Chapter Twenty-One: Sunbeams
This episode is part of a larger story, Soft Touch. If you haven’t yet, you can go back and read it from the beginning right here.
“Mind if I handle those?” Aiden asks hastily, as Spencer goes to set the Kemp papers down on the counter. “Sorry, just - if the pages are that old, I think I probably should.”
“Aiden is an archivist,” Floyd explains proudly, clasping Aiden’s arm. “The very best! Knows just what he’s doing. He manages the official archives of Ketterbridge!”
“The very best?” Aiden repeats, his blue eyes faintly alarmed. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s - I just work for City Hall, it’s really not a big d…”
Aiden fades into startled silence, thrown off. Blinking at Spencer, who’s staring at him with obvious fascination, his impressed eyes very wide behind his thick-rimmed glasses.
Aiden falters under his gaze, nervously adjusting his snapback. I think I know what he’s thinking: that the idea of letting down anyone with a smile like that on their face is actively unbearable.
“Yeah, I - I do alright,” Aiden says half-heartedly, and Spencer beams at him.
All of the anger from a second ago appears to have been temporarily forgotten. Spencer glances from me to Aiden, then back down at the papers, his eyes sparkling with renewed interest.
“What should we do?” he asks Aiden, holding the papers much more carefully all of a sudden, with a slightly reverential air. “Do we need a - a special light, or…?”
“No, but we probably want a clear surface to put these down on. Is there something else we can use? Somewhere less, like…?”
Aiden gestures generally to the counter that Spencer is standing behind. Aside from the mug of coffee, the typewriter, the register, and the scattered papers on its surface, there are also notepads with pens left open on them - multiple ones, like Spencer goes between them frequently - along with a few open books, some newspaper clippings, and a package of dry turtle food.
Spencer clearly sees the problem. He hesitates for a second, having some kind of internal war with himself, his ink-stained fingertip tapping on the counter.
“I guess it would be fine if - yeah, we can go upstairs.” He casts a sharp, seething glance at Floyd. “This one time. Ever.”
Floyd glares furiously at Spencer as he comes out from behind the counter and crosses to the door of his bookshop. Spencer ignores him, flips the sign to Closed, and slides the bolt on the door.
He comes back over to us, carefully hands the papers over to Aiden. Then he scoops up his mocha and returns to Naomi, who has climbed out of the water and is busy drying off beneath her heat lamp.
Spencer reaches into the tank, gently scoops up its little occupant, and nods towards the back of the shop.
“Come on, then.”
His voice has a natural rough texture, and it’s stiffened up considerably now that Floyd is part of the proceedings. But it’s warm, beneath everything. Good-natured at its heart. I can hear it. Despite the instant rage he flew into when he realized Floyd was in his bookshop, I have the feeling that Spencer is a man who has a lot of trouble staying in a dark mood.
Except when it comes to Floyd, I guess.
“Watch your head, Aiden,” Spencer says, opening a door at the very back of the shop. “I’ve hit my own a few times in this stairway, and you’re taller than I am.”
“Really, Aiden,” Floyd murmurs, as we all troop single-file into a tiny wooden stairway. “You’re such a big man, it’s unbelievable! Would you ever think about giving up an inch or two, to make the rest of us feel not quite so small?”
“Depends,” Aiden answers, bending to fit his head through the door. “Where’s the inch gotta come off of?”
“Watch again right inside the door, Aiden,” Spencer says hurriedly, then winces at the thunking sound from behind him. “The ceiling does get low there, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Aiden grumbles, rubbing his temple.
I press my hands over my mouth, suppressing a laugh. “Oh, god - are you okay, babe?”
“Yeah.” Aiden drops his voice to a whisper as Spencer disappears around the turn in the stairs. “But what the fuck is going on with these two?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper back, then reach out to snag the back of Floyd’s t-shirt. “Floyd! You said you didn’t know this guy!”
