Archenemy

I

The overeducated janitor never had an enemy before, much less an archenemy.

Sure, here and there, there were people whom he didn’t get along well with, certain personality types even, the arrogant, the selfish, the extroverts, the attention seekers, for example, but his social circles had always been wide enough, in punk, at The Punk University, in community organizing, to steer clear of troubled waters, to circumvent conflict, to troubleshoot enough to ensure that the occasional spark didn’t result in wildfire.

And, in the case that sparks did fly, he was a deft enough communicator, steady-handed enough to defuse potential detonations.

To his surprise, all of this began to change when he arrived, threadbare and haggard, on the steps of The Almost Ivy League University.

In this new context, his previous life experiences on the other side of The Hole in the Fence, two decades worth, were suddenly unintelligible. It was almost as if they hadn’t happened at all. In an atmosphere of unrelenting and unabashed self-promotion, the attempts of the overeducated janitor to explain his trajectory, his history as an intellectual, were invariably met with perplexity and, what’s more, invalidation. Any attempts at clarification, at bridging the gap, only resulted in more opaqueness, more distance and discomfiture.  

The misunderstandings started slow at first but grew progressively more frequent and more intense, culminating in The Archenemy, culminating in Joshland.

II

The overeducated janitor was the one they called when it came time to cut the bolt of Joshland’s locker.

It took The Community Center a while to realize that it had a problem on its hands. To deter theft, it had encouraged clients to put locks on their lockers in the changing rooms. As time passed, however, many clients started claiming individual lockers as their own and leaving their locks and personal belongings there indefinitely. Naturally, there were fewer and fewer lockers available to the general public. So, The Big Boss did what had to be done. She told people what they didn’t want to hear, which some might argue is the very description of her job. A flyer soon appeared on the walls of the changing rooms announcing the new policy.

Please remove all personal items from lockers (including locks) after each and every use. It is strictly prohibited to store personal items in lockers after the duration of a scheduled activity. Any locks remaining on lockers at the end of the day will be removed. The contents of the locker will be stored at the front desk for one week, after which point unclaimed items will be donated to a local charity. No exceptions. Effective immediately. Thank you for your active and ongoing cooperation.

The overeducated janitor was hoping that The Big Boss would have contacted him to help compose or at least edit the text. She didn’t.

The measure was successful. The clients were overwhelmingly cooperative. All of them except one. All of them except Joshland.

III

Joshland wasn’t just any client.

Above the law in many ways, he had privileges that the other clients didn’t enjoy. He could often be found in the breakroom, for example, chatting away with whoever was on their break. The employee refrigerator had a shelf reserved just for his energy drinks and protein bars and little bags of trail mix. He kept his bike, back tire weighed down with saddlebags, in the back room, behind the freight elevator. He had access to parts of The Community Center that are off limits to ordinary clients.

Early on, Joshland had gotten on the good side of The Big Boss. But not just her. Everyone loved Joshland, even the curmudgeonly Arturo. Back when he first started, back when he first donned the beige overalls and first clipped the oversized keyring onto his beltloop, the overeducated janitor got the impression, unmistakable at the time, that Joshland was running for office. His campaign was subtle but unrelenting.

This isn’t to say that the overeducated janitor didn’t like him at first. He did. Joshland’s mild manners were convincing, as they were no doubt designed to be. It was a carefully calculated mildness, a meticulously cultivated amiability, an instrumental docility, as later became clear.

The overeducated janitor’s interactions with Joshland were limited in the beginning. And he planned on keeping it that way. It wasn’t anything personal but rather that The Great Debacle at The Almost Ivy League University had shaken him, clamped him shut, transported him straight back to the inveterate introversion of his early adulthood.

Over time, however, something in the way his coworkers interacted with Joshland started to irritate the overeducated janitor. A lack of healthy skepticism perhaps. A certain guilelessness perhaps. Or worse, the need to participate in a collective fiction.

