Weekday afternoons were dead at the museum, and we laced through the empty queue line until we were passing Carol, our favorite cashier. She was older than us, probably in college, and always had an uncapped highlighter in her hand. She glanced up at us over the tops of her glasses.

“Picked a bad day, guys.”

“Good afternoon, my sweet,” Tub said.

“Lempke’s on the lurk. He’s all pissed about some late shipment. I strongly suggest you turn back.”

“No time, my dear, no time.”

“It’s your ass,” Carol said.

Tub held out his hand as he passed the admissions window, and without looking up Carol high-fived it.

“Thanks,” I said as I followed.

“You got it, good-looking.”

Through the turnstiles we ran, cutting a hard right to take a side staircase. We passed framed pieces we’d seen so many times we no longer registered them: some royal guy in a blue suit and a feathered cap surrounded by sporting hounds; two lines of soldiers heading at one another with rifles a-blazing; one of those omnipresent buckets of fruit that artists of yesteryear were so enamored with. At the top of the stairs was a gargantuan taxidermic bison head. Tub never failed to leap up and scratch the wiry under-beard. I didn’t even try—it was too much like the fur I’d seen coming out of the manhole.

Our path never changed. First we crossed through the Sal K. Silverman Atrium, a skylit dome kept empty so it could be filled with chairs for fundraisers and events. The floor was kept waxed, and we both took full advantage of the six-foot skid range. We slid out the other side of the atrium and sped past stuff that had once transfixed us: glass cabinets filled with ancient tridents; spooky masks from a dig in Ancient Mesopotamia; the reconstructed skeleton of an allosaurus.

We were giggling; the danger of this trip never failed to thrill. Straight ahead was a door marked STAFF ONLY, but we knew it was unconnected to an alarm. Tub pushed through it and we emerged into the same old ugly stairwell, onto the same old unpainted concrete steps. What was different this time was that Professor Lempke was standing half a flight above us, clipboard in hand, staring at us in shock.

Kids could talk all day about the backbreaking Ms. Pinkton or the overbearing Coach Lawrence. But they didn’t know Professor Lempke. Quite possibly the most arrogant man in all of Southern California, he clearly believed himself to be the rightful heir to the secretary of the Smithsonian and was just polishing up his résumé before he got the call. He ruled the San Bernardino Historical Society Museum with a dictator’s fist, and though that was probably why it was a such an esteemed institution, it was also why kids avoided it. The guy expected everyone to stand before art as one would stand before God, silent and penitent. If you were a little kid and squealed with delight, he’d ask you to leave. If you were elderly and coughed too much, he’d make the same demand.