Lee Harper Oswald

2.1

Jimmy Spliphson, the celebrated 19^th-century Astacologist and self-made millionaire, died sometime mid-century, leaving all of his wealth to the District of Columbia to establish a lavish museum and laboratory for the study and dissemination of the great body of knowledge of the noble crawfish. The structure itself took fourteen years to construct, delayed by a superfluity of pointless legal wrangling. For the first seven years, everything went as Spliphson desired, hence the two massive neo-classical-style crawfish that guard the main entrance on Constitution Avenue and other assorted crawfish-related architectural flourishes. But at length, someone said, “What?” and put a stop to all that madness.

Today, one of the few remaining things to reflect its not-so-humble beginnings is the name, the Spliphsonian. Instead of the Spliphsonian Museum of Astacological History, it covers all species, and is simply a natural history museum.

Rupert, hair trimmed short and neat, face clean-shaven, climbed the many granite front steps of the building, taking three at a time without effort, cross-body bag slung over his shoulder and across his body (hence its “cross-body bag” status and not at all a purse). This May day was bright, the air fresh and green from the blooms of nearby parks and potted city plants.

Rupert’s life in DC was, in a word, boring. He typically worked from home and seldom needed to come into the actual building, which suited him due to his borderline-crippling general social phobia, among other things—issues planted as sad little seeds during his childhood. His mother’s favorite topics of discussion, with him, his father, and anyone within earshot, were: 1) how horrible and judgmental the world was and how that state of things was a constant, inescapable existential nightmare, and 2) Rupert’s persistent and remarkable ability to fail. Failures included grades, women, that sort of thing, but predominantly it was his location in any area as related to herself. No matter where he was, he was “in the way.” He figured his first word was “sorry,” as he slipped shame-faced from her womb, a nuisance already.

But today, Mr. Pyrdewy had called him in to “discuss something.” This made Rupert more anxious than he would ordinarily be. His anxiety on an average day—on a scale from one to ten—was about an eight. This morning he made and ate breakfast, threw it up, did some incorrect and ineffective yoga, some shallow deep breathing exercises, scream-cried under a cold shower, and dressed. Then he dressed again, and cast a forlorn look over the picture on the back of a box of Deggo Italian Waffles in the freezer before packing his cross-body bag full of everything he thought he might need—a note pad, pen, and some chamomile-kava kava blend tea bags to suck on—then dressed for a third and final time. Finally, he climbed aboard the Metrorail for an absurd, socially-horrific ride to work.

Up the steps, his chest tightened as he neared the top, two giant stone crawfish eyeballing him with their freakish eye-stems, then he ducked and shuffled through the old glass-and-brass revolving door. Inside, the space opened up into a rotunda where he was confronted by a 1959, 12-ton, 14-foot tall African Elephant bull that had been restored the previous year. It was a weekday afternoon, so though there were fewer visitors than he’d expected, there were still more than he preferred. More than two was too many, and the recycled museum air didn’t help matters.

It had been so long since Rupert had been to the museum that its geography baffled him for a moment. He knew that in order to get to the administrative area, he’d have to get onto an elevator. But left, or right? Rupert chose left and as soon as he’d exited the massive main foyer area, he was lost. He spent the next fifteen minutes wandering up and down a number of hallways, some of hard wood, some padded softly in faded red carpeting, infested with people looking at things. Innumerable people.

His heartrate increased and his palms began to sweat as he at last rounded a corner and found, not exactly what he was looking for, but indeed what he wanted to find: The Archaeologist.

He’d seen her in person just a few times, due to his hermit-like existence, but he followed her work on the museum website. His friend, Stanley, knew and spoke well of her, though never called her by her name. Just, “The Archaeologist,” despite the fact that there were several at the museum. In actuality, she was an anthropological archaeologist, but whatever. She wasn’t beautiful, and she wasn’t svelte or long-legged. She was, he’d say, pretty average. Light, imperfect skin, mousy-blonde hair, long and somewhat frizzy. Her glasses were too big for her face. Or so he’d heard from a holiday party Stanley had attended. Rupert had never been close enough to make that assessment.

At work, her hair was always pinned up. Rupert was ambivalent in how he felt about her. On one hand, he couldn’t tell if his racing heart and hyperhydrosis was a result of the social anxiety, or if it was because he liked her in some special way into which he could not put words. He’d heard it was like that. On the other hand, he had to admit he didn’t know her, so how could he feel either way about her? Except he was attracted to her non-threatening, seemingly-benign appeal, and from Stanley he did know a few things. She laughed too loud, which made him nervous, but it also made him feel like maybe she was socially awkward, like him. She liked her sauerkraut with minimal rinsing, as did he. He liked his honey from a plastic bear, as did she. How these things had come up in conversation at a Christmas party, he did not recall. But most intriguing, she believed their culture, and perhaps the planet as a whole, was in a state of extreme ethical and moral anomie, the most acute condition of social entropy possible right before an apocalyptic collapse.

And, no mushrooms on pizza. That, they shared as well.

When Rupert thought of that—the entropy, not the pizza—his heart fluttered a little, and he surprised himself because it did, indeed, feel different from the usual stress-induced fibrillation.

“Hi Rupert.”

Rupert had zoned out staring at the back of her head and now realized she had not only turned, but walked toward him. He felt his gut contract and a wave of nausea came over him, though he’d already thrown up breakfast and had but looked at the Deggo Italian Waffle picture for sustenance.

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