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Alex knew it was coming. He’d gotten a heads up from the other museum staff, plus Amelia was asking him questions about it.
“Alexander, what is this…hip-hop?”
“It’s uh…” Alex struggled not to have a million memories suddenly come flooding out of him, patching the leak in his brain that contained his past once again with the same band-aid he had been taping over it for decades now since he finished up having anything to do with music. While this security guard job could be a lonely one, a far cry from the years he used to have when he was young and bright and all that shit, it paid well and he had friends.
Even if most of those friends were magically voodooed at night and not his actual friends who lived all over the US, Canada and Europe - settled down and happy. Alex is one of those things and it certainly isn’t happy. Content, maybe - but happy?
He hasn’t felt actual happiness since he was in his early 30’s.
“Hip-Hop is a style of music.” He settles on finally, unable to look Amelia in the eye as he says it, preferring to look at the tiled museum floor. “Very different from the music of your era, you might not like it. It became a big thing long after your time.”
“Oh.” Amelia looks down the hallway as Alex stretches from where he’s leaning against an exhibit, back still stiff despite his best efforts. He could manage it when he was younger, but now he’s pushing 50 and looking more like his Sylus cosplay every day he dares to look in the mirror. He’s also looking like his Dad as well, all wrinkles and fine lines swirled in a salt and pepper beard and silver hair. The guard uniform also doesn’t help the comparison - he’s sure Stella would think the same. He should call her and catch up sometime. He should.
“Well, I guess it must be popular for the modern wing to get a whole exhibition on it.” He finally hears Amelia say, turning back to him. “How long is it going to be in for?”
“Curators said 8-12 weeks, depending on its popularity-” Alex speaks flatly. “-but it could be here for longer as they’re hoping to make it a tourist trap for summer.”
“What’s a tourist trap?”
“I, uh, just remembered I need to check on Ahkmen. I’ll catch you later.” He knows he was being rude (he’ll apologise to her later on his next round), but he just needs to get out of there, unable to look at the new wing as he feels Amelia’s eyes on his back.
He hopes he never has to enter it.
Curiosity gets the better of him in the end. That’s what he tells himself as he walks into the entrance for ‘From the Streets to the Stage: Hip Hop's Evolution’.
It’s been 2 weeks since he found out about it and he knows the day guards will be coming by just before his shift ends to prepare it for opening day tomorrow morning. Alex told himself that he wouldn’t attend it unless around other people, in the daytime, that seeing people - friends - that were no longer alive or had long retired, was just too painful.
He also knows that he’s lying to himself because there is only one person in the whole exhibit that he hopes he doesn’t see, the velvet rope leaving a tingle on his fingers as he swings open the glass door.
Roosevelt said he came in here a couple days ago, that everyone was really cool about the fact that the wax embodiment of a former president just casually walked through the door and introduced himself - he’s also done the favor of giving the diorama figures included in most of the exhibits a rundown of the whole tablet thing, so that saves him a headache.
He wishes that headache wasn’t straight shooting from his temples down into his chest via his bloodstream as his heart is going too fast for an almost senior aged man, but if Alex dies of a heart attack tonight, at least they’ll have a story for opening tomorrow morning, awful as that sounds. “Former Hip Hop Artist Turned Security Guard Found Dead in US Museum”
Not a great headline, but hey, Alex used to write some pretty shitty lyrics, so it works.
There are a lot of names he recognises - those are easier to look at, as he knows that those figures won’t come to life. When a person is, well, alive, the tablet doesn’t interact with them, so Alex figures from what Roosevelt was saying that there are only a few people he’ll have to deal with, which makes sense. He passes a few different setups, seeing some movement out of the corner of his eyes as figures unstiffen and move around in their tiny little boxes.
Alex unlocks most of them, giving warnings about leaving the room and shit, but knowing most won’t listen to him anyway and he’ll have to go on a mad scrabble later tonight to find everyone. They’re rappers. He was a rapper. He knows what they act like. It’s okay, he’s okay, everything’s fine…until it’s not.
There’s an exhibit on his left that he barely notices, too occupied with reading details on others to really see it. It’s nearer towards the end, meaning it was clearly more modern era rap than the 70s and 80s stuff Alex was passing by - but the shine of something stops him dead in his tracks, head whipping around along with his flashlight, hand shaking as he raises it up to view it.
