I’m not really sure what to do. An old friend of mine, Leon, reached out to me recently. We haven’t talked since high school. He kinda disappeared off the face of the Earth. He and I were two peas in a pod. Both a little disgruntled, angry at the world, lonely. We got along easily, since we could mope about the same shit. Seeing us around school was probably like looking at the emo kids from South Park.
Although we got along and spent basically every waking hour together, I never really KNEW him if that makes sense. Everything was small talk, revolving around what was going on in that moment. If we were studying, we were talking about school work, if we were playing Call of Duty, we were talking about Call of Duty. We never really chatted about anything personal.
After high school he went straight into work. Never knew what he did. I went to College far from the little town we called home for so long. Now, I’m thirty. We stopped talking when we graduated, just about age 17. I don’t know what to make of what Leon sent me in the mail, but I’ve learned more about Leon than I did through our friendship in our childhood.
I was told by an online friend that this might be a good place to post something like this. I’ll spare you my thoughts, mainly because I can’t currently comprehend any. I’ve only opened the main file, but I’m getting ahead of myself, let me explain. A few weeks ago, I received an envelope in the mail. Inside the envelope was a picture of a lush landscape, and a small hard drive. The contents of the drive consisted of a “READ ME FIRST” file, and then a “Documents” folder. What I’m posting here now is the “READ ME FIRST” file. I’m not sure what to make of all of it.
I’ve only read the “READ ME FIRST” file. It’s separated into short parts. I don’t know why, but I’ll go about posting it as it is formatted.
There’s also a title at the top of the page, Archivist.
~ Archivist Part 1 ~
My phone reads twenty one hundred. For the past five hours, I have been repeatedly reading over a single file. The contents are life changing, any idea of my own life, the world, the universe, and what it all means, flipped upside down and right side up again. I suppose maybe I should start from the beginning, but with or without context, what I have revealed to myself, and what I am soon to reveal to you all, will most likely still be too much to comprehend.
I have no experience working in government fields, I wasn’t ever class president, I don’t even vote. I’m a workaholic, I don’t see the light of day unless I have to make a med run or go hit up the McDonalds drive through for a shitty coffee. My first job was as an archivist at a local museum. We focused a lot on art and literature, local historical junk. I spent my time sorting through and keeping records of different exhibits we ran and submissions received from local authors.
The back room in which I worked was actually an old office, all the cubicles and desks still resided, waiting for someone to use them again. Before me, nobody used anything back in the archives. Everything was unorganized, disheveled papers, books, and art pieces strewn about without a care, only two fluorescent bulbs illuminated the entirety of the space. Clearly, the original intent was to use these cubicles and desks as makeshift shelves and file folders, charmingly inconvenient, but when you have ten dollars of local government funding every month I suppose you make do with what you have. Whoever was in charge before me, clearly was only here for the pay, my theory reinforced by an old television connected with a PS1 and an unrealistically tall stack of nostalgic games stacked high next to the outdated tube.
It was prime real estate for occupying my OCD and for keeping myself sane for the next twenty years or so. I started small, simply replacing every bulb, even the two that weren’t burnt out, with brand new ones. Then, I started to organize everything by categories. All literature was organized by genre in alphabetical order. All pieces of writing ranging from single sentences to full Moby Dick sized novels, meticulously organized within the left side of each cubicle’s drawers. There was even more systematic organization to the literature, what cubicle it went in, so on and so forth outside of just the genre and alphabetical order, but if I went on about that I would have a full essay written before I could get on with what I came here to inform.
Art was organized by permanent historical collection or local pieces brought in for gallery showings. The historical section was categorized by date produced and the artist’s name, then by date within the style and by medium. Local submissions were simply organized by date of submission.
Art was organized by permanent historical collection or local pieces brought in for gallery showings. The historical section was categorized by date produced and the artist’s name, then by date within the style and by medium. Local submissions were simply organized by date of submission.
My efforts were immediately recognized by the museum curators. I received repeated raises and even inspired greater care of the main exhibits. Our eclectic hometown tourist attraction soon became something comparable to the Smithsonian. The events playing out felt too good to be true, like someone writing a feel good comedy. Or maybe you could say romance.
If it weren’t for her, I never would have been saved from my death-track workstyle and life choices. I would never have smiled, I would never have laughed, and I wouldn’t have ever loved. She began working with me once funding increased. We had more supplies for restoration, more money for marketing, and with the flow of revenue, new employees which meant an increase in the quality of life for the veteran employees.
