It’s my first day at my new job, and my manager is giving me the grand tour. Then the big boss, the owner of the company, strolls over.

Boss: “Ah, you must be [My Name]! Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

He leads me to a desk in the corner, where an older gentleman is carefully adjusting the monitor on what looks like a computer straight out of the Windows XP era.

Boss: “This is Gary.”

Gary: “Afternoon! Welcome aboard.”

Boss: “Gary’s our archive specialist. If you need anything from the old system, just email him a request.”

The boss then takes me into his office, which I think is a little odd. He’s the owner of the whole company; isn’t he a little busy?

Boss: “Okay, so here’s the deal. Gary is my dad. He retired years ago from the Royal Mail. Then we had the double whammy of my mum dying, and he having memory issues. So I brought him in, set up a desk, and gave him the job. He doesn’t know it’s just something to keep him active and social. His salary comes directly out of my pocket, not the company’s books. With me so far?”

Me: “I think so?”

Boss: “Good. The company has thousands of paper records from the seventies to the nineties. He’s scanning them and making a digital archive. He can go at any pace he wants. You need to consult something from the archive, you go to him, but be prepared to wait a day or two. If it’s urgent, you go to [Supervisor] or me if I’m available. Still with me?”

Me: “I am.”

Boss: “Good. Now, just a personal favour, most people send him an archival request a day, even if they don’t need it. It helps to keep him sharp and feeling useful. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Me: *Smiling.* “I do.”

Boss: “Super! I had a feeling you’d be a good fit!”

So, per office tradition, I send my daily emails:

Me: “Hi Gary, could you check the 1998 expense archive for any mention of supplier invoices?”

Me: “Hi Gary, could you confirm the file name for [Client] in the legacy contacts?”

He always replies with cheerful precision.

Gary: “Found it. Great question. Attached below.”

A few months later, I stop by his desk during lunch.

Me: “So, Gary, how do you like working here?”

Gary: “Oh, I love it! The team’s wonderful, and I get to have lunch with my boy most days. It feels good to have a purpose, you know? I keep the old systems ticking, because I’m an old system! I never want to retire!” *Laughs.*

Me: “Didn’t you retire before? From the post office?”

Gary: “Yup, and that’s how I know I never want to do it again! I’m not stupid, I know my son could hire some intern or get some fancy new program to do what I do, but he keeps me around and keeps me busy anyway.”

Me: “I’ve found that archivists need to be around for a while to know the archives. I doubt an intern or a program could do what you do!”

Gary: “Haha, I suppose that’s true. To be the archivist, one must be the archive!”

He laughs and goes back to his computer to scan an ancient folder. I don’t know if Gary’s keeping the past alive, or if the past is keeping him alive, but either way, it’s working beautifully.

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Years ago, I discovered a scrawny, very pregnant cat had snuck into my shed and was clearly preparing it for her litter. I’m not a cat person and had no desire for pets, but the poor girl looked so pathetic, I didn’t have the heart to kick her out either. I was going to call animal control, but from what I was told, it was likely that mom, as a feral cat that would be hard to rehome, would be euthanized as soon as the kittens were weaned. So, I ended up deciding not to repair the hole the cat used to get into my shed and resolved myself to the fact that it was going to be her home from here on out.

Once the kittens were born, I had a non-profit come in to trap and spay/neuter everyone before releasing them back into the shed. Whenever I have the hose out, I’ll fill up a few bowls with water for the cats, and occasionally, when it’s really nasty outside, I’ll take them a little food to supplement what they can catch on their own, but otherwise, the cats and I mostly ignore each other.

Eventually, a new batch of kittens showed up in my yard. I paid so little attention to my furry squatters that I’m not sure if this was the result of a failure to spay one of the original cats or if we had a foreign cat join my little colony. Other than resolving to have the nonprofit come back for a second round of spaying, I begrudgingly accepted the new addition to the fur squad.

Then one day, I noticed yet another stray, except this time the stray was human. A boy would show up right after the elementary school bus dropped kids off in our neighborhood and would try to play with the kittens. I had no problem with a brief visit, but that wasn’t what this was. Day after day, the kid would show up, encroaching further into my yard and staying for longer and longer periods until it reached the point, I was getting a little uncomfortable with the extended visits.

Eventually, I went out to speak to [Boy]. As soon as he saw me, he tried to flee out of my yard until I called out to him. Then he froze and turned to me, immediately starting to apologize for being there and looking terrified. He was so afraid that I felt unreasonably guilty, as if I had done something wrong to upset the boy so much. I rushed to assure him he wasn’t in trouble and that I just wanted to talk. I tried sitting down to make myself less imposing and did everything else I could think of to make [Boy] comfortable, but he was still clearly afraid of me.

Then one of the kittens slinked towards [Boy], which surprised me. The cats never approached me; I was lucky if they decided they trusted me enough not to actively flee from me. [Boy] looked longingly at the kitten, then fearfully up at me until I told him he was allowed to pet the kitten. That made him more comfortable, and he finally started speaking with me openly.