The MILF Hunter belt buckle.
Of course they’d have him here.
Alex tries to rein himself in as his feet move him, automatically stepping closer like a magnet being pulled, taking in all of the tour merch that they seemed to have denched up somehow - most likely through auctions and donations from museum shareholders.
There’s his Stanley Cup ring he got from the Tampa Bay Lightning - it’s a pretty good copy, Alex will admit, given he has the real one at home.
There’s one of his stupid robes, moth-eaten from most likely sitting in some collector’s box for several years.
There’s a pair of his sunglasses, the ones he used to push up his nose every time he wore them because they were slightly too small after he grew his hair out.
His black cowboy hat hangs proudly from a hook, but it’s fraying at the edges just like Alex’s vision the more he stares at it and the rest of the display, swallowing the bile that threatens to burn him whole.
Matt wasn’t a big name when he started, obviously, but by the time he was gone, Alex guessed that more people knew of him than they knew of himself - which is why when he spots a picture of himself and Matt together, the album cover of Baby Gravy 3 a stark white against the contrasting colours of Matt’s other albums as well as the certified platinum record of Betty, the knot that’s been in his heart for decades twists that little bit tighter.
He needs to get out of here. He needs to-
He flicks the flashlight away as if his hand is on fire, turning to walk swiftly back out of this wing and never come back to it again as long as he’s still breathing, when a voice - small, but carrying those deep, familiar bass tones - gets his attention.
“Hey, you up there, with the light!”
Alex jumps, turning swiftly back towards the display case, his worst nightmare appearing before his eyes as he sees a diorama of Matt’s house (the one in the Hills that got sold 3 weeks after he- god, Alex, don’t think about that) and then, a small figure in front of it, waving at him. Mullet, gold chains, stupid patterned shirt and jeans, knocking on the glass.
Alex wants to run.
“Hey, you!” Matthew Hauri, Yung Gravy, Alex’s former best friend - in miniature, pointing over at the display case lock. “Can you let me out of here? I’m bored fucking stupid, man.”
Alex almost doesn’t, closing his eyes with a shudder in order to block Matt’s entire image out, something that doesn’t work as it’s been in his head for the last 20 years - but eventually, he reaches for the screwdriver and unscrews the lock, opening the display case and letting the action figure version of his still young best friend out.
“Thanks for that, man. I don’t know how long I would have rotted in there.” Matt, to his credit, looks almost comically small compared to the height he used to be as he looks around, craning his neck. “Shit, this place is big.”
“Yeah, well, you are at the American Museum of Natural History.” Alex can’t help but use the exasperated tone that Matt used to be on the receiving end of a lot when he was still alive, unable to help himself, pain flooding every crevice of his chest now as he stares down at the figure. “It’s a pretty big place.”
“No shit, buddy, got two working eyes and all that. Ugh.” Matt rubs the back of his neck, tiny hand messing with his collar like he used to do when he was irritated. “I feel as stiff as a board. How long has it been since I was put there?”
“No idea.” Alex lies, though he can guess given timelines and all that. It’s the first lie of many he knows he’s going to tell. “Exhibit opens tomorrow, though, so don’t go too far, man.”
“Fair. Probably not the best time to go ride a dinosaur, huh?” Matt looks up at him again, blue eyes pinpricks to the normal person, but to Alex no matter their size, they are homing beacons and they’re looking directly at him. “Name’s Matt, but people call me - well, used to call me Gravy, I guess.”
“Cool.” Alex just wants to sob, go into the History wing and curl up in a coffin or behind a display case and weep. “I’m the museum nightguard, Alex.”
“Alex. Nice to meet you, big guy.” Matt’s smile doesn’t fade, but Alex can see it dim a little, his eyebrows creasing like they used to when he was thinking a little too hard about something. “My best friend was called Alex.”
“Anyway-” Scratch crying, Alex is going to vomit. Like actually vomit. “-I gotta get back to letting some of the other exhibits out. See you in a few hours, dude.”
“Thanks, man.” Alex barely hears Matt over his heartbeat in his ears before he’s falling to his knees in the staff toilet, where he stays for a good chunk of the night.