The Department of the Lost and Cherished
The top of the building could not be seen from ground level; it faded into the clouds. If it wasn't the tallest structure he'd ever seen, it was certainly the most out of place. He had expected to see something like this in midtown Manhattan, not sandwiched between two suburban Staten Island homes. A perfectly trimmed lawn began on both sides of the structure where the metal framing ended. John Marto swallowed a lump of nothing and stepped into the gold-framed revolving doors.
Three people stood in line at the glass information window. The boxy lobby contained no art. There was nothing but an opaque green paint job. The clicking of John's loafers kicked up the smell of floor cleaner, and sent echoes across the room, whose echoes in turn generated more echoes. Only until John had joined up with the other people on line could he hear the man behind the window.
"Department of Motor Vehicles, floor 22, elevator two," the aged voice said. The woman on the front of the line faded into a dimly lit hall. "Household appliances, floor 38, elevator 3," and another man left the line. "Food court, floor 95, elevator nine. Next, please," said the man with a hint of impatience. John stepped forward to see a short old man with thick-framed spectacles. The toupee he wore was beginning to slide off his head. "Yes, umm, I lost something," said John.
"Was it cherished?" asked the old man without hesitation.
He hadn't thought about this. It must have been cherished enough if he felt he could take the day off from the bank and trek to Staten Island just to reclaim it. "Yes, I suppose so," John replied.
"Department of the Lost and Cherished. Floor 64, elevator one."
John remained at the information window. The old man turned the page in the paper. He had yet to look up into John's eyes. John waited a moment before stepping into the hall of elevators, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. There were twenty elevator doors, ten on each side. John pressed the up button for elevator one, and the black doors opened quickly, letting out a slight rumble. Before he stepped inside, he noticed the minuscule dimensions of the mechanical lift. Indeed, the walls grazed his white button-down shirt at the shoulders. As the doors closed, he looked up and noted a sign that said:
ELEVATOR MAXIMUM OCCUPANCY: 1 PERSONS.
John scratched his cocked head and looked for the number 64 button, not a difficult task considering it was the only button in the elevator. The moment he released the button, the doors opened to a silent white hall. It was as if the elevator had not moved at all, and yet there he was in a much brighter corridor. He walked down the hall and saw that behind a set of glass doors, dozens of people sat on long benches and several lines formed at a desk that circled the room.
"Hello sir. Welcome to the Department of the Lost and Cherished," said a man in a black jacket and tie. "You are number 26. Please take a seat and a representative will consult you in just a moment. Thank you."
John accepted the ticket from the usher and looked around to find an open spot on the dilapidated benches. He maneuvered himself into the middle of the third row, shuffling past a sobbing Indian couple, a snoring man still clenching to a bottle of Smirnoff vodka, and finally, a curly haired woman in her mid-twenties who appeared to be praying. John took mental notes of the black linebacker-sized file cabinets behind the circular desks. Spread around them were swivel doors like those found at the deli counter of a supermarket. A man in a plastic white jumpsuit walked into the doors, giving John a brief glimpse into an endless warehouse before the doors swung closed again.
"Ladies and gentleman." The same usher interrupted the room's stirring as the noise came to silence. "Ladies and gentleman, the Office of Lost Loved Ones is closed, please return tomorrow. Thank you." The chatter crescendoed back to its regular blare and several people got up from the benches, including the now hysterical Indian woman and her husband to John's right. The man tried to console the woman while they made their way back towards the glass doors.
John lowered his head and looked around at the crowd that he was now a part of and started silently calculating what each person was trying to find. He slowly moved his gaze over to the snoring drunk, a girl scout to his left, and a drooling, one-armed 70-year-old man behind him. Projections like these were what he had done for six years. A good loan officer had to be able to measure people’s character.
"Number 26!" one of the representatives called out from behind the desk. John shot right up and hurried over to the information desk. Yes there were people who had still not been called and were waiting there much longer than he but of all the things he had witnessed today that fact was probably the least nonsensical. He took a seat facing a cheerful, young black man. "Hello, sir. My name is Ryan and I'll be your representative today. So what can I help you reclaim?"
John felt comfortable with the man's disposition, but not enough to bring his reason for visitation out right just yet. "Hi, Ryan. My name is Johnny. Er, John. Marto. Well," John began, "I lost something."
