Most people at The Verdant Post forgot there even was a basement—except for Ed Walton, who had practically taken up residence there. He only left the archive long after working hours had ceased, sometimes due to Josie’s not-so-subtle prompting. She was a receptionist in the lobby upstairs who was young and pretty, with other priorities, as she often reminded Ed when their work day ended and he continued to dawdle. Josie was the newest addition to the front desk, so she had to make sure he left before the building closed each night.
On one particular Thursday afternoon, Josie was down with a dreadful case of strep throat. Ed figured as much after overhearing two noisy interns gossiping about a fever of a hundred and four and sore, swollen tonsils. Now, he nodded along blithely to The Who, drumming his calloused fingers on the round slab of his makeshift desk: a tacky trestle dining table. As the Post’s sole archivist, Ed was responsible for preserving all print editions from before the paper went digital. If a journalist requested an older source for an article, he’d hunt through drawers and boxes to find the best clip, sifting between fragile papers that sent up a powdery vellum scent. Currently, Ed was hunched over a thick, beige folder, leafing through yellowed newspaper clippings. Once satisfied with the contents, he swept the papers back into a neat pile and secured the file beneath his arm.
Ed worked his weedy limbs around the table-desk, past the monochrome portraits of prominent socialites—barely ducking the low archway to avoid decapitation—and disappeared through the maze of winding shelves. He hardly had to glance at the handwritten signs displaying jumbled sequences of letters, numbers, and arbitrary symbols—perhaps a drunken attempt at punctuation. The apparent lack of order in the archive made no difference to him. No one dared to venture into the dank basement of The Verdant Post, let alone encroach on Ed’s lair. Even Josie preferred to remain in the comfort of the elevator, sticking out a heeled foot to keep the doors from closing.
Every few days, he’d leave his cave to deliver a meticulously curated selection on any topic—you name it. From grainy photographs of forgotten jazz clubs to a 1991 weather report for an article on climate patterns, Ed always knew exactly where to look. He’d take the sterile elevator with its wrap-around mirrors—his reflections converging on him from every angle—up to fifth, the floor with the best copier, accompanied by a ratty heap of fading business reports, archaic opinion pieces—even a sports issue from twenty years ago if you’d asked for it. He kept his eyes lowered in the lift, uneasy in the glare of modernity he had never cared for.
As the years passed, Ed had noticed a steady decline in his general pertinence. Ed, thank goodness I got a hold of you—anything on Oscar Wilde?—Man, sure is stuffy down here…—Ed, haven’t seen you in months—still here, old boy?—Ah… Ed. He remained unfazed, however, and as cheery as ever. He was perfectly content being left in the solitude of the archive, imperfect and unorganized as it was. He knew where everything was, even if he was the only soul in the world who did.
That week, Ed had tasked himself with reshelving the entire editorial section. With ample time on his hands, he was particularly delighted that he could work in as leisurely a manner as he pleased. It reminded him of his youth, growing up on his family’s cattle farm outside of Sand Springs, Oklahoma. Days there passed in a rosy haze, flowing together without clear distinction. Ed still treasured the miniature cow his father had carved for him as a child. In college, he’d begun collecting other cow figurines—not out of loneliness, but simply because he missed the real ones. Now, the cattle lined the shelves in the back room, forming a herd—no, an army—in every medium: porcelain, glass, wood, ceramic.
Ed opened the metal drawer in front of him and thumbed through the files. Roger Daltrey’s ardent cry carried from the radio on the table-desk and Ed couldn’t help from belting along. He even took a humble bow when he finished, to his audience of none, snorting a bit at his own ridiculousness.
Turning back to his self-made task, Ed made a gap between Regional News and Op-eds. He stuck his folder inside and closed the drawer. Triumph tingled in his abdomen as he returned to the table-desk. There was only one editorial section left to sort through: obituaries. Not the grand, front-pagers—just the quiet ones, written for a kindly neighbor, a college roommate, some balding man from Saratoga Springs. The kind of unremarkable lives remembered mostly by whoever got stuck writing them. Day-old receipt lives, paper-clip lives, grocery-store-trip lives.
Ed felt bittersweet as he returned to the central room of the archive. While he paged through the Additional Obituaries folder, he considered how this week’s goal would certainly be completed by today. He’d have to pick another project to busy himself with until Sunday, his dreaded day off, but he could worry about that later.
It didn’t take long for Ed to determine the stack was made up entirely of legitimate obituaries in usable condition. Disappointingly, everything was intact—clean, legible, and properly sorted. No need for Ed’s careful hand to painstakingly glue and tape, to lift and sort and send up shocking clouds of dust that somehow never made him sneeze. In the midst of such boring orderliness, the only part of this tedious process that actually interested Ed was the names of the deceased.
