back

The bell rings as he steps into the hallway. Students pour out of the classrooms and into the hallway. Soon he would clean each classroom. Too soon. He wades through the students, back to his office. He opens the door to the tiny workshop and feels the hot, stale air wash over him. The smell of sawdust and solvent permeate the air. He half unzips his coveralls and wipes his head with a dirty red handkerchief. He walks over to a little wooden desk, one of the legs replaced with a stack of cinderblocks and telephone books. He sits down in a metal folding chair and opens the large file drawer on the lower left side. He pulls out the gray lunch pail. No longer completely gray, more of a mix between gray and brown, where grime has built up and been worn away with the passage of time. He opens it and fishes around for a sandwich, finding it and peeling off the cellophane as he begins to eat in silence. Tonight, he would still be here, cleaning classrooms, dusting desks, vacuuming floors, cleaning glass, washing chalkboards, taking out the trash, sweeping hallways, mopping, waxing, buffing, cleaning counters, sinks, toilets, and stall walls. He didn't relish the work to be done, but once a sponge was in hand, it became like a dance. the execution of a series of steps from rote memory. That list alone would take over five hours to complete. The school board had cut its budget and only could afford to keep one janitor on duty at a time. If the school had been larger, he would have had considerably more trouble, but little towns like his never had large schools. Most days went by as fast as they came. When your hands are busy, time seems to rush by. Manual labor was his penance, even catharsis, except when he had to paint. I used to paint canvas.

After Emily, the janitor vowed to quit painting. I just can't do it, Em. But, he was drawn back by his own compulsion. Em. He didn't begin to paint dark, gothic images or dark twisted streets. He painted as before. "I can't seem to sell your paintings." The gallery owner said. "Your old ones sold, not for a huge sum, but they did sell. Now, they won't. I can't really say why." The janitor nodded slowly. Now you won't take them. The janitor walked slowly out, his newest work wrapped in an old paint smock and tucked under the arm of his woolen, surplus army jacket. The janitor had walked out into the cold night air and over to his car, a yellow 1973 AMC Pacer with gaping holes edged in rust. It ran, but the interior stank of gasoline and the bitter sweet smell of antifreeze. The car had not been his first choice, but he needed to save money. Emily had become a registered nurse, easily tripling their meager income. "I can work until the baby is born." The baby. The janitor had always wanted a child. Children were empty canvases, waiting to be painted. More often than not, children reflected their parents, but more than just offspring, the janitor wanted the assurance of a child in his life. A child meant that he had something to leave this world, besides his meager paintings. Emily had been so happy when she told him. We were both happy.