Page 1 of Lost Love on 6th Street

1

ELEANOR

I thought summers in Chicago were hot. But my first week in Austin has been searing.

However, the chill of this basement is so sharp it’s already reached my bones. It comes with the job of archiving photos, which is why I packed both my cardigan and a wool blanket in my backpack despite the heat outside.

The woman leading me through the winding aisles of black binders looks over her shoulder at me and grins. “I thought Midwesterners were used to cold.” Her southern twang is subtle, but present.

I pull my cardigan tighter around me.

“Used to it, sure. I’m not the type to wear shorts in thirty-degree weather, though,” I say.

She laughs. It’s a lovely laugh. Tripping and high-pitched. The kind that would draw your attention in the middle of a crowded bar.

Her name is Jolene. When she introduced herself, it took everything in me not to ask if she was named after the Dolly Parton song. She seemed used to that question, because while shaking my hand, she added, “And no, not like the song.”

It must be exhausting to be a blonde named Jolene and work at a museum dedicated to preserving Austin’s music history.

I hadn’t heard of the Reeder Music Library until I came across the job listing a few months ago. But the second I saw the architecturally lavish granite building in pictures, I couldn’t wait to work here.

It doesn’t matter if I’m stuck in the frigid, brightly lit basement where style has been sacrificed for practicality. The carpets alone look like they knew the likes of the Roosevelt administration.

Regardless, I’m happy to be here.

“Here’s your workstation,” Jolene says as we emerge from an aisle.

My workstation isn’t much more than a glorified card table and folding chair, but that’s to be expected from a small museum. All the money goes into the exhibitions, the preservation, and the salaries. I should be grateful I don’t have to sit on the floor.

“And, to save your butt from freezing off,” Jolene announces, going over to the chair. She lifts a flat brown cushion. “It’s more comfortable than it looks.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

“So, as we discussed on the phone, we’re looking at trimming the fat on our collections.” Jolene holds up her hands with long nails like spikes. I wonder how she’s able to wear examination gloves with nails like that. “I know, it doesn’t sound nice. But there’s only so much we can keep.”

In the business of museums, this process is called deaccessioning. It serves a dual purpose: it clears out storage while bringing in a little extra money since pieces are often sold to collectors.

“The first week or so, I’ll double check your work just so we’re on the same page about what belongs in our physical collection. Any reproductions can be scrapped. And anything that doesn’t have a description needs to be researched before we decide to part ways with it. Think of it as . . . refining.”

I nod. “That’s a good way to put it.” I’ve been working in this industry since I graduated college nearly ten years ago. It might not be the most thrilling work, but not everyone who studies photography gets to continue working in the industry. So, I’m grateful.

“This is your issued laptop,” Jolene says, gesturing to the dinosaur of a Dell on the table. “As you go through the collections and identify what needs to be deaccessioned, you can scan it into the database.”

I drop my bag by the leg of the table. “Sounds good to me.”

“I know it’s not the most exciting job,” she says with an apologetic smile.

I shrug and plop down into the chair. “It’s only three months, anyway.”

“True, although being down here too long can make you go stir crazy. Just make sure you touch some grass during your breaks,” Jolene says, leaning on the end of one of the aisles.

I laugh. “There’s grass around here?” I ask. “I thought the sun dried it all up.”

Jolene rolls her eyes. “Okay, Eleanor. That’s fair. But you’ll get used to it. I did.”

I open the laptop. All the graphics are blocky and antiquated looking. What version of Windows does this thing even run on? I pull off my glasses and rub the lip of my cardigan over the lenses. Maybe that will help. “You’re originally from here?” I ask.

“Me?! Heavens, no,” Jolene says. “You think with an accent like this I’m a born and bred Texan?”

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