He told me his mom and he had left his dad recently and were staying at a friend’s house, and he just wanted to visit my cats. I asked if his mom would be worried about him getting home so late since he was spending so long in my yard, but he told me his mom didn’t get home until long after he did, so she wouldn’t notice.

This concerned me a bit because the boy looked way too young to be home alone for any length of time. I was half right there; he turned out to be seven despite my originally guessing him to be much younger based on his size. That still meant he was one year younger than the minimum age a child was legally allowed to be home alone without supervision in my state; I looked it up.

Eventually, I asked to escort [Boy] home, and once I knew where he lived, I came back later to visit his mom. [Mom]’s response to my visit was somewhere between confused and afraid that I’d be asking about her and her son. I’d eventually learn that [Boy]’s biological father had been emotionally abusive towards [Mom]. It had started out as mostly subtle gaslighting but had escalated once the father started drinking more regularly. Once [mom] realized how this was impacting [Boy], she fled with nothing more than a pack of clothes for each of them to live with a friend. [Mom] had no money and had to take whatever minimum wage job she could manage, and was afraid to try to collect child support for fear that it would increase the odds of the father trying to demand contact with [Boy]. [Boy]’s immediately trying to apologize and flee from me was apparently not a fluke either, I was told he was like that with any large man he didn’t know. Having only his dad as a male role model had apparently taught [Boy] some unfortunate lessons about how to expect other men to behave.

I asked about [Boy] being home alone, but [Mom] couldn’t afford any kind of daycare at the time. I pointed out, as politely as I could, that it wasn’t allowed to have a child that young unsupervised, and she seemed to take this as a threat. She pleaded with me not to report them.

Once I convinced [Mom] I wasn’t trying to threaten her and just wanted to make sure [Boy] was cared for, she settled down some, and we ended up coming to an agreement.

Since [Boy] was already spending his afternoons at my house anyway, we would make that official, and I’d watch him until she got home. He was to come to my door, not my backyard shed, every evening after school.

When he arrived, he would get a snack while he did his homework. I quickly learned he needed a structured time to do homework, or it would never get done. Only after his snack and homework were done was he allowed to go out to visit the felines, but he also got to take out a slice of ham with him to break up and feed to the kittens.

If he had done something special, like getting a good grade on a test, he would earn the right to take out an extra slice with him. I always found it amusing just how excited he would get for as simple a reward as an extra slice of meat, but he clearly considered it a reward worth aspiring towards.

He always made sure the kittens each got their fair share of food when he fed them. Before long, not only would they come to him when he called, but they would line up and take turns being fed one at a time, patiently waiting until he got to them. I was surprised at how well he managed to train them.

I’d never attempted to home the first batch of kittens since they were too feral, but the batch raised by [Boy] were so friendly that together we managed to find new homes for many of them; though [Boy] insisted he be there when a kitten was picked up so he could say goodbye and give the new owners a detailed summary of the kittens every trait and behavioral quirk.

It was really amazing getting to watch [Boy] go from the timid, scared kid that I first met to the happy, outgoing child he became, always talking my ear off about every little thing that happened to him that day. Eventually, [Mom] would get a home of her own, and so she and [Boy] would move away, and I was surprised just how much I missed our afternoons together. [Boy] still insists [mom] bring him for occasional visits even now. Though to this day I’m still not sure whether [Boy] is coming to visit me or the cats.

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I used to work retail at a mom-and-pop costume store. We had this family who were regular customers and would come in every year and pick out themed Halloween costumes as a family.

This particular year, they say the theme is ‘The Avengers’. They have a son who is about four or five at the time. He chooses to be Captain America, and they pick out his costume first.

A little while later, he comes running back up to the cash wrap, in full costume, brandishing a phone.

Little Captain America: “I found it on the floor. I have to protect it because phones are very important. Could you help me find who it belonged to?”

I make a store announcement asking if anybody is missing a phone, but to no avail.

Me: “Could you give me the phone? I’ll hold on to it until someone comes back for it.”

He looks at me sceptically, and flat out refuses to hand it over at first.

Little Captain America: “Phones have all kinds of important things on them! They aren’t toys.”

Me: “I give you my solemn word that I will take good care of the phone.”

He hands it over, and I send him back to his parents.

A few minutes later, the phone starts ringing, and I notice that the screen says home, so I answer it. It is, of course, the customer looking for her phone. I tell her where she can find it and that I’ll hold on to it for her.

A few minutes or so after that, the woman comes into the store asking for the phone.

Me: “Are you in a hurry?”

Customer: *A little confused.* “I’m not.”

Me: “Do you mind holding on for just a moment?”

I go back and find the little Captain America (still in costume because once you get a little kid into them, it’s impossible to get them out again) and ask:

Me: “Would you like to return the phone to its owner?”

Little Captain America: *Gleefully.* “Yes!”

I hand him the phone, and we walk back up to the front together. He presents the woman with her phone and explains to her that he had found it and taken good care of it, because he knew how important phones were. The woman thanked him profusely. He gave her a sharp salute and then ran off back to his parents.

At this point, the woman turned to me and said:

Customer: “That might be the cutest thing I have ever seen! Seriously, you don’t know how much I needed that! It’s been a day.”

I told her it was no problem, and I was glad she got the phone back.

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This story starts when my daughter was in kindergarten. Her school allows all the kids to wear their Halloween costumes on the Friday before Halloween every year. When [Daughter] got back from her first school dress-up party, she was excited to tell me the tale of witnessing a knight in shining armor rescuing a damsel in distress.

It seems that the two teachers who handled kindergarten classes had dressed up as a knight and a dragon, respectively. During lunchtime, their principal had shown up dressed as a princess and was “captured” by the teacher dressed up as a dragon and then “rescued” by the one dressed as a knight. This show was apparently the highlight of my daughter’s day, and it made me smile a bit just hearing her excitement retelling the tale.

I should probably also mention that while her teachers were both female, her principal was male.

A year later, my daughter got to do her second school Halloween dress-up. That year, her principal was dressed up as a princess once again, and at one point, one of her peers, who was dressed as a dinosaur, was encouraged to capture the principal. To [Daughter]’s surprise, her teacher then came running up to her with a foam sword and told her that she could rescue her principal by “slaying” the dinosaur. [Daughter] was ecstatic as she told me how she got to rescue her principal that night.

At my next conference with [Daughter]’s teacher, I learned that [Teacher] had been assigned the duty of selecting the child who would be entrusted with a foam sword. Apparently, it was a special privilege that was only offered to a girl who did well in classwork and could be entrusted to be restrained and not go too wild, assaulting her peers with a sword. I was assured that it was a tremendous compliment that my daughter was the one selected.

I assume you all can guess what happened the next year. By fourth grade, all the kids knew that their principal would be dressed as a princess, and the moment he came out to the playground, all the boys rushed out to join in “capturing” him. Then, out came a teacher to “knight” a handful of girls — and it was always only girls who were knighted — who promptly slew their peers and rescued their principal. The kids all looked forward to this routine by then.

I finally got to talk to [Principal] about his damsel-in-distress act recently. Apparently, it started out as a joke. His kindergarten teachers had been jokingly arguing over what thematic costumes they should wear when [Principal] had offered to be the princess to complete their theme. His original capture — and rescue — had not been planned and was just the adults having a bit of impromptu fun, but the kids loved it so much that they decided to make it a routine.

Eventually, this branched out, and [Principal] is now committed to one capture and rescue for each grade in his school. [Principal] joked that he regrets starting the routine as it’s impossible to get any work done on dress-up day when he has to somehow fit in six captures along with his usual workload. But the kids love it so much that he doesn’t dare stop it now.

He also said that while it was not his intention originally, once he realized he had the opportunity to subvert standard gender roles, he figured he would lean into it. So now, once a year, the big, strong man who leads the school wears a dress and gets captured, and it’s up to the girls, and only the girls, to rescue him from his untimely demise.

By now, the whole school is getting into it. My daughter had a project not too long ago where she had to participate in a mock debate on whether the school should keep its actual mascot or replace it with a very masculine-looking princess. Another teacher apparently always does a test around Halloween on which the questions include multiple examples of their principal being dragged off by various threats while wearing increasingly ridiculous outfits, and the only way to rescue him is to correctly solve the appropriate math problems.

My son will start school in two years. My daughter and I have discussed it and decided not to tell [Son] what to expect during his first school dress-up party, as it will be more fun for him to be surprised. [Daughter] is adamant that she wants to try to convince [Son] to dress up as a princess that day in hopes that the teachers will decide to “capture” him along with his principal. I highly doubt she’s going to succeed at this plan, but it’s more amusing to me to sit back and watch than to try to talk her out of it. Whatever happens, I’m sure [Son] will enjoy the show as much as [Daughter] did.

I’m visiting a small coastal city in Italy, staying in a little rental apartment above the water. Every morning, I wander down to the same convenience store to grab bread, fruit, and coffee.

One morning, as I’m picking out a few pastries, I look down at the door to see a cat walking in. 

Not just any cat. This one’s wearing a tiny jacket with little side pouches. 

It pads right up to the counter, sits perfectly still, and lets out one commanding meow.

The store owner smiles, pours a bit of milk into a saucer, and cuts off a small piece of meat. As the cat eats, the owner reaches into one of the pouches, pulls out a few crumpled euro notes, and sets them on the counter. 

Then he starts packing: a small wrapped block of cheese, a few slices of meat, and two sauce sachets, all tucked neatly into the cat’s pouches.

The cat finishes, meows again, and trots out the door with a purpose.

Me: “Did I just see that cat… shop?”

Owner: *Laughing softly.* “Ah, yes. She belongs to an old lady at the top of the hill. Too many stairs for her now. The cat has been doing the shopping for five years.”

Me: “Five years? Every day?”

Owner: “Every morning. You come same time tomorrow, you’ll see.”

So, the next morning, I brought my whole family. We wait, pretending to browse.

Sure enough, there she is again. But this time, there’s a smaller cat beside her, wearing a tiny jacket of his own, the pouches a bit too big for him.

The older cat sits by the counter and meows. The little one copies her, slightly squeakier. 

The owner grins as he sets down the milk.

Me: “She’s brought a friend?”

Owner: “That’s her son. He’s in training.”

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