Teraphim

People disappear every day and nobody notices. This life that they once led switches off and the hole which remains is covered over by a subspecies of biomorphic abstraction, which is what I am. The process of folding in a life is not nearly as complicated as it may seem from the outside. A person vanishes, an apartment becomes vacant, we are paid to enter and remove what remains of that person. Files and photographs and the endless detritus that this person left behind gets siphoned, scanned, broken into components and examined for potential information before being broken down into a pink slurry which is pumped into the truck below. At first, you have to test every object in the same manner, but over the years you start to see the residue of information on a telephone, or a pen, or a chair. You become more efficient in deciding what is and is not of value to the greater intelligence. Value is profit, and the ability to see this information more clearly than the people around you provides an opportunity for advancement, but advancement is difficult when you’re a Revitalization Technician.

I was standing by the third-story window, holding the tube for Seth and King Lonny when I first saw the door. Hidden behind one of the endless bookshelves this subject had placed upon every wall of his room was a door to a room we were not cleared to enter. This was not particularly odd: when a person is made to vanish, it is generally the case that they had a series of secrets they meant to keep from the greater intelligence, and such secret rooms were generally dealt with by specialized teams with whom we had no contact. In hindsight, it’s not entirely clear why I did this, but after we had dissolved the majority of the living room I marked the schema as complete, leaving this hidden room out of the reach of the greater intelligence. Generally the practice of “ungridding” materials is frowned upon, but the majority of such material is of so little general value that it rarely, if ever, becomes a problem. After all, this is for all practical purposes waste material, and if a Revitalization Technician occasionally stumbles upon something of value then consider that a bonus. Minimum wage affords certain entitlements.

The subject in question was only listed on the schema as Ben-Jakob, and seemed to have practically no material of general value, as the project time limit was only an hour. We usually knocked about eight of these jobs off in a night, sometimes fewer for larger projects for when a factory or warehouse disappear, or if the subject was of some particular value. We’d get in the truck, drive to the site, spray it down with the goop and siphon out the slurry or else running the devouring mechanisms for places that were less cluttered. Most vanishings were goop jobs, though, tiny apartments stacked to the ceiling with newspaper clippings and obsolete programming manuals and books of doctored photographs so thick you could barely breathe. In this one, that was the case in every room, except for the secret room, which is why I marked it off, called it good, and after my shift ended I drove back by here and loaded my trunk with what I found in the hidden room. Everything else was standard: the curling kitchen tile, the roach-stuck bathroom, the sad little single bed. But this, this room, was something else. It was a Hidden Library. When I was a child, and my sister and I were staying with one of our many aunts, she would tell us stories of…no, no. I’m getting behind myself.

People disappear all the time. They walk around the corner to the ATM and are never seen again. They drive north along the highway and are swallowed by the road and the dark. Sometimes it becomes a public mystery, played out in newsprint and punditry, but generally there is no one there to notice, to provide lamentation and question, and so after the most perfunctory of searches the person vanishes. This is what I told myself, in the last days, as a means of diluting what I was about to do, as I drove the last of my possessions to the Goodwill drop box, as I dropped my keys and last rent check in my landlord’s mailbox, as I walked away from my life. There’s nothing weird about it, I told myself. People disappear all the time.

“To look back now, of course, it seems fundamentally adolescent, as I did not disappear, I simply closed a door, so that even though none of the people from my old life could see me, they knew I was there, knew they could reach me if necessary. I live in the same town as I did then, simply shifting the orbit of my presence a bit south and wider, out of the city’s center, and of course I shaved my head, which is what you do when you want to trick yourself into thinking you’re starting over. I started working out, thinking that reforming my body would help reform my mind, and after a while it did. I developed new habits and schedules, changed my gait and intonation, developed a sort of mindfulness that had alluded me when I was married, when I wrote copy. That was another life ago. I’m not always sure it ever really happened.

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I have a short survey I filled out when I was eight years old. I was asked a series of questions, which I was to answer in a way that would give insight into my personality. I’m sure I took such quizzes before, but this is the first one I remember, the first one where I became suspicious as to the intentions of these inquisitors. The first question was the most telling; phrased as the beginning of a statement with an underscored line where I was to fill in my answer, it was no longer a question whose reply could be considered temporary, a passing fancy, this was a statement of intent: “When I grow up, I want to be a ___________.” My answer, then as now, was Genius.

If you asked me at the time what a genius was, I’m not sure I could give a useful answer — at eight, being was doing, and the doing of geniusery was what interested me. First, I would always have an answer. As a genius does not have to be correct so much as insightful, this seemed like something I could accomplish with a little discipline. Sadly, discipline is not one of my strong suits, and the following years of sloth and indolence bear that out, though I still think (on my better days) that all this was preparation, a fallow stage soon to be followed by my great work. Perhaps. A genius, I realized, gets to do what they want, as they have abilities of an obscure nature. I did not want to be the useful kind of genius, the kind that wins awards and is recognized in the street, as that kind of genius has obligations and expectations. I wanted to be a hermetic genius, wise in a variety of subjects with no everyday application, things people would never really understand, but when they needed an answer on these subjects I’d be the only game in town.

At eight I knew I was a weirdo, and I knew I was never going to do the sorts of things my friends were going to do. I needed a different path, and while I can’t say that it’s worked out exactly as planned, I’ve definitely avoided the more traditional life. My name is William Sunya, and I am the curator of the Kara-Bakos Hidden Library, and so I am a very particular kind of genius.

Perhaps the difference between the Collections and the Displays here at Kara-Bakos can best be clarified through a short overview of the enamel devil display. There is no specific area where these tiny figurines can be found en masse, as small boxes fitted with microscopic lenses and interior lighting are scattered not only among the three primary floors, but on at least two of the basement floors as well. Each bears a plaque giving the title and (generally approximate) date when Dr. Baltrusaitis carved this tiny demonic form from the rotted remains of a decayed human tooth. This Display, as with all the Displays available at Kara-Bakos, is not meant to be definitive, and indeed masks its partiality through this distribution, as though each tooth given by the Doctor to his patients as a reminder of the importance of oral hygiene could possibly be found somewhere within the building, if only one searched long enough. In some cases, this may well be true; I only know it is not in this case because a daughter of Dr. Baltrusaitis recently sold a collection to a rival museum for a sum far beyond our allowance. A Collection provides completion, while a Display simply suggests completion, and as the walk from one node of a Display to the next crosses paths with a great number of other nodes from other Displays, the state of constant distraction that can be considered the fundamental trait of contemporary culture plays to our strengths as a museum (novelty) and against our weaknesses (academic rigor).

We will begin work in one week. Expect delay.