She had short brown hair that made her stand out amongst the crowd. As common as short brown hair is, she managed to create a unique look with her not-so-unique genetics. It was an indescribable style that fit her and only her, sitting eccentrically between the common shoulder length straight hair and overly short dike hairdos. Her eyes were a piercing aqua, crystal like a blue hole, mysterious like the cosmos. Her figure was slim, perkily endowed, a look fit for a model rather than a museum employee.
She disrupted my work somewhat, and at first I hated her. All my organization was being undermined, and even when I tried to teach her how to file and organize, she seemed to never get the idea. Although compared to just throwing junk in haphazardly, she was at least putting in effort to make sure things were properly cared for and recorded. But unlike myself, she actually took breaks, went home to sleep and went out to live a little. She always invited me and I declined, but her persistence and charming beauty slowly won me over. As time went on I learned more and more about her. I was spending less time talking about work with her and more time talking about life.
I was a little ashamed that my life was not as extravagant as hers. She was a renowned traveler, someone who made something of herself, her life sounding like an Indiana Jones movie, while my life sounded like torture in the ninth layer of hell. At least I had a name, and through that I learned her name too. We had a funny connection through our God-given names as well. My name being Leon, and her’s being Noel.
She burst me out of my shell, whether she meant to or not, and soon our romance blossomed like flowers in spring. All that time we spent together at work sort of chained us together like a truck pulling a trailer, and we began doing things together more and more. From small stuff like taking our breaks together, which I had originally never even done, all the way to walking home together. Turns out we lived in the same apartment complex, although I would never have known since I never went home. My apartment was even right next to hers, 301 and 302. Just like the sudden success of our little cozy museum, it seemed our relationship was crafted by a director, our paths aligning perfectly like an eclipse.
I literally only had a bed in my place, so I found myself staying with her more and more. I even moved most of my clothes over to her place. I actually slept for once, unlike my once-in-a-blue-moon naps I took on the floor of my office. The feeling of holding her as we drifted away into our dreams was sweet; she had thawed my cold heart.
Although basically a couple, we weren’t too intimate, outside of long awkward hugs, the ooey-gooey part of romance never really took place. That was until our last night together. Finally, I decided to make a move, she had as well, and our bodies became one. It was a sensual, heavenly moment. Our lips met, and our skin touched one another softly, like the tide skimming across sand. I even uttered words I had never said or heard in my entire life, words that my mother, my father, my friends, or I had ever spoken once in my life.
Softly, breathily, like a warm coffee on a cold winter’s day, I muttered, tears welling in my eyes.
“I Love you.”
I remember the feeling of her warm hands gracing my cheeks and pulling my face in close. The smile she had from ear to ear, the tears she too began to share with me. The glisten in her ocean eyes, she said it back.
It would be the first and last time I would ever hear it.
“I Love you too.”
Our lips met and soon we found ourselves finishing our acts. I fell asleep inside her, spooning her softly. We both had warm grins upon our lips. Our strange romance hit its peak, and yet it seemed could only go up from there.
The next morning she was gone. At first, I just assumed she beat me to work. Yet when I arrived, she was not there. After the day ended I returned to her apartment, hoping maybe she had taken the day off or something. Oh how clueless I was. The door was still locked, just as I had left it. Nothing had shifted, the bed was never made. I did the chores around the place hoping maybe I had just missed her, maybe she went out for groceries, our fridge was looking barren. But she never came home. I didn’t even sleep that night; I didn’t even sit. I didn’t want to adjust anything in hopes that maybe something would change in a room that would give me a sign that she was home.
I wondered why she would just leave after we shared such a moment together. Why would she just waste every month, week, day, hour, minute, second, millisecond that we had spent together? I went to work the next day as normal, returned home as normal, once again hoping she would be there. I began leaving the door unlocked as I would go to and from work. Holding out for her return. I wished every day that she would return and lock the door. She never did.
My work became sloppy, I cared less and less about the stupid museum, and eventually I broke. I thrashed around like an alligator rolling with prey in its jaws, destroying everything in the office. It looked again like how it was when I first started working there. My boss walked in on my breakdown. He didn’t say anything until I was finished. I knew he was there watching, but I never stopped. I couldn’t. Not until everything was destroyed. I think it went on for an hour or two. My boss just stood and watched the whole time. I think maybe he knew why I was like this. His star employee was distraught and destroyed.
