Page 2 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I smile sheepishly. “I’m afraid southern accents kinda blend together for me.”

“Right, you’re a northerner,” she says. The tease in her voice is playful and kind. For a boss, she seems like the exact type you’d want. “I’m from Tennessee. Outside of Nashville. Which I know makes the whole ‘Jolene’ thing even more confusing, but don’t take it up with me, alright? Wasn’t my choice.”

I adjust my cat-eye glasses back onto the bridge of my nose. “What brought you here, then?”

“Same thing as you. Work. Museums are hard to come by this day and age. Not to mention museums focusing on music that are a bit more nuanced than the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. No offense.”

“None taken,” I say with a quirk of my eyebrow.

Jolene shrugs. “Not sure your opinion on Cleveland.”

I burst with a laugh, unusually loud for the quiet din of an archive. “Oh, we all hate Ohio.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says. “Anyway, I had a similar job here as you do. Short term, temporary. And then I stayed.”

“So, you like it here?”

The apples of Jolene’s cheeks tighten as she smiles. “Love. It became home faster than I knew what to do with. My mama is still begging me to come back to Tennessee, but . . . something about Austin. I can’t walk away from it.”

“What do you think it is?” I ask. I haven’t had a chance to learn much about my new city. I’ve been getting set up in my new apartment the museum has rented for me, a small studio with thin walls and Ikea furniture. Since I don’t have a social circle here yet, I have to go out adventuring by myself. And that scares the bejeezus out of me. Stranger in a strange land. I’ll get over it eventually.

Hopefully.

Jolene folds her arms over her chest, the corner of her lip quirking upward. “I think you’ll have to figure that one out for yourself.”

I have half a mind to ask whether she’s practiced that line. But instead, I give her a single nod. “Alright. Challenge accepted.”

She ticks her head back through the aisle. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office. Seriously, for anything. You have a question or observation. Need a couple minutes just to chat. A distraction . . .”

“Got it,” I say. “Thanks, I will.”

Jolene disappears down the aisle, leaving me alone with stacks of binders and this ancient laptop. I take the first one and begin to go through it. I’ve done some preliminary research on the Austin music scene to get an idea of the history and various things I should know. But there’s no better education than going through a book of photos, no matter how banal they are.

What Jolene didn’t mention is that the binders she’s having me go through are a mess. Things are out of order, some photos aren’t even contained in plastic sleeves, and others have been bent and bruised through improper handling.

I take my time, going through the first binder page by page with my gloved fingers, scanning each photo into the database while trying to match locations and faces to other photos in order to update the description.

Sure, there’s a lot of representation of the country music scene, but there’s so much more than that. Polaroids of Stevie Ray Vaughan and his guitar, Number One. Images from backstage at Austin City Limits. A group of guys on stage in very few clothes, apparently a noise rock band from the ‘80s called Scratch Acid. Who knew it was so easy to make history? Make good music, take off your shirt. And sometimes your pants.

Jolene didn’t have to warn me that the work would be drudgerous. To me, it’s not. I’m discovering a whole world I never knew, one I couldn’t have known in such detail by googling late into the night back in Chicago.

I grab the second binder. I can work through a couple of pages before lunch. The first page is more of the same, the second has some pictures of reggae performers who aren’t named in the caption. I’ll have to go through the database on that one.

However, before I can tear my eyes away to begin my search, the final photo on the page grabs my attention.

I narrow my eyes at a picture of a young woman. It’s got a yellow-orange date stamp. 05-26-1993. She’s got a guitar case in her hand, one arm up in the air, and a massive grin on her face as the wind whips through her dark shoulder-length shag haircut. She wears a time-period-appropriate flannel over a heroin chic slip dress with Doc Martens. A dark-haired Liz Phair.

In the background is a big star-shaped sign with “The Lo” clearly written, but the rest of the venue’s name was cut off.

There’s no description attached to the photo. No name. No location.

I lift the plastic sheath and grab the photo edge. It’s paper—not photo paper—printer paper. Like it’s been photocopied. How did it get here if it’s not even an original?

Mysteries like this abound when it comes to archiving. It’s my job to solve them.

I pull the photo the rest of the way out and hold it with both hands, trying to find any other discernible details. She must be a musician. Except she doesn’t look familiar to me. Perhaps if I double-check it with the database—

“How’s it going?” Jolene interrupts my concentration, emerging again from the aisle.

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