“I’m sorry,” Floyd whispers, cringing. “The truth is, we used to work together as journalists, and we - it’s - it wasn’t supposed to matter, I wasn’t going to come in!”
“Yeah, what happened there?” Aiden spreads his hands in disbelief, then gestures to the old papers. “And why did you tell him I’m some amazing archivist?”
Floyd’s over-magnetized eyes blink in confusion. “Well - that part is just true!”
Aiden stares at Floyd, then slowly shakes his head in affectionate frustration. “But I’m not the best, Floyd, I don’t even have an undergrad degree-”
“No need for modesty, Aiden!” Floyd assures him brightly, in a speedy whisper. “There’s no shame in being the best!”
“It’s not modesty!”
“Yes, it is,” I chime in, then blow Aiden a lil’ kiss when he shoots me an exasperated glance.
“Oh, my god, can we-?”
“Besides, it wouldn’t be the worst thing for Spencer to know I have a new friend now,” Floyd goes on, breaking into a hurt, angry scowl. “Multiple friends, actually! Talented ones, who like me and love my bookshop-”
“What are you guys doing?” Spencer asks, watching us suspiciously from the top of the stairs.
We all look up from the little whisper-huddle we’ve accidentally formed on the landing.
“Nothing!” Floyd calls back hastily, bouncing up the rest of the steps.
He sails through the door at the top, followed by Aiden, who has to bend awkwardly and still gets his snapback knocked off. He bends down to scoop it up, then stops, staring around. I stop beside him, doing the same thing.
We’ve stepped out into a truly tiny studio apartment. There’s not even a bed, only a closed-up fold-out couch with some blankets and pillows stacked on one side. A minuscule kitchen, and no TV. The turtle tank up here - lovingly outfitted with lush plant life and a carefully-maintained little pond - is significantly more luxurious than anything else.
Most of the space in the studio is taken up by a large table in the center, which is covered with stuff. The whole place is full of stuff, actually.
The top of the fridge is stacked with coffee cans, along with a few books that must not have fit on the overstuffed shelves. Overflow books are in piles all over the place, most of them heavy with post-it tabs marking certain pages. Notebooks are everywhere, too. Some of them are neatly filed away on the shelves, others left open and half-filled with tidy, precise handwriting. Newspaper cuttings have been hand-pasted onto some of the pages.
Floyd’s place looks like a tornado of notes and research swept through it. Spencer’s looks the same way, but here it’s like someone went through and meticulously, lovingly organized everything the tornado left behind.
There’s been cork board applied to one wall, and that wall is covered in clippings and cuttings and prints of pictures and photocopied pages from books. A chaos wall, like all of Floyd’s walls.
But despite the chaos, the whole place is full of warmth. Golden beams of sunlight fall in slanted shafts through the windows, creating soft violet shadows everywhere they don’t touch. The air smells like coffee, and an old-school radio in the corner is very softly playing Busted by Ray Charles. The armchair by the window with the stack of half-finished books beside it looks worn-in, comfortably sat in a thousand times over.
“I’m sorry for the mess!” Spencer hurries across the room to move a few empty coffee mugs into the sink, looking a little flustered. “I don’t normally have - not a lot of people come up here.”
“Thanks for having us!” I step further into the apartment, avoiding the nearest book stacks. “And for helping us, too. We all really appreciate it, right, Floyd?”
Floyd doesn’t answer. I’m not sure he heard me. He’s too busy staring around at Spencer’s apartment, his eyes filled with something - complicated. I have a feeling this is his first time up here. His gaze is roaming everything like he needs to catalog it all so he can mentally go through it later.
His silence isn’t lost on Spencer, who misreads it.
“Happy to help you and Aiden,” Spencer answers pointedly, pushing his rectangular glasses further up his nose, shooting a swift glare at Floyd.
He tried to make his voice sound icy, but he was very gently setting Naomi down on the table while he said it. A flicker of a smile goes over his face when she emerges from her shell.
I wander over to the corkboard wall to take a look at what’s pinned to it.
