The hanging file folder tab

Standard hanging-folder tabs run about three and a half inches long and rest in one of five positions along the top rod: far left, left of center, center, right of center, far right, a taxonomy invented so that folders in adjacent drawers do not shout over one another. Each tab holds an insert strip, a slip of card stock typed or handwritten with a name, tucked behind a clouded plastic window that yellows slightly with age and fluorescent light. The plastic is never fully clear, more of a haze, so the label beneath reads best in strong light and worst exactly when someone is in a hurry to find it. Some inserts are typed on a machine nobody in the building still owns; others are printed on a laser printer and cut down by hand, the corners slightly uneven. A few, the oldest, are handwritten in a pen that has since run dry, the ink a color no longer sold. The tab itself clips onto the folder's crimped edge with two small plastic prongs that loosen with repeated use, until eventually the whole tab tips backward and lies flat against the folder like a dropped flag. Drawers full of them make a particular sound when riffled through quickly, a papery percussion with no exact analog elsewhere in the office. Replacement tabs come in packs of twenty five and are rarely bought until the drawer is already half illegible.

Marion Vale