One of the Most Epic Museum Tales That Has Ever Been Told

In college, I worked as a docent at the Museum of Natural History on campus. Latin for "teacher," a docent leads guided tours for museum visitors. And does many other things for the Education Department, but that's not really my point here.

(Coincidentally, if you've ever wondered why my blog is called The Donut - previously DC Donut - it's because one of my hallmates in the dorm decided that "docent" was a ridiculous word that sounded more like "decent" crossed with "donut." Hence I became known as "Donut." They still call me that.)

Occasionally, we would have docent get-togethers, which were basically the lamest things you could ever imagine. We would end up at the museum after hours, watch Monty Python movies and then usually pass out in the planetarium.

Dinosaurs are so much awesomer in the dark.

Once in a while we'd play hide-and-seek in the dark, which was much more unsettling than you would think, considering the number of fossilized killers and taxidermy-ed predators. One scan with a flashlight usually resulted in screaming fits if you weren't expecting it. There was no alcohol involved (as far as I know), because we were good little docents, and we always respected the museum and its exhibits.

Sometimes we'd go up on the roof:

Of course, this was during the day and many years after my years as a docent, but that's what the roof looks like. It looks like a roof. Also, I am very short.

Anyway, after one rowdy viewing of Monty Python and the Holy Grail and all the pizza we could eat, we decided to put our keys to good use and visited the vault. The basement vault houses collections from all areas of the museum, from paleontology to zoology and much more. We poked around the vault for a while and then headed up to the research wings.

We started in the Anthropology wing, the department with the most cluttered and crowded hallways. Navigating the mess was totally worth it just to see some professor's collection of National Geographics from 1922 to the present. I was in awe. I'm guessing that his wife was sick of them collecting dust in their house and banished them to the museum hallway.

We would find all kinds of gems like this sign:

Healthy!

We soon made our way down to the third floor to check out the Zoology wing. That's when it started to get... weird.

In one small, non-descript room, we found two freezers. One was marked "Bird Division," and the other "Mammal Division." We just figured that each division kept their lunches separate, to avoid confusion. We were stupid.

No.

We opened the bird fridge and saw nothing but plastic grocery bags. Same with the mammal fridge. Turns out, that's where they placed roadkill to keep until they needed a certain bone or an eyeball to study. People would bring in dead stuff all of the time, knowing that the scientists salivated over the thought of having a fresh specimen for study.

So that was fun.

Spooky!

ABOUT FIVE MINUTES LATER...

We continued down the hallway to the Mammal Division. Most of the doors led to offices and laboratories, and most were locked. The door to THE BUG ROOM, however, was unlocked. "What is THE BUG ROOM?" we all wondered aloud. We found out.

Until that moment, I never really knew of the scent of death. But now? I know it, and I will do whatever possible to never have to smell it again.

The Bug Room consisted of several crates with wood frames and mesh sides. In the crates were carcasses of recently deceased animals. Added to the fun? Flesh eating beetles. These beetles are used for their special skill of completely cleaning all matter from bones, leaving a perfect study piece. I can't describe the smell, but I do remember that it stuck in my nostrils for days.

After that, what else could we possibly find? Oh... let me tell you.

LATER THAT SAME NIGHT...

Roaming the halls of the Zoology wing, we were drawn to the sound of music. Loud music. Scary music. Death metal music. The closer we got to the open laboratory door, the louder the music grew, and the more terrified we became. All of a sudden, a very short woman with grey hair side-stepped out of the room into the hallway.

She was wearing glasses and a floor-length lab coat. On the lab coat, she (or someone) had drawn a body of a large mouse, standing on its hind legs. The mouse's tail ran around the back of the coat. At the mouse's feet were lots of baby mice. But the baby mice were dead, with crossed-out eyes.

So there we were, standing in front of this mini person (she was shorter than me, y'all), completely terrified. She then said, "Come with me," and retreated into her lab.

We thought that she was going to call the campus police, but instead she began explaining her research. "This is the microwave where I put all of the mouse embryos. Don't heat up your lunch in there. Ha. Ha. Ha." And this went on for about five minutes. Then, as abruptly as she jumped out at us in the hallway, she said, "Leave now."

That was all we needed, and we shuffled out into the hallway and half-walked, half-jogged back to the exhibit space. Once the director caught wind of this, we weren't allowed to have parties for a while. And there still wasn't any alcohol involved!

End note: One of the exhibit designers heard our story and thought that it was hilarious. When we were somehow bullied into creating an exhibit about this woman's work, he snuck in an awesome inside joke into the panel:

Interesting, I'm sure, but look at the bottom left...

What are those things on her lab coat?

Could they be...?

HA HA HA!
They are!
MICE!

And that was one of the most epic days I ever experienced at the Museum of Natural History.