Joshland, so the story went, could do no wrong. He had a noble profession at an NGO that provides free legal advice to immigrants; in his free time, he could be found in his gumboots wading in the shallows of the riverbank, removing trash from the reeds and rocks; or he might be found in his garden gloves at the community seed bank where he grew his own vegetables; he woke up at 5am every morning to go running; his bike being his sole mode of transportation, Joshland didn’t own a car, naturally; he couldn’t; he wouldn’t; yoga mat in one hand, water bottle in the other, Joshland arrived early to all the yoga classes that The Center offers; he considered himself less of a student than a “disciple;” it had been years since a morsel of food that wasn’t macrobiotic, teeming with vitamins, minerals, and probiotics, crossed his lips; food, he liked to say, is “his medicine;” Joshland, it seemed, had an answer to every question, a solution to every problem, advice for your every quandary. He didn’t, so the story went, have “a mean bone in his body.”

The more that the overeducated janitor observed the situation, however, the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that something wasn’t quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was off. It was almost as if Joshland’s very mildness, the trait that was most often attributed to him, was raised to such a degree that it was no longer mild. To be mild so often and in so many ways, always grinning and encouraging and helping and educating, doe-eyed, can reach a point at which it becomes extreme, abrasive even.

Then, one day, Joshland confirmed his suspicions. On that day, the overeducated janitor saw another side of Joshland, the side that he so carefully hid from the others.

IV

To be sure, the tension had been building up in the weeks leading up to The Outburst, the tipping point, the moment at which Joshland revealed, at long last, his hand. Here and there the cracks began to appear on the surface of Joshland’s characteristic composure. His cool demeanor showed signs of overheating. Ever so slightly, he was beginning to break character. Since it didn’t affect them, no one else noticed, none of the overeducated janitor’s coworkers.

It all started with a series of invalidating comments. The overeducated janitor had been in the breakroom with Chip, discussing punk and punk-derived genres and bands, when Joshland barged in. Chip had asked the overeducated janitor about the song on one of his social media posts, to which he replied that it was “just some punk band.” In fact, it was not just any band. It was Unwound. And it was not just any song. It was “Abstraktions” from their 1994 album New Plastic Ideas. The overeducated janitor was saying how he liked the slow and meandering riffs of some Unwound songs when Joshland butted into the conversation.

“Slow and meandering? Did you say slow and meandering? Correct me if I’m wrong but the last time I checked, ‘punk’ refers to fast and aggressive music.” For some reason, Joshland wasn’t looking at his interlocutor as he made the argument. Instead, he was smiling obsequiously the whole time in the direction of Chip.

“I guess, that depends on how you define punk,” the overeducated janitor countered. “I use punk in the broad sense, as an umbrella term that encompasses many subgenres.”

Joshland doubled down on his position. “Any way you define it, slow and meandering is not a part of the definition.”

It was clear that Joshland was not accustomed to discussing ideas. He seemed to think that forcing his interpretation would somehow make it a good argument, somehow make it more coherent, more logically consistent.

“So, you wouldn’t make any distinction whatsoever between, say, New York Hardcore and the West Coast pop punk of Lookout Records? Or between Emocore and Grindcore? They all get thrown into the same bag? Is that how it works?”

“Fancy terms for a janitor,” Joshland asserted. “Look, semantics aside, it’s really not that complicated. If it’s fast and aggressive, it’s punk. If it isn’t slow and meandering, it’s not. Case closed.”

“So Speed Metal is punk now?” 

Joshland evaded the question. Instead, he deflected. “Wait! All of a sudden this guy is a music critic. Last time I checked, he was a janitor…” He looked to Chip for approval.

“It looks like my break is over,” Chip said, straightening out the creases in the thighs of her jeans before standing up.

At that moment, it became painfully clear to the overeducated janitor that Chip was right. She was the only one in the whole interaction that was making any sense.

“Would you believe it?” I exclaimed. “My time is up too. Those floors are going to clean themselves, am I right? Better hop to it.”

V

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only comment. That wasn’t the only puzzling interaction. Just a few days later it happened again.  

The overeducated janitor had spoken with one of The Celebrities before entering the building. In fact, it was Simon, Simon Joyner. They were talking about the weather. And, in all their conversations, the overeducated janitor had never known Simon to be wrong about the weather, which kind of makes sense, being that he is more exposed to it than most people are, that is, being that he lives under a black tarp in the thick cluster of junipers behind The Community Center.