“That’s just where things go while I decide which notebook they belong in,” Spencer says, suddenly sounding embarrassed of it.
I stop in front of the wall and stare at it. It really is like every wall in Floyd’s house, plastered over with anything that Floyd found to be of interest. Only Spencer’s interests are of a different flavor.
Notes on mythical creatures, shamanic rituals, lost and sunken cities, roaming ghosts, old gods, the bones of giants. Articles about cosmology and cosmogony and interstellar visitors. Archaeological news, keys to the meanings of symbols, a printed photo of the Mars Face.
Left open on a small table beneath the cork board is a book about Nan Madol, with colorful photos of the sprawling, ancient ruins of the city rising out of island and ocean. Printed reconstructions by archaeologists show temples and palaces and tombs, all perched on a reef.
There’s a note in Spencer’s handwriting on the pages of the open composition book next to it.
Conclusion: definitely not Atlantis, but fascinating! :) File under Archaeological Enigmas - Pacific - Megalithic.
The dashed-out smiley face makes me smile, for some reason.
I realize abruptly that Floyd has come over to stand beside me. His eyes are roving over everything pinned to the corkboard wall, reading it all at lightning speed.
I’m realizing that something in Floyd and Spencer is exactly the same. Right at their core, embedded in their hearts, something in the two of them is the same.
I think… it’s that both of them are always hunting for the mystery. Only in different places. Floyd, in true crime, inexplicable occurrences, the unsolved. Spencer, in magic and ancient history and mysticism. Outer space is where I see the most overlap between their two areas of interest, which… feels right.
But a mystery is a mystery, and the love of that is so obvious in both of them.
They both have that light in their eyes, full of wonder and intrigue and willingness to believe. That same slightly mad grin. The expression of someone completely devoted to the chase for answers, however completely impossible they might be to find. Ever-hopeful, undaunted. Every single obstacle in the world could be stacked in their way, and neither of them would see a good enough reason to give up.
I see that look on Floyd’s face as he reads the corkboard wall with obvious fascination, devouring the information there.
Spencer watches him uneasily, nervously running a finger around the inside of his collar. His cheeks and ears are slowly going a burning shade of scarlet.
“Don’t look at that, Floyd!” he shouts suddenly, at a volume that startles the hell out of both me and Aiden. “I didn’t invite you up here to steal my goddamn research!”
Floyd whips around, his messy silver braid bouncing, his face instantly furious. “Like I need to steal your research!”
“And get away from my plant!” Spencer bellows, stabbing a finger at Floyd. “Don’t knock it over, I picked it out for the serenity!”
Floyd gestures wildly to Spencer’s furious face. “Well, clearly it doesn’t work!”
“Not since you showed up, but that would be asking too much of it!”
“I wasn’t stealing your research, Spencer! It all looks half-baked, anyways! At most!”
“Like your brain?” Spencer roars back, and Aiden quickly steps between the two of them.
“Okay!” he rumbles, spreading a hand in Spencer’s direction, then casting a warning look at Floyd. “We should look at the Kemp papers, yeah? Then we can get out of your hair, Spencer.”
Floyd and Spencer glare at each other, and then Spencer turns to Aiden.
“What do you need from the Kemp papers, anyways?” He begins clearing a spot on the big table, bookmarking and closing up a few books. “What are you investigating?”
“Don’t answer that!” Floyd says, all in a rush. “You can’t trust him, believe me!”
“Oh, goddamn you, Floyd!” Spencer slams a book down on the table. His eyes are burning with fury, but also with - hurt. “You - you - you n-n-never gave me a chance to explain m-mys-”
Spencer cuts himself off abruptly and pushes a hand through his silver hair. He winces deeply, an agonized expression taking over his face, the color darkening in his cheeks.
Floyd pauses, staring at Spencer, caught off-guard. He presses his lips together, his angry scowl instantly melting away.
I think I see a flash of old, deep affection in his over-magnified eyes.