"Of course!" Ryan beamed. "So has everyone here. It's OK, sir you are in good hands with the D.L.C. What is that has been misplaced. Your car keys? Your baby teeth, perhaps? Or would you like me to pull up your sock file and try and locate some of those?"
"It isn't anything like that, nothing material," John said, twisting his shoes into the dark blue carpet. "I was told that this association,"
"Department," Ryan interrupted.
"Right. Sorry. I was told this department could track down anything that may have been taken or lost over the years."
"I wouldn't say anything," Ryan answered sounding self-assured, "but we are very good at what we do, yes, Mr. Marto." John cleared his teeth with a swishing of his tongue and sighed.
"I'm looking to reclaim my..." John looked up towards Ryan, "...lost virginity," he said finally.
"Oh. I see." Ryan's animated glow had snapped into an expression of puzzled concern. He tried to re-gather himself. "Well, Mr. Marto. Your situation is not too uncommon, believe it or not. Wait right here. Let me speak to my supervisor."
John lived out nearly twelve months in the brief period of time where he was left alone at the desk. He thought about their first meeting at the ice cream shop during his senior year of high school. It was November then, freezing, and ice cream was not on his mind. He remembered the enormous strength it took to ask for her seven little numbers. He knew she was not the type of girl who would care about his beat-up car, and their first date was at a greasy spoon diner down the road from each other's homes. He loved the way she called him "Johnny."
The movie playing in his head began to move faster. He remembered their first kiss, which only lasted moments. She got sick with infectious mononucleosis. Everyday he would be there to visit her and give her some small token of his love, usually flowers or a little toy (once it was a figurine of a ballerina; she aspired to be a dancer, and would be). She got better. She was everywhere with him. Their friends began to complain about how they never saw either of them anymore, though they did make it to the massive, alcohol-fueled Halloween party. He went as Clyde, she as Bonny.
Winter evenings were spent huddling in the warmth of bed sheets at John's home. After all, his parents were rarely home. The couch of his living room. They liked to pretend it was their home, that they were married. The crackling fire bathed them in orange glow in an otherwise pitch-black room. Sometimes, they drank his father's alcohol as if to prove their adulthood.
Christmas came, which they celebrated on the 26th. "Christmas is still a day for family," John's mother told him against his most desperate pleas to leave the house. The next day he gave her two tickets to the Metropolitan Ballet, and she gave him her body. How nervous they both were! It was not so much the actual act of sex, but their lying together in her bed immediately afterwards. They had just jumped off the tallest building, but proud that it was only them who could have consecrated the act.
Nine years later, when bored at his bank job, John would torture his emotions and purposefully remember his first touch of cool flesh in his warm hands.
If they were inseparable before the holiday vacation, they were basically the same person when they returned to school. John recollected the inside jokes they used to say every day. They finished each others' sentences. They passionately kissed in front of the teachers. And outside of school, they made love so often, it was as if they were trying to set some undocumented world record.
And as quick as the switching of movie reels, boredom settled in towards summer. Not for him, but for her. He complained that she seemed distant, that she no longer wanted to be together as much. They began to fight more. She complained of his neediness, which only exacerbated what was becoming a recipe for a heartbreak. Distance. Complaints on both sides. Repeat.
They were both going to college in the fall. They saw the end approaching like a speeding train. He wanted it to be like it was last fall. Perhaps she did, too, but neither of them could figure out how to make it that way. And in September, she was blown away to a Chicago dance academy, just another part of the wind that the city was known for.
The tiny sound of clinking ice cubes against glass brought John back to reality. Approaching the desk was a man just about six feet tall, and John guessed he was nearing forty years old. A Confederate flag emblem was stitched onto the left pocket of his scratchy and faded green coat, and on the right side were three gold emblems, no, they were medals. Medals for war service. The gentleman had short brown hair, though his beard appeared to be more red like a rusted axe. As he sat down in front of him, John could make out faint beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.
"What's your name, boy?" the man asked in a Virginia accent. John gave his name.
"Mar-TOE," the man said harshly. "Mar-TOE. What is that, an I-tal-ian name?"
"Umm. Yes sir it is. My father..." John started to say, but he noticed that this apparent supervisor had lowered his eyes and snarled his upper lip in an expression of utter disgust. He cleared the wind out of his nose and took a sip of his whiskey. John stopped and was, for the first time today, more offended then confused, although there was definitely still plenty of confusion.
"So what in the hell are you here for?" the man asked.