Never one for small talk, the overeducated janitor made an exception for Simon, on account of the deep respect and gratitude that he felt towards him. When they crossed paths, the overeducated janitor made an offhand remark about how it seemed like the rain was never going to clear. It had rained the whole time, in fact, on his walk from the train station to The Community Center. “Oh, it will clear,” Simon Joyner declared. “It will be gone by tomorrow.” So confident was the overeducated janitor in Simon’s presentiments that he didn’t think to doubt the prognosis. When someone knows about something, they know about something. And, Simon Joyner knows weather, every bit as much as he knows how to compose a song. If Simon said the rain was going to stop, the rain was going to stop.

Upon entering the building for his shift, the overeducated janitor found Lincoln and Joshland, chatting away in the breakroom. They were blocking his access to the time clock and the punch cards.

“You’re soaking,” Lincoln observed, which he followed up with a commonplace, the type upon which small talk is built. “God, it seems like the rain is never going to end.” Recalling the conversation with Simon, so fresh in his mind, the overeducated janitor commented, distracted and eager to clock in, that he had reason to believe that, actually, the rain was “on its way out.”

Joshland scoffed. Both Lincoln and the overeducated janitor turned to face him. “On its way out? The rain? On its way out? Wait, let me guess. Now you’re a weatherman. Is that how this works?” Laughing, Joshland turned to Lincoln for approval, who shrugged his shoulders and put a hey-leave-me-out-of-this expression on his face.

Joshland’s flagrant violation of the principle of cooperation, upon which all communicative exchanges rest, altered the configuration of space between the participants. The overeducated janitor fell silent, uncertain how to respond, and shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. Lincoln took a slight step back, before steering the conversation back to safety, before steering the conversation back to hockey, which is about as safe as they come, as far as topics are concerned.  

This slight adjustment in the configuration of the physical space of the conversation created just enough room for the overeducated janitor to reach the time clock and punch in for his shift. He was then free to turn around and leave the failed conversation behind him. He made a mental note, as he left the breakroom, to limit his interactions to Chip and The Celebrities.

VI

All of these communicative misfires, these tiny acts of sabotage, took place in the days and weeks leading up to The Outburst.

VII

Uncle Eddie's Moustache: Twelve Poems for Children (1974), written by Bertolt Brecht and illustrated by Ursula Kirchberg

On the day of The Outburst, the overeducated janitor was alone in the basement of The Community Center. There were no activities scheduled in the gym. There were no clients in the weight room. The corridors were empty and quiet. You could hear the building breathing and then synchronize your movements to its cadence, as if it were nighttime. It was one of the moments, so rare during operating hours, when there is peace and respite for the cleaning crew. 

This delicate balance was disrupted when Joshland waltzed, head held high, into the locker room where the overeducated janitor was cleaning the countertop. He looked up from his work to see Joshland reflected in the mirror, hovering over his shoulder, apparently on his way to the toilet. Joshland’s gaze was piercing at first, austere, but then his features suddenly softened.

“Hey man, I feel like we got off to a bad start.” Joshland’s tone were reconciliatory. “It’s a shame. I always thought we would get along well, you and I. What do you say we wipe the slate clean? A fresh start?”

The overeducated janitor turned around to face his interlocutor. Joshland had been restored to his originary mildness. He exuded calmness. A wave of relief swept over the overeducated janitor, susceptible as he was to conflict. Just like that, he let himself be convinced. Just like that, he let his guard down.

“No hard feelings.” The overeducated said, as a gesture that he was willing to meet Joshland halfway.

Joshland smiled big. “So, what’s it like, then, this life of yours, life as a janitor? The things you must see!” 

“We’re the eyes and ears of the building,” the overeducated ventured. “For better or worse,” he added. “There are some things that we’d probably rather not know…”

“There must be something you don’t know about the place,” Joshland mused. “A little mystery is always a good thing. Keeps you on your toes,” he added.

“Honestly, I usually have too much on my mind to worry about what goes on at this place,” the overeducated janitor confessed.

