gasp, “personal body oils.”
I would be working with notebooks that were roughly 140 years old. Karen debriefed me as if I were about to embark on a secret mission and she could only reveal a few details at a time or else my very existence would be compromised.
“Here’s what I can tell you at this time. There are fifteen notebooks, numbered Roman numeral-style, that have been gifted to our collection. The notebooks belonged to the nephew of noted archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann. The nephew was Rudolph Schliemann. The notebooks were discovered over a year ago in the attic of one of the houses owned by the California Institute of Technology. At one point, the two elder Schliemann brothers came to California from Germany to make their money during the Gold Rush. Heinrich’s brother died, and his widow relocated to Pasadena with their son, Rudolph. Dr. Rudy Schliemann became one of the first professors of engineering at Caltech, but the diaries predate his work at the University. He was on the original excavation crew at Troy. The notebooks detail the original site prior to and during the excavation. That is all I can say.”
I half-expected Karen from Library in her red blazer to self-destruct after the debriefing. But instead, she smiled her crazy smile and handed me a pair of soft white gloves. “Never, ever touch these notebooks without these gloves. Any violation may result in termination.”
Termination, as in death? Or as in being fired? This new Karen was capable of both.
Karen then took me through the “document scanning protocol,” or “DSP,” as Karen referred to the process by which I would photograph the individual pages of the notebooks, scan them into the computer and create a working file for Dr. O’Neill, as Karen kept referring to my future boss. She explained in great detail the daily check-in and check-out process. Then came an excruciating examination of the inner workings of the camera, the book-stand and the computer. She even broke down the fiber content of the gloves vs. the fiber content of the paper in the notebooks. It felt like slow motion watching Karen. Didn’t she realize that I’d constructed my own document scanning protocol when helping Aiden with his history projects? I can scan in my sleep, I wanted to scream. Finally, she allowed me to practice the technique on comic books, then on one of the real notebooks, hovering over me.
At several hours of tedium, Karen suggested we break because of the “intense pace of the training.” A brisk walk and one of Annie’s espressos shook me from my stupor.
At the end of the day, Karen declared that I was approved for Level One DSP, the lowest level of scanning.
“I don’t want see you touching the Gutenberg Bible,” Karen actually joked.
I almost self-destructed.
Now at four in the morning, unable to sleep or relax, I amassed my Worry List for Day One of my employment:
Don’t forget white gloves or risk termination .
What do I call Patrick O’Neill? Dr. O’Neill? Professor O’Neill? Patrick? Pat? Dr. Dig? Hey there?
Should I tell him about my failed master's? Or just pretend that I am an archaeology enthusiast with no formal training so I won’t have to reveal my shameful academic past?
Do I mention that my husband just died? Should I tell him about Aiden? Of course I should tell him about Aiden, but should I mention my age?
Should I ask him about his family? Is that legal? Aren’t there laws in the workplace now about questions like that?
What do people in offices do for lunch? Always together? Always alone?
Can I possibly work for a man as attractive as Patrick O’Neill?
I constructed my action items. I would call him Dr. O’Neill, as that seemed to be the standard at a formal place like the Huntington. No reason Dr. O’Neill had to know about my master's or any other part of my life, like that fact that I used to have money and now I did not. I would mention Merritt’s death and Aiden if asked, but I
I would be working with notebooks that were roughly 140 years old. Karen debriefed me as if I were about to embark on a secret mission and she could only reveal a few details at a time or else my very existence would be compromised.
“Here’s what I can tell you at this time. There are fifteen notebooks, numbered Roman numeral-style, that have been gifted to our collection. The notebooks belonged to the nephew of noted archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann. The nephew was Rudolph Schliemann. The notebooks were discovered over a year ago in the attic of one of the houses owned by the California Institute of Technology. At one point, the two elder Schliemann brothers came to California from Germany to make their money during the Gold Rush. Heinrich’s brother died, and his widow relocated to Pasadena with their son, Rudolph. Dr. Rudy Schliemann became one of the first professors of engineering at Caltech, but the diaries predate his work at the University. He was on the original excavation crew at Troy. The notebooks detail the original site prior to and during the excavation. That is all I can say.”
I half-expected Karen from Library in her red blazer to self-destruct after the debriefing. But instead, she smiled her crazy smile and handed me a pair of soft white gloves. “Never, ever touch these notebooks without these gloves. Any violation may result in termination.”
Termination, as in death? Or as in being fired? This new Karen was capable of both.
Karen then took me through the “document scanning protocol,” or “DSP,” as Karen referred to the process by which I would photograph the individual pages of the notebooks, scan them into the computer and create a working file for Dr. O’Neill, as Karen kept referring to my future boss. She explained in great detail the daily check-in and check-out process. Then came an excruciating examination of the inner workings of the camera, the book-stand and the computer. She even broke down the fiber content of the gloves vs. the fiber content of the paper in the notebooks. It felt like slow motion watching Karen. Didn’t she realize that I’d constructed my own document scanning protocol when helping Aiden with his history projects? I can scan in my sleep, I wanted to scream. Finally, she allowed me to practice the technique on comic books, then on one of the real notebooks, hovering over me.
At several hours of tedium, Karen suggested we break because of the “intense pace of the training.” A brisk walk and one of Annie’s espressos shook me from my stupor.
At the end of the day, Karen declared that I was approved for Level One DSP, the lowest level of scanning.
“I don’t want see you touching the Gutenberg Bible,” Karen actually joked.
I almost self-destructed.
Now at four in the morning, unable to sleep or relax, I amassed my Worry List for Day One of my employment:
Don’t forget white gloves or risk termination .
What do I call Patrick O’Neill? Dr. O’Neill? Professor O’Neill? Patrick? Pat? Dr. Dig? Hey there?
Should I tell him about my failed master's? Or just pretend that I am an archaeology enthusiast with no formal training so I won’t have to reveal my shameful academic past?
Do I mention that my husband just died? Should I tell him about Aiden? Of course I should tell him about Aiden, but should I mention my age?
Should I ask him about his family? Is that legal? Aren’t there laws in the workplace now about questions like that?
What do people in offices do for lunch? Always together? Always alone?
Can I possibly work for a man as attractive as Patrick O’Neill?
I constructed my action items. I would call him Dr. O’Neill, as that seemed to be the standard at a formal place like the Huntington. No reason Dr. O’Neill had to know about my master's or any other part of my life, like that fact that I used to have money and now I did not. I would mention Merritt’s death and Aiden if asked, but I
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