Page 4 of Rooke
“Hey. I didn’t offer to cook you a meal or anything. I just pointed out that you could probably use one. Don’t go giving me more credit than I deserve.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. Come on. Let’s go drink a gallon of wine and stuff our faces with cheese.”
THREE
YELLOW PAGES
SASHA
Being a curator at the American Museum of Natural History might not seem thrilling to most people, but I love it. The dioramas, the dinosaur exhibits, the crocodiles, and the space exhibition. Every single one of the museum’s levels holds something of interest to me. I’m excited every single time I jog up the steps towards the grand entrance, dodging tourists and people taking pictures, leaning against the columns and posing with the lit-up dinosaur topiaries. Work is all I do get excited about these days. What a sad, sad thing to admit to. There once was a time when family vacations and cross-country trips would have me bouncing off the walls, thrilled by the prospect of adventure, at the prospect of experiencing something new. Christmas was my favorite time of year, and spring in the city would make me delirious with the promise of t-shirt weather, cold glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, and rooftop barbeques. Now the seasons all seem to blur into one another. I haven’t left New York in years.
As I climb the steps, avoiding a row of people wrapped up warm with coats, hats and scarves, who all appear to be involved in a mannequin challenge, I think about the day ahead of me. Morning meetings are unavoidable, as are answering a litany of emails. Midmorning, I have to conduct three interviews in the vain hopes of finding a replacement for Shun Jin, my intern, who has basically been saving my life for the last six months. God knows how I’m ever going to find someone to fill her shoes. Shun Jin’s the kind of girl to assess a situation and gauge whether or not I need to get involved. If the answer is no and it’s something she can take care of herself, then she does exactly that without so much as mentioning it. She doesn’t sweat the small stuff. I know my calendar is entirely safe in her hands, along with all of my exhibition timelines. I can hardly begrudge the fact that she’s been given a pay raise and a junior position within the museum, I recommended her for the post after all, but now that I’m having to find someone who will be as diligent and professional as she is, I’m starting to feel like I’ve totally sabotaged myself.
In my office, a stack of envelopes has been left on my desk for me by the museum’s internal mail service. I hang my purse on the back of the door along with my jacket, and then I leaf through the mail, discarding advertising material in the trashcan and setting aside any invoices I come across. The second to last piece of mail is a small white envelope. My hands go still as I stare down at my name written in black, blocky ink above the museum’s address. I recognize the handwriting. In my mind, I remember the very first time I ever saw that awkward, no nonsense, yet somehow childish handwriting. It was years ago, back in college, when a boy slipped a note inside my Fine Arts of the 20thCentury textbook. The note read:
You ever need a live model, feel free to hit me up.
310 962 5177
Underneath the number, the boy had drawn a crude smiley face, which appeared to be winking and sticking its tongue out.
I drop the envelope into the top drawer of my desk, swallowing hard. My mouth is strangely dry all of a sudden.
“Sasha? Ahh, Sasha, there you are. I’m glad I found you.” Oscar Blackheath, the oldest curator on staff at the museum, blusters into my office without knocking, a whirlwind of tufty white hair, brown tweed and Davidoff Cool Water. From observing him on the street, you’d be right in placing him as an octogenarian, and yet upon speaking to him you begin to suspect you’re the victim of some weird reality TV show prank. His attitude, his energy levels, and his general outlook on life are more in line with someone in their late twenties. He’s tech-savvy, but his fashion sense is all over the place. In the summer, his go-to outfit is a crisp button-down shirt coupled with a pair of khaki shorts that expose his ghostly white, incredibly knobbly knees. Beyond polite, he speaks like a Victorian gentleman from Saville Row, London, but I know for a fact he was born and raised in New York.
“Been looking for me, Mr. B?” I ask.
“I have indeed. I wondered if you might be around this afternoon? I’d like to ask your opinion on the new Theory of Evolution program we’re hosting next year. A number of school programs have expressed their concern over some of the planned exhibitions.”
“Concern?”
“Yes. Well, I believe a number of Catholic and Baptist schools are upset that we’ve missed the word ‘theory’from our promotional flyers.”
“Oh god.”
“Yes. Exactly. I’ve penned a very expressive email in response to their missives, but I’d love for you to cast an eye over them before I hit send. Don’t want to go upsetting anyone unnecessarily now.”
I laugh. “Of course. I can swing by your office around three if that suits you?”
“Excellent.” Oscar vanishes, leaving behind a cloud of cologne and a pair of wet footprints on the polished floorboards where he was standing a moment ago.
******
“What made you apply for the job here at the museum, Carl? You say you’re primarily interested in linguistics. You realize you won’t be able to further your ambition in that field here at the museum?” The kid across from me looks at me blankly, like I’m speaking Swahili. Ironic, given that he should be able to understand me even if I am, in actual fact, speaking Swahili. It says he has a working knowledge of the language on his resume.
“I know. Honestly, I just thought it might be fun. I have a couple of months before school starts again. I figured it might be interesting to do some part-time work here.”
“Part-time? This is a full-time position, Carl. It’s for six months in the minimum.”
“Oh, for real? I thought maybe that was flexible or something.”
“Definitely for real. Definitely not flexible.”
“Huh. Well, okay then. Thanks for seeing me, I guess.” The twenty-year-old punk gets up, shrugging his arms into his down jacket, picking up his incredibly hipster-looking bag and gives me a thumbs-up. “It was great to meet you anyway, Ms. Connor.”
I watch him go, trying not to let my jaw hit the floor. What in the actual hell was that?A thumbs up? It was nice to meet me anyway? Damn it all to hell. Of the three interviews I’ve just sat through, none of the applicants were suitable. Not even close. The first girl was rude and kept snapping her gum. The second kid was severely shy, to the point where I couldn’t hear a word he mumbled in response to my questions. And my third interviewee, Carl, well… Carl was obviously something else entirely. I slam my laptop closed, sighing heavily.
