we know yet. They might still be in hiding, waiting for us to turn a certain corner before they take us down.
Nobody’s said anything yet. I feel heads moving around, checking halls, corners, nooks and crannies. Finally Edward speaks up.
“There’s condensation on the can.”
I have to focus my eyes, but I see it. He’s right. On the outside of the Coke can are small droplets of water.
“When did the museum close?” Julian asks.
“Seven.” The water wouldn’t be here anymore. Now I’m convinced. Somebody is here with us.
“Might just be a kid,” Rebekka suggests. “Playing hide and seek or something. Got trapped inside when they closed.”
“Might be a trap,” Edward counters. Nobody says anything to that.
“Should we leave?”
“They might be at the doors.”
“If we had them as a hostage, we could fight our way out.”
“Jesus Christ, this isn’t how I want to go.”
“Shut up,” Edward says, and we all close our mouths.
He bends down slowly, reaches to the notebook and can of Coke. Touches the Coke tentatively, then with more certainty. Same with the notebook, testing to see if it’s attached to anything, a sensor or an alarm. When he’s satisfied they’re not he picks them up. Wipes a streak through the water droplets on the outside of the can. Lifts it to his nose. Gives it a sniff. Then he looks around, first to one side, then the other. Then back to us.
He gives his head a shake. “They’re clean,” he says. “This is Coke. As for the book …”