He hesitates, rubbing his elbow.
“The stutter’s back, huh?” he asks gently, in a much softer voice.
“No.” Spencer is staring determinedly at the floor, as if something very interesting is happening at his feet. “I’ve got it under c-control, except when I’m really w-w-worked up.”
He winces over every stutter, and Floyd winces, too, looking a little ashamed of himself.
He stands there hesitating for another second, then slowly comes over to stand beside Spencer at the table, casts his eyes over some of the books laid open there.
“Are you - reading von Däniken?” he asks, pointing to one of the heavily marked-up volumes.
Spencer bites the inside of his cheek, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and doesn’t answer.
Aiden and I watch Floyd uncertainly. I’m sincerely hoping that Floyd is about to say something nice about that book, even if just to make Spencer feel better -
“It’s total trash,” Floyd says firmly, with a nod at the book. “Buffoonery. I don’t care that it’s a best seller, I won’t even stock it in my shop.”
I cringe with my whole face, and Aiden drops his head, pressing a hand over his eyes.
I expect another argument to erupt instantly. But Spencer doesn’t react at all for a few seconds, aside from some slight twitches of his mouth that indicate he’s trying to keep his expression under control.
He wordlessly picks up the book, shows Floyd the thick field of post-it tabs sticking out from the pages. Almost all of them are red.
Floyd peers down at them, adjusting his glasses. “What does red mean?”
“Means bullshit,” Spencer answers.
Floyd blinks, then laughs.
Floyd has a wild, cackling laugh. It’s infectious. Spencer struggles with himself for a moment, then laughs, too, shaking his head as he tosses the von Däniken book back down on the table.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that Earth was visited by aliens in ancient times,” Floyd says, managing to get a hold of himself.
Spencer nods, like that much is obvious. “Frequently!”
“But to say the ancient Egyptians couldn’t have built the pyramids without aliens descending from outer space to teach them how!” Floyd groans loudly, pressing his fingers to his cheeks. “It’s an insult to their ingenuity!”
“And to compare the pyramids of Egypt with the Mayan stepped pyramids? To claim the aliens must have taught them both how to do it? As if they’re the same thing?” Spencer lets out a scoff of dismissive laughter. “Show me where in Giza there’s a pyramid with a set of steps leading up the outside face, or with a temple on top!”
Both he and Floyd laugh again, Spencer hunching forward with it, Floyd tipping his head back with it. He catches Spencer’s arm, tugs on his sleeve.
“Did you get to the part where he claims that the sarcophagus lid of Pakal has a depiction of an astronaut, and you can tell by the breathing mask the figure is wearing?”
Spencer’s eyes had dropped to Floyd’s hand on his arm, but he looks up instantly, rolling his eyes.
“Oh, yes, the so-called breathing mask, which is really a set of Mayan nose plugs? A very well-known style of jewelry for that culture?”
Floyd stabs a finger at Spencer, but this time enthusiastically. “Exactly!”
“You’ll notice von Däniken mysteriously has no questions about how ancient Europeans built their massive structures, by the way!”
“Yes!” Floyd groan-laughs. “Chariots of the Gods, my ass. Why not call the book Chariots of European Ethnocentrism?”
Floyd and Spencer both laugh wildly together again, then stop abruptly when their eyes flit to me and Aiden.
We’re both standing there completely bewildered, but grinning happily at them.
The two of them stare at us, then quickly look at each other, like they’ve both just remembered something important.
Instantly they’re both stone-faced again, not looking at each other, both of them obviously shaken and thrown off. Spencer backs away from Floyd, carefully leaving some space between them.
“Can we just-?” he begins gruffly, gesturing to the papers in Aiden’s hands. “Let’s just-”
“Yeah, sure.” Aiden steps forward to the cleared-off part of the table. “Can you move your coffee, Spencer?”
Spencer picks up his mug, but Naomi is still right there, very slowly making her way along the table, leaving a little trail of tiny wet prints. Aiden hesitates, glancing up at Spencer.