James E.
Susan D.
Josephine W.
Mark A.
It was a little game he played as he examined the articles: finding the strangest, most bizarre name. He ruthlessly dismissed the Marys and the Michaels to the bottom of the pile.
Erma L.
Barty T.
Eugenia O.
Cherie N.
That was much better. Finally, he made it to the last obituary, face-down against the sturdy, beige folder. With diligent precision, Ed peeled the paper over to reveal an obituary for Edgar W. A mild wave of disappointment hit him—he’d expected the last of the series to be something rare and eccentric—Desmonda, for example. He stood up from the table-desk, knees aching slightly and collected the manila folder under his arm.
Again, Ed strolled down the hallway, whistling as he danced between towers of narrow stacks. It was especially challenging for him to cram this last file into the already-overflowing drawer. He resorted to a sawing motion, promptly giving up once the folder was lodged deep enough that it wouldn’t budge even if he tried.
Still, a corner of an obituary stuck out from the rest, a rebellious paper flag rising above the folder. Ed had the compulsive itch to flatten it into submission. Instead, he pried it out with grubby nails, squinting at the printed ink: Edgar W. This guy again?
At this point, he was well aware of how similar their names were, but he’d only ever gone as Ed. There were millions, perhaps billions, of surnames that started with W. Even if this fellow was an Edgar Walton, it didn’t signify anything. Glancing at the page, Ed realized the entire bottom portion of the writing had been ripped off. So the obituaries weren’t as tidy and placed as they’d seemed. Ed could think of no one who would’ve committed this monstrosity, yet he was sure it wasn’t his own doing.
Intrigued by the rip, Ed raised the paper closer to his nose—near-sightedness was inevitable, but never welcome—and began to read. He learned that Edgar had been a historian specializing in nineteenth-century literature, who lectured infrequently at Hartwick College up in Oneonta. Over his career, Edgar worked with several publications and journals: The Paris Review, The Verdant Post, and Narrative Magazine to name a few. He’d had a vast accumulation of cow-themed memorabilia found in his residence after he passed, but no pets, no wife, no children.
It was a meaningless coincidence between men with similar names and lifestyles; the lack of birthdates only supported that. Just to be sure, Ed read the clip over for a second time. His mind raced over a multitude of explanations, holding onto the possibility that, given the national population of cattle, cow enthusiasts were more prevalent than one assumed. Who did he think he was, anyway—Dorian Gray? Ed had no twins or doppelgangers lurking out there in the world, whether painted or real; he was quite sure of that.
Besides the gentle hum of a ceiling fan, the archive was very still. The uncanny feeling of being watched pressed into him from all sides. Ed wiped a clammy palm over his shirt. He’d never registered the complete lack of natural light down here. For the first time in a while, Ed longed for real company—even Josie would suffice.
The sight of the paper slip in hand repulsed him; he needed it out of his sight. He could cram it in with the other obituaries, but the possibility of misplacing it forever was a risk he was equally unprepared for. The simple coincidence of finding his own name in a stack of unmarked obituaries evoked a sense of eerie familiarity, settling like a cold weight into the pit of his stomach. To let it slip into the annals of history would go against everything he believed—an archivist never misplaced files, especially something that might, for once, actually pertain to him.
A muffled toll from the elevator roused Ed back to where he was—surrounded by the bitter must of decomposing books and steel storage racks that leered overhead. The dust in the air was thick and stifling.
He had to get out of here. Ed folded the paper into a square and, convincing himself it was harmless, stuck it in his back pocket. He hurried past the wall with the portraits and the figurines, grabbed his shoulder bag from the chair, and left the archive without turning back. In the empty corridor, Ed pressed a trembling finger to the glowing elevator button. The toe of his shoe tapped in a frenzied rhythm—faster, faster. When the lift stopped on the floor above, Ed sucked his teeth and swore. His left temple throbbed faintly and he rubbed at it with furious knuckles.
At last, the elevator arrived. Ed bolted inside and hit L on the keypad. He jammed on the button to close the doors, as if he could somehow outrun the inevitable. The doors slid shut. As the lift began to rise, Ed let out a quavering breath, knowing the widening distance between himself and the archive was as thin as paper.