When I was finished I turned and looked at him. I remember him just nodding and leaving the room. There was no scolding or firing that happened, just a mutual, wordless agreement that I was done working for the museum.
A few weeks passed. I stood in our bedroom every day staring at the bed we made love upon. I only drank food and ate water when I felt like I was going to die. I had no purpose anymore. No job, no lover, and I didn’t have anything before those two things. I went out and bought a gun with the last of our rent money. A cheap thing, I didn’t know shit about guns but I was sure as hell the hunk of metal could kill me.
I left it on the bed, the side Noel slept on. Not sure why that matters, but it happened to land there with my careless toss. I stood for a while staring at it. The idea of dying shook me to my core, but I had no other choice. I decided at the time to give it a day, so I finally moved something in the apartment. I opened the nightstand on Noel’s bedside and fumbled around with some of the junk, making space for the gun. It was a perfect fit, like a TETRIS block sliding into place.
That night was the same as always. I found myself standing at the edge of the bed, weaving back and forth like a ship on thundering seas, drifting in and out of sleep. Tomorrow the blissful sleep I needed would finally come.
The day began to shine through, and I made my move. My steps were hesitant, but alas I met with the nightstand. Opening it up, the gun was gone. The evidence of it being there was there, the perfect cutout shape between the junk where it had sat nestled. I collapsed to my knees. I was so confused, the pain within my soul splintering and stabbing at my bones. An anger flooded my veins and I began to slam my fists on the floor, screaming bloody murder. It went on for so long, that I had basically torn through my skin down to the bone, yet surprisingly nothing broke in my hands. I would have and could have gone on with my tantrum for the rest of my life, but it was interrupted by a banging on the door.
In my hopeless heart, I felt some hope. Assuming it was Noel, I rushed to the door. My bloodied hands grasped the doorknob with a sharp sting, but my rush of joy pushed me through the pain; swinging the door open, I was met with a burly man. He wore a dark brown trench coat and a brown bowler cap. Both were drenched, as if he had been standing in the depths of the ocean, yet that day was a clear blue day. Underneath his coat he wore your typical 19th century business suit, a tailored black that matched strikingly with the brown coat and hat. Under his hat was a simple haircut, smooth and short, but not buzzed. His eyes were dull, and his face clean. I remember our conversation perfectly.
“Excuse me, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He took off his hat with a greeting nod and shook the rain from his bowler.
“N-no.” I replied timidly.
I remember him smiling, speaking without speaking if that makes sense, as he entered the apartment.
“Excuse me, I didn’t invite you in.” The anger and frustration I felt when pounding my hands into the floor returned hastily. He took off his coat, shaking the rain free from it as well, drenching the floor. He turned around to face me. The door behind me closed even though I never touched it. My guard was up.
“It’s raining cats and dogs out there! Thanks for allowing me to come in. A quaint little place you got here. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance!” He reached out for a handshake, I didn’t return the gesture.
“What do you want?”
“Hasty to get to business! I like a man with your push and shove.” He grinned maliciously, “I’ve come to offer you a job! One that will match your skills perfectly I assume, Mr. Leon.”
I stepped back, I wasn’t sure if I had ever met this man in my life, how did he know my name? I decided not to respond.
“It’s an archival job, a previous coworker of yours referred me to you.”
Coworker? Was he referring to Noel? She was the only coworker I could think of who saw and worked closely with me, besides my boss.
“And what did they say?”
“I was told you are one of the best! So careful and purposeful with your organization, our…” He paused, “Company as I will call it, is a bit disorganized at the moment. We have plenty of workers, just no one passionate in the tedious departments. I was hoping I could hire you. We’d provide housing right next door, three Michelin star meals daily, delivered to you at work and away from work whenever you wish, and…”
He paused again, eyeing me up and down, as if he was reading a resume.
“I think you’re worth one hundred twenty an hour!” He laughed, “Although you can’t really put a price on perfection, I think that yearly income will be comfortable for you starting out. What do you say?”
Without hearing the job description, any other benefits besides the physical, not even asking this guy’s name, I said yes. Not because I gave a shit about having fancy meals or a nice house, not because I gave a shit about all the money I would make; I mean hell, I was going to take my life only a few minutes ago. I only postponed my end, because I thought maybe, if I took this job, I could find Noel. She had to be there, or so I thought, what other coworker would refer me to this job? She’s the only one I’d ever had, or ever been close to.