Pagano
11-12-2014, 12:48 PM
I wrote this in the basement of my college's student center. With a notebook and nothing to write, I saw the custodian cleaning the floor and took it from there.
--
Steve liked his job. It was simple, like his life used to be. Stand on the floor cleaner (the little zamboni, he heard a student call it) and follow the lines. If he missed a spot, it didn’t matter. He’d get it on the next lap around. He wasn’t on anyone else’s schedule, really. Not even the university’s.
Sometimes Steve would clean until the lights went out. The basement of the student center went pitch black, nearly. This didn’t hurt Steve -- he’d done the path hundreds of times before. Oftentimes, he shut his eyes.
Other janitors would reorder the furniture, shut off the lights, and lock the doors without giving Steve a glance. They knew he was there -- the low hum and hiss of the cleaner was unmistakable. But two or three nights a week, that was just what Steve did. And while none of them knew Steve very well, they felt like he needed it.
Usually around 1, 1:30 in the morning, the cleaner would run out of fluid. Steve liked this. That meant the hissing sound was gone, leaving only the low hum. This granted Steve almost complete darkness, almost complete silence. Steve closed his eyes, breathed it in, and calmly followed the lines. He went around the corner, down the hallway, and came back around. In the silent student center basement, Steve followed the lines.
That’s not to say he didn’t like it during the day. The students were generally quiet, napping, and some even seemed interesting to Steve. He particularly liked the stressed ones, hands on their dejected faces, notebooks and textbooks scattered on the ottoman in front of them. They reminded Steve of himself.
The loud ones certainly didn’t. The packs of frat boys, business majors, and members of the feminist club on campus -- Steve particularly didn’t like them -- seemed to ignore the unwritten rule of silence underground. They laughed, slapped five, stomped and scuffed their shoes on the tiles that Steve just cleaned. Steve, along with the stressed, deplored their presence. The amount of feminists that walked the floor during the day coincided directly with how likely he was to stay during the night.
So that gap, the 30 minute gap of near silence when the fluid ran out, was Steve’s favorite part of the day. His breathing would slow, becoming regular, almost pleasurable. The subtle purple light from the outside barely beamed in through the half windows at the top of the wall. Everything seemed coated in a film of serenity, including Steve. Alone, down here, he was free. Soothed, he followed the lines.
Then, at once, Steve would step off. In the dark, he walked the cleaner back to the closet, and left the serene world of nothing behind him. 20 minutes later, he’d return with three new bottles of cleaning fluid. Then, he drove home. Here, the silence ended.
His fiancé screamed as soon as he pulled back the screen door. Often, she’d be on the phone with her mother, maybe her sister, hollering about her worthless husband-to-be, in addition to the food stamps that wouldn’t work at the store. Somewhere down the hall, a crying baby, Steve’s son, went unattended in his crib. Steve would take one step toward the hallway and take a whap on the head. His wife would point to the kitchen table, the pile of bills on top of it, and with a scornful eye and a stinging hand, start toward the baby’s room, phone wedged in the crook of her shoulder, a restless toddler at her feet.
As the moonlight shone through the kitchen window, Steve would go through each bill and pay it. Hopefully, by then, his wife was as asleep as the baby. If not, he’d be getting an earful. She was never asleep.
She thought he had a drug problem, the way he stayed out late. Or maybe he was seeing another woman, or going to the stripper joint. The 40 dollar hole in his bank account after every late night was proof enough, she screamed.
$44.87, actually. That was for the cleaning fluid. Steve knew it by heart.
The majority of her lashings ended with an accusation, a slammed door, and Steve sleeping on the couch. He hardly loved her, she insisted, so he had to be loving someone else. He wasn’t. He just really liked the silence.
--
Steve liked his job. It was simple, like his life used to be. Stand on the floor cleaner (the little zamboni, he heard a student call it) and follow the lines. If he missed a spot, it didn’t matter. He’d get it on the next lap around. He wasn’t on anyone else’s schedule, really. Not even the university’s.
Sometimes Steve would clean until the lights went out. The basement of the student center went pitch black, nearly. This didn’t hurt Steve -- he’d done the path hundreds of times before. Oftentimes, he shut his eyes.
Other janitors would reorder the furniture, shut off the lights, and lock the doors without giving Steve a glance. They knew he was there -- the low hum and hiss of the cleaner was unmistakable. But two or three nights a week, that was just what Steve did. And while none of them knew Steve very well, they felt like he needed it.
Usually around 1, 1:30 in the morning, the cleaner would run out of fluid. Steve liked this. That meant the hissing sound was gone, leaving only the low hum. This granted Steve almost complete darkness, almost complete silence. Steve closed his eyes, breathed it in, and calmly followed the lines. He went around the corner, down the hallway, and came back around. In the silent student center basement, Steve followed the lines.
That’s not to say he didn’t like it during the day. The students were generally quiet, napping, and some even seemed interesting to Steve. He particularly liked the stressed ones, hands on their dejected faces, notebooks and textbooks scattered on the ottoman in front of them. They reminded Steve of himself.
The loud ones certainly didn’t. The packs of frat boys, business majors, and members of the feminist club on campus -- Steve particularly didn’t like them -- seemed to ignore the unwritten rule of silence underground. They laughed, slapped five, stomped and scuffed their shoes on the tiles that Steve just cleaned. Steve, along with the stressed, deplored their presence. The amount of feminists that walked the floor during the day coincided directly with how likely he was to stay during the night.
So that gap, the 30 minute gap of near silence when the fluid ran out, was Steve’s favorite part of the day. His breathing would slow, becoming regular, almost pleasurable. The subtle purple light from the outside barely beamed in through the half windows at the top of the wall. Everything seemed coated in a film of serenity, including Steve. Alone, down here, he was free. Soothed, he followed the lines.
Then, at once, Steve would step off. In the dark, he walked the cleaner back to the closet, and left the serene world of nothing behind him. 20 minutes later, he’d return with three new bottles of cleaning fluid. Then, he drove home. Here, the silence ended.
His fiancé screamed as soon as he pulled back the screen door. Often, she’d be on the phone with her mother, maybe her sister, hollering about her worthless husband-to-be, in addition to the food stamps that wouldn’t work at the store. Somewhere down the hall, a crying baby, Steve’s son, went unattended in his crib. Steve would take one step toward the hallway and take a whap on the head. His wife would point to the kitchen table, the pile of bills on top of it, and with a scornful eye and a stinging hand, start toward the baby’s room, phone wedged in the crook of her shoulder, a restless toddler at her feet.
As the moonlight shone through the kitchen window, Steve would go through each bill and pay it. Hopefully, by then, his wife was as asleep as the baby. If not, he’d be getting an earful. She was never asleep.
She thought he had a drug problem, the way he stayed out late. Or maybe he was seeing another woman, or going to the stripper joint. The 40 dollar hole in his bank account after every late night was proof enough, she screamed.
$44.87, actually. That was for the cleaning fluid. Steve knew it by heart.
The majority of her lashings ended with an accusation, a slammed door, and Steve sleeping on the couch. He hardly loved her, she insisted, so he had to be loving someone else. He wasn’t. He just really liked the silence.