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?”

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. 05-26-993. 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.

It’s difficult to pull my eyes away from the photo, but I manage it. “Um. Good. Actually, do you recognize anything about this photo? There’s no description and, well, two heads are better than one.”

Jolene crosses to the table and peers down at the photo. “Well, that’s the old Lone Star,” she says.

“The Lo.” Makes sense.

“But other than that,” Her brow furrows. “How did this get in here?” she says, more to herself than to me. “Just toss that one, Eleanor. No one will want a copy.”

My heart drops into my stomach. The beauty of photographs is the ability of film to capture ephemeral moments and make them everlasting. This might not be the original photo, but what if the original is gone? “I’ll keep it,” I say. “If that’s alright.”

Jolene cocks her head to the side. “You want to keep it?”

“Uh. Yeah, there’s . . . just something about it.”

Her confusion turns into endearment. “It speaks to you?”

I half-laugh. “I guess, yeah, you could say that. I’m curious.”

“Say no more. I get it. That’s why we’re here, right?” she says, opening her arms to gesture to the caverns of binders.

“That’s true,” I say. I hate to admit it, but I’ve definitely judged a book by its cover. Jolene is tall, blonde, and made up for a night on the town. Doesn’t seem like the type that would want to scuttle photos away in the basement. But who is to say that all archivists should be like me? Bookish and quiet? “You’ll have to tell me what got you into museums initially sometime,” I say.

Jolene looks down at her watch. “How about I take you to lunch, and we can trade stories?”

“Deal,” I say.

Before I leave, I carefully place the photo into my bag, right next to my padded camera case.

A mystery to visit later.