“Like what cleaning supplies to order? Stuff like that?” The ratio of mildness to austerity in Joshland’s expression started to shift ever so slightly from the former towards the latter.

“No, usually things related to my research, which is what I do when I’m not here.”

“Research? You mean, like Google searches? How to fix a doorknob? How to remove gum from the floors?” Joshland furrowed his brow. His features hardened.

“No, research as in my profession, as in what I was trained to do. I have a doctorate in my field and work as a freelance researcher but, since it doesn’t cover the bills, I also clean.”

Joshland grew silent. A dark shadow passed over his face. He twisted his head abruptly, as if he were trying to adjust a cervical vertebra, before turning around and walking into one of the bathroom stalls. The sound of the urine splattering seemed to indicate the Joshland was not pissing so much in the toilet as on it, perhaps even on parts of the floor and wall as well.

When the stream of urine died down and it was quiet again, Joshland bellowed, back still turned, “you expect me to believe that shit? You? Are you kidding me? You, a doctorate? There is no fucking way!”

Upon exiting the stall, the overeducated addressed Joshland. “You’re gonna want to flush that.”

“Am I?” Joshland retorted. “I don’t waste water. You should know that about me by now.”

“Listen, I don’t know what your deal is. You obviously you have some type of problem with me, some type of fixation,” the overeducated janitor started, unsure about how to continue. “But the truth is that I’m not even interested in your issues. Keep them to yourself. But there are certain things that simply aren’t acceptable…” Before he had a chance to finish the thought, Joshland interrupted him.

“Problem? Oh yeah, I have a problem with you and your PhD in cleaning toilets. My problem is that I know a bullshitter when I see one. I can tell you right now that one of us is full of shit, and it’s not me! I’ve never been more certain about anything in my entire life.”

The overeducated janitor was perplexed. Why would either of them be bullshitting? By the time he could formulate the question, Joshland was already storming out of the locker room. He left a derogatory slur hanging in the air behind him. “Fucking leftist lunatic pussy.”

VIII

Joshland’s outburst put the overeducated janitor is a tough position.

If he were to say something about it to his coworkers, it was highly unlikely that they would believe him. Time and again, the overeducated janitor had observed how interpretations precede facts. Any evidence that confirmed the longstanding interpretation that Joshland could do no wrong would be well-received. Any evidence to the contrary would be suspect and, furthermore, end up reflecting bad on the overeducated janitor. The fact that the overeducated janitor was such a marginal figure, such an anomaly, would make it even less likely that his coworkers trust his account. Joshland, no doubt, understood this and understood as well that it granted him a degree of impunity to continue to antagonize the overeducated janitor.  

IX

In the weeks following The Outburst there was a wave of clogged toilets. In fact, ‘clogged toilets’ is an understatement. This was something more. Specimens of feces could be found on the toilet seats, the floors, and the surrounding areas. What more, puddles of piss began to appear in the remote areas of The Community Centers, in the stairwells, at the end of long corridors, always just outside of the range of the security cameras.

Curiously, these unfortunate incidents only occurred during the shifts of the overeducated janitor.

It doesn’t take a specialist in hermeneutics to interpret them as germ warfare, as part of Joshland’s smear campaign, which is precisely how the overeducated janitor interpreted them.

X

The Community Center was big enough for the overeducated janitor to avoid Joshland for a time. Since The Outburst, in fact, their respective orbits hadn’t intersected.

In the long term, however, this wasn’t a viable solution. Having watched enough eighties movies, the overeducated janitor had an inkling of how to deal with a bully. The moment of reckoning, he was convinced, could not be postponed much longer. On the day that The Big Boss asked him to get the bolt cutters from the back room, the overeducated janitor had resolved to confront Joshland and try to establish some clear limits. As it turned out, it wouldn’t be necessary.

XI

The overeducated janitor retrieved the bolt cutters from the back room, as he had been instructed to do, and met The Big Boss in the locker room, where she was waiting for him.

On several occasions since The Big Boss published the notification and posted it on surface all over The Center, she had personally asked Joshland to remove all his belongings from the locker. Accustomed to special treatment, he was dismissive of