***
Josie really didn’t have time for this—she had her Valentine’s dinner soon, and the subway would surely be packed with commuters during rush hour. She’d made a point to scold her boyfriend last year for being late, and she couldn’t very well be a hypocrite now. Still, a part of her looked forward to her daily exchange with Ed. He’d been much more tolerable these past few months—less of a grouch when she reminded him to leave, sometimes even packing up before she had to ask. He’d even saved her an article on traditional home remedies for sore throats after she’d contracted that terrible case of strep throat back in November.
The elevator reached the basement level and she stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, her flesh-toned high heels echoing against the linoleum. From down the hall, Josie could make out The Who playing on Ed’s scratchy old radio—vintage, he insisted. She smiled softly, considering the endless list of topics Ed might choose to ramble on about today.
As Josie neared the archive’s entrance, she rehearsed a snarky remark about the deafening volume of his music. He’d feign exasperation, but secretly appreciate the attention. She stuck her head through the doorway, noting how the place seemed much cleaner than it before. The towers of books he’d stacked precariously on top of various shelves now sat neatly in cardboard boxes. The peeling drawer labels were rewritten in careful lettering, cluttered piles of article scraps sorted into folders, the folders into crates, the crates by the wall. Even Ed’s worn dining table had been replaced with a brand-new office desk.
Josie stepped into the archive. Usually Ed would shuffle out from behind a row of drawers, but today he didn’t emerge to greet her. She briefly wondered if he hadn’t come to work at all, but his shoulder bag slung across the chair said otherwise.
“Ed?” Josie called out, turning slowly in a circle. There was no reply—not a wheezy breath. Where could he be?
Worried, Josie ventured deeper into the shelves, fumbling for a light switch the further she walked. She knew the corridors were neither endless nor unchanging; the different sizes and colors of the jackets on the books she passed were proof of that. Yet, that knowledge didn’t do much to stop her mind from whirling in every possible direction: maybe the corridors had been cursed, and would stretch on indefinitely. Maybe she’d already taken a wrong turn somewhere in the maze of shelves and wouldn’t be able to find her way out. Maybe the lights would turn off and never come back on.
At last she found him. He was in the Editorials section, lying on the floor, his upper body twisted away from view.
“Oh God!” Josie shrieked, stumbling onto her knees beside him. The body, usually so tall and sure of its place, seemed limp, frail, like touching it would make it crumble like tissue paper. Swallowing hard, she shook his limp shoulder, almost surprised when it didn’t give way beneath her fingers, and whispered a prayer. What was she supposed to do?
Shaking, she reached over Ed’s body, groping frantically for the pulse at his neck. His skin was still warm. The comforting scent of his pine tar soap and spiced cologne lingered. His favorite corduroy cap lay forgotten, half-hidden under the lip of the lowest shelf. His rough hand—peppered with sun spots, leathery callouses, and green-blue veins—had been tossed limply across the chill linoleum. However many times she tried, Josie couldn’t find a pulse. She stood up, breathing heavily, stunned into silence. Touching a hand to her cheek, she realized she’d been crying.
One of his arms was bent at an angle behind him, its fingers wrapped loosely around a small square of paper. Tentatively, she reached over to pull it free. After one final glance toward Ed, she wandered out of the aisle in a daze, unfolding the scrap and smoothing the creases. Josie knew she should report his death, but to do so would make it all too real.
An article was printed on the slip of paper. On closer inspection, Josie realized it was an obituary—half of one, at least. Had Ed written it himself? She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling. Just yesterday they’d had a long debate about The Who’s best album. It was impossible not to picture him bumbling around the archive, singing terribly, cursing loudly.
Flipping over the paper, she found a penciled image—overlapping shapes and arrows, smudged writing in Ed’s slanted scrawl. Some words were circled violently, others struck through. The drawing looked like a cross between a floor plan and geometry homework. It took her a moment to realize what it was: a diagram of the entire archive. Every last detail recorded on that scrap.
If only she’d come down earlier, she could’ve at least said goodbye.
***
Ed’s obituary appeared in the next issue of The Verdant Post. No author was listed—everyone ended up contributing to it, especially Josie. The first line came directly from the wrinkled paper found in Ed’s hand.
No one had really thought about how long Ed had run the archive until now, when it was typed out plainly: thirty-five years—longer than Josie had been alive.
In a few months, there would be a new archivist down there. Josie would only meet her in passing. She wouldn’t have memorized the maze the way Ed had—Josie doubted anyone ever would. Some people couldn’t be replaced, reprinted like a fresh sheet of paper when the first one went wrong.
Ed was gone, yet a part of him would remain with her forever, etched into the very papers he’d breathed like air, the ink—like midnight—holding the echo of his pulse. Besides, someone had to keep his cow figurines.