“Should we put her in the tank, or something?”
“Oh, no need,” Spencer says, waving a hand at Aiden. “It’s about the time when I usually let her out for a roam, anyways.”
“Ah…” Aiden pauses, then looks at me for help. I shrug at him, suppressing a laugh, my fingers pressed over my mouth. “I’m just not sure what the archival procedure says about having a turtle roaming around near the fragile and irreplaceable documents while the archivist is working?”
“Oh, she’ll be good,” Spencer promises, looking affectionately down at her tiny, slow-moving self. “Just don’t make a sudden move at her, she might hiss at you.”
“Right, but… Well - okay.” Aiden helplessly shrugs his broad shoulders, lets out a soft laugh. “You know what? Let’s just do it.”
He carefully sets the papers down on the cleared-off space, then slips his white gloves out of his back pocket and pulls them on.
“I haven’t read through all of the papers yet,” Spencer says, as Aiden very gently removes the first sheet from the slender stack of pages. “It was a recent find, and unexpected. I only went to the estate sale to get the man’s books. I sell second-hand books here, so I’m always buying them up.”
“And the papers were hidden inside of his books?” I ask, still in disbelief.
“Seems that was the primary use of his books,” Spencer informs me. “In fact, I suspect that our old Chief of Police did very little actual reading. Hang on, I’ll show you…”
Spencer goes over to a cardboard box with a small collection of books inside. Neatly labeled, just like everything else in here, it reads on the side - Kemp Estate Sale - To Be Sorted.
Spencer chooses a book at random - a large, square, printed art book, boasting full-color reproductions of someone or other’s greatest works. Spencer brings it back to the table, then opens it to show us a worn and battered Playboy magazine, hidden in the center of the pages.
“Oh my god,” Aiden groan-laughs, as I press my fingers over my mouth again.
“Let’s hope the papers have more helpful content,” Floyd chuckles.
I point to the old Playboy as Spencer closes the book, careful not to touch it. “You’re not gonna keep that, Spencer, are you?”
“Not unless Aiden thinks it should be archived.”
“Not by me,” Aiden says firmly.
“Are you sure, Aiden?” Spencer asks, very seriously. And then, when Aiden looks up at him with baffled eyes - “That Playboy probably has more historical value than anything von Däniken has ever written.”
Floyd instantly breaks out laughing, then presses his ringed fingers to his mouth to stop himself. Spencer had started to crack a smile, but he stifles it quickly, turning his face away from Floyd.
“Well, if we’re not sure what’s in the papers, we should just go through all of them,” Aiden says, carefully unsticking one page from another. “Hang on, let me just get them all loose. It’s gonna take a minute.”
“Take your time,” Spencer tells him hastily, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Honestly, stay as long as you - does anyone want coffee? Except you, Floyd, you don’t get any.”
“I’ll have some,” I answer brightly, as Floyd scowls at Spencer.
Spencer turns to the tiny kitchen counter and takes out an old French press as Aiden gets to work. Floyd begins wandering around the little studio again, his over-magnified eyes slowly roaming over everything.
Spencer keeps his eyes on what he’s doing, but I can sense that he’s very aware of Floyd walking around his place, looking at his stuff. He stands there with his stooped shoulders drawn in, pushing a hand through his silvery hair over and over again.
He tenses up when Floyd floats closer to him. Folds his arms tightly over his chest as he waits for the water to boil.
“So, these are your friends, huh?” he says to Floyd, so quietly that I almost miss it. “You just - went off and found new ones. New people to stick with.”
Floyd pauses by Spencer, then defensively folds his arms over his chest, a wounded look flashing through his eyes.
“Why does that matter, Spencer? I didn’t think you’d care.”
Spencer turns his face away, swallowing.
“Good,” he says, not looking at Floyd. “B-because I d-d-don’t.”
Want to leave a comment? I would love it if you did, and you can do so on the Tapas episode!