John started to hate this man and this place and everything about the day's events. "I thought Ryan told you. I'm here to reclaim my lost virginity. I want it back. I want it back so I can forget her. What is with this place?"
The supervisor opened his eyes as if he were going to cry, but instead burst out into an obnoxious, cackling laugh. As he tried to take in breaths, he slapped his hairy hand onto his dark grey pants.
"Lost virginity? Goddamn, boy! You yanks haven't gotten any smarter since my great great granddad kicked the tar outta y'all back in AY-deen Sixty Fi!" The man's laugh had finally slowed down a bit so that he could take another sip of his drink. The bitter taste made his face wince up like a tight leather ball.
1865? John's jaw dropped open in astonishment. What could this man be doing here, in New York of all places? John had encountered too much confusion and curiosity throughout his day. He was starving for clarity, and so he asked him.
"Well," the man said. "I am now the General Supervisor of this here offices. Can't stand this city. Can't stand these people. But I need the money and...say do you have any money on you?" He looked up from his drink at John like a child might look up to his parents ready to be scolded.
"No. No I've no money for you." John's clasped hands were beginning to become so pressured and white at the knuckles that it seemed the bone could burst through the skin at any moment. John was usually a well-tempered man. He had put up with many complaints from nagging customers and bosses in his five years of work, but at this moment, he thought he might punch through the glass.
No. He thought of something much more damaging. And so he told the great great grandson of Robert E. Lee that it was in fact the Union who had won the Civil War. The Confederacy had lost. The South would not rise again.
The General Supervisor was not laughing this time. He gritted his teeth, tightened his jaw, and began to let out the deepest sobs he had ever seen a man, no, any human being ever produce. The inhalations sounded like the revving of a chain saw, and were followed by explosions of gasps. Snot projected out of the man's nostrils and streaked down his beard. The background noise of the D.L.C. had dampened. All attention seemed to be on John and his supervisor.
"SORE LOSERS!" the supervisor shouted. "That is all you are! Sore LOSE-ers!"
Suddenly, from across the office, John heard a loud, "Hey!" coming from across the office. The voice belonged to Ryan.
"Security! Security!" he shouted frantically as he ran towards John. "Mr. Lee! How many times have we told you to stop this! It isn't funny anymore. Go home, Mr. Lee." Two security guards dressed in tuxedoes ushered the still sobbing man out the doors as dozens of waiting people stared in silence. Once the man was carried out, the noise and activity regenerated.
"I'm sorry about that, Mr. Marto," said Ryan. "That's Mr. Lee. Every few weeks or so he comes in and tries to pass himself off as the 'General Supervisor,'" he added, making air-finger quotes. "I've never seen him like that before but I'm sure he'll be back. Again, I'm terribly sorry."
John looked down at his hands which were now relaxed on his knees, aching a bit from their asphyxiated grip just a couple of moments ago. "Poor man," John muttered, barely above a whisper. Still, Ryan's attentiveness managed to pick up what he had said.
"Sad and bitter is more like it. Anyway, I have some good news! I spoke to my supervisor and he gave me this application. Just fill this out and return it to our offices when you are done. I hope I could be as helpful as possible and again, I'm sorry about everything."
"Stop apologizing, please." John was feeling loose and tired like a deflated balloon, but his heavy eyes scanned over the packet he had been given which said in bold letters:
APPLICATION FOR VIRGINITY GRANT. PLEASE FILL OUT THE FOLLOWING IN DARK BLUE OR BLACK INK AND RETURN TO THE DEPARTMENT OF THE LOST AND CHERISHED.
He sat and stared at the packet, slowly glancing over its bureaucratic series of questions and sections. He took in one more deep sigh before looking up at his representative.
"Ryan," he paused. "Will you do me one last favor?"
"Yes, of course, Mr. Marto. What is it?" Ryan responded quickly and happily that he had a chance at redemption for his over-apologizing.
"Lose this for me," John said.
"Lose it, sir? Would you like it added to your file?" It was now Ryan's turn for confusion.
"Whatever you'd like. Thanks for everything." There was sincerity in his eyes.
As John left the main entrance to the building he looked to his left to see a young woman walking a dog on her lawn. She waved at him. He waved back. He looked up into the afternoon sun which had not yet begun to set. As he walked towards the ferry, he decided it was too nice out and he was too close to Battery Park to return to work today. The weather reports said tomorrow would be rainy, "A perfect Saturday for the bar," he thought.
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