They say it knows when you’ll die. Everyone’s got a file in every drawer. The higher you climb the more accurate the file gets. Bottom few levels it’s just a sheet of paper with your name and “YES.” Midpoint you can get vague details on the how. Says things like “car” but doesn’t specify if one hits you or you drive off the road into a lake or anything.

Supposedly the top cabinet is laser accurate, but no one gets that high anyway.

You can’t cheat either. A guy rented a bucket loader to ascend to the heavens, and when he opened the drawer it was empty. Guy was out the full day rate for the lift.

Someone else tried parachuting down to it, but missed and broke both ankles.

Only person I remember making it went Mulan-style all the way to the top. Triumphant, he lost his grip. When he hit the ground he was clutching a piece of paper that described the exact mess he’d just gotten himself into, timestamped to the millisecond. Bummer.

I guess there was a taller one somewhere out in California, but it got knocked down.

They moved this one from a field that was under threat of becoming a byway. That construction project didn’t end up happening, but it was too much work to move the World’s Tallest Filing Cabinet back, so it lives in a parking lot on the other side of town near a grocery store and a rock climbing gym.

City was going to have it demolished, but the tourism was too good. Not that anyone really tried climbing it anymore. Photo ops were enough. The paper is super biodegradable and never lasts more than a few minutes after being removed. You could only get your own, anyway.

It was an art installation originally, protesting the inefficient bureaucracy of something in the late ’80s that no one remembers now. Artist hasn’t been heard from in a long time. Some intrepid journalist interviewed him after the winner-winner dead-by-dinner guy bit the asphalt. He couldn’t remember what he made it for either. The accidental Oracle at Delphi was out in Montana now, drinking Millers on his porch and said, “Hell if I know. Art ain’t yours after it’s left your head.” 

People ask about it a lot while I’m handing them shoes and harnesses at the rock climbing gym.

“Haven’t you ever been curious?”

“Sure, but I’m trying to be smarter than the average cat.”

They tell me there’s a second half to that idiom, “But satisfaction brought [the cat] back.”

I say I’m pretty sure I don’t have nine lives.

Ok. I lied.

I’ve been plenty curious.

A friend—no, that’s not right—someone I kind of knew—let’s call them Jordan. We met at the climbing gym. I saw their name and number on the whiteboard looking for a belay buddy and I was alone and texted them because their handwriting seemed stolid and sure and what more do you want in a climbing partner? Twenty minutes after my introductory text they were there and ready to lock in. They wore a baggy tank top and denim cutoffs and well-worn climbing shoes.

They let me take the first climb, didn’t say anything while I struggled on a spicy 5.11a with a drop knee I couldn’t quite manage. We swapped and I thought I must’ve given them good beta because they flashed it like it was nothing. They descended and assured me, “Everyone at their own pace.”

I thought maybe we wouldn’t get along if they were going to be competitive like that. I had the reach and they had the tech, but when you start pushing 5.2 it’s about reach, tech, and muscle. So we had our strengths and weaknesses.

And yeah, yeah, I guess they were my weakness too, har har, go on get it out of your system.

It was a good thing they were good because every time I ended up slack-jawed staring up at them I swear someone caught me. After a while regulars got used to us together.

Sometimes after we got beers and burgers.

“Thanks for not being weird,” Jordan said, making odd eye contact.

I wanted to say the same to them, but their reticence and apparently endless availability honestly was weird. I had no idea what they did or where they lived or what their last name was even. Instead, I said, “Yeah, lots of weirdos on the whiteboard.”

I got a job at the gym not long after because the other workers knew me and liked me. They wanted the dish on Jordan. 

I tried to stay cool when Jordan leaned over and kissed me one night after we closed down the gym and then the bar up the street. We were walking back to the parking lot with the filing cabinet and under the street lamp they gave me a goodbye peck like we’d been dating for two years and would see each other after work.

I laughed a little and asked, “Who are you?”

They smiled. “Now you’re curious?”

“I’ve been.”

“Ok, come with me.”

And we did. Several times.

It was obvious to every coworker that we were an item, which I think is why they hired Jordan too, because climbing gyms are nothing if not pro-polyamory. At the time I jealously thought everyone wanted Jordan, and maybe some did, but also they were being kind. We kept it so professional when we were clocked in. I think we liked it that way. Tension built because we couldn’t or wouldn’t touch each other at all even when we were just checking people in at the front desk. We would shower off the sweat and chalk at the end of the night and then barely reach one of our parked cars before making ourselves a mess again.

I did see their apartment. Spartan and tidy studio in an affordable part of town. And they did tell me where they were from: Boise, Idaho. Far, far away from little ol’ Vermont, but not, they promised, all that different. I said I’d like to visit. Why? They said they took all the fun with them. The best thing out of there was already straddling me. Left home after coming out as trans to their bewildered Baptist parents.

I thought they were joking when, after a short and satisfying jaunt inside their Honda, they suggested we try climbing the cabinet.

“What for?”

“The same reason anyone climbs it.”

“No one climbs it anymore.”

“Not when anyone is watching.”

The moon was the only eye on us. Jordan cased the cabinet.

“It shouldn’t be that hard,” they said.

They pointed out a couple drawers where the handles had rusted or been busted off.

“Can’t count on these things holding your weight,” I said.

“Rude.”

“I’ve got no way to belay you.”

“Oh sweetie, I don’t need you.”

That hurt, even if they were joking.

They started slow. Carefully easing each successive drawer open just enough to get a good rip and advance, then kicking them closed as they ascended. I probably didn’t tell you but it’s a couple hundred feet in the air and as narrow as your mom’s nightstand. They were three-quarters of the way up when they paused.

“You good?”

They didn’t reply, and clambered up the final fourth in a flash. Sat themselves atop the summit like a satisfied capuchin. They drew open the top drawer and plucked out a file. Held it up to the moonlight for a moment then let it drift down to me.

I nabbed it out of the air, but it was already crumbling. I read a name I didn’t recognize and a date several years in the past. “Suicide.” The file withered away in the wind. Jordan was still sitting above.

“Are you a ghost?” I asked.

Jordan took their time descending.

They kissed me, said, “That isn’t me.”

Even though it was summer, I shivered.

They kicked the confetti left on the pavement. “I guess some magic hasn’t caught up with the times.”

“That wasn’t your file?”

“It was the file for an old me.”

I hugged them.

They asked, “Aren’t you going to go look for yours?”

I said I didn’t want to know.

They gave me a sad look. “You don’t want to know when you’ll be free?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That isn’t me.”

They said ok and walked to the car.

I told their back again, “That isn’t me.”

I don’t know why I wanted them to believe me.