“Hello to you too,” he says sarcastically.
“Sorry,” I reply. “It’s not you.”This time.
“Whatever it is, I know you can overcome anyobstacle, clear anyhurdle.” Declan looks even taller when he stands at my desk while I am sitting. He towers over me, offering me the same Cheshire-cat smile he did before not changing the numbers on the budget deck. The dimples in his cheeks are inviting and dangerous.
Then the words he used hit. I sit up out of my stress slump, my back ramrod straight.
“You googled me, didn’t you?”
“Steeplechase is pretty badass, Ross.” Declan throws me another grin before taking a swig of his coffee. He’s right. The steeplechaseisbadass. Along with the 10K and 15K, this was my event. I qualified for all three for the World Games four years ago, but I was most excited to clear the massive hurdles and splash in the water reservoir round the track. I think again of the quote behind my back:Quitters never earn a line in the history books.
Boy, do I know it.
I don’t know what to say next, but Declan changes the topic. I’m grateful for that. “What’s on the docket today?”
I’m not sure if I trust him yet, but maybe he’s making an effort. I can give him another chance. I tell him about the myriad requests from Celine.
“Isn’t a Smithsonian submission branding or PR?” Declan asks.
“It’s both and neither, hence it falls to me,” I explain. Because anything that doesn’t fit neatly into one department usually makes a stop at my desk before it gets resolved.
Declan mulls this over. “I can take you over to storage to find something. Should be easy.”
“You would do that?”
“Yeah, I’m one of four people who have the key. You can’t get in without me, and anyone without clearance needs to be supervised,” he tells me as he starts walking to the exit.Begrudging assistance, but I’ll take it, I think as I grab my purse and phone.
The storage unit for FIRE isn’t fancy. It’s a double unit at a local facility. Declan has the key, and I wonder if I should have one too. Thankfully, the A/C is running, but as with most things in Florida in the summer, it is almost too cold. I regret not bringing a sweater, but we shouldn’t be in here for too long.
“The further back we go, the older the memorabilia gets,” Declan states as we snake our way through a makeshift aisle built between towers of boxes.
I marvel at decades’ worth of stuff. That’s the fable capitalism has sold us time and time again. This tycoon started from nothing with nothing. Humble beginnings evidenced by a company started in a garage. There are many companies that have the same origin and so few find the path to eternal consumer staples, vertical defining brands. FIREdidstart out of a garage, though. Finish lines and orange cones piled into a golf cart. The timing equipment was rented until Oliver decided to buy it. The shirts and medals would overflow into the kitchen on race week and then a gaping hole would be left until the next event and the next. Until he needed volunteers, paid helpers. And more space.
I sneeze. The dust in here is thick.
Now the artifacts of Oliver’s life’s work reside in this storage facility. The memorabilia and legacy items are in one container, the old sponsor signage forgotten in another, the plastic boards doomed to never deteriorate or fade. The sponsor team is secretly hoping the old companies sign back on and we don’t have to recreate the posters, I’m sure.
“Hey, these shouldn’t be here,” I say aloud as I spot the finisher T-shirts from the cancelled Kalispell races. The same ones Raj and the King Cool team need us to deliver so he can donate them on his next philanthropy trip to Côte d’Ivoire.
Declan turns back to see what I’m referring to. But it is dark in here, even with the lights on. Many of the boxes tower high enough to block out the bulbs.
“Can you shine a light over here for me?” I ask him.
I take a photo of the shipping label with my phone and try to send it over to Ahmed. He’s in the office this week, before he heads back out to set up several of our events in Central America. I hope he can get them sorted out in time. There’s a boat leaving next week for our races in Africa, so we can still get the shirts to Raj in time if we have it in that shipment.
“No service in here,” I mutter as the email fails to send. I’ll have to remember to send it later.
“Yeah, concrete does that,” Declan quips.
OK, so he is being helpful, but he still retains most of his snark.
He leads us further into the unit until we hit the back wall. “Here are the most ‘historical’ items.”
“Let’s see if we can find any of the original finish-line banners, shirts, or medals. That could be good for a display.” I start working on the boxes to our left, Declan the right. There is one light bulb shining enough that we don’t have to use our phones.
We find exactly what we’re searching for: a box with leftover shirts from the very first race and a roster, handwritten, for the first FIRE triathlon.
“Alright, let’s get out of here,” I say as I put the items carefully in my purse, grateful for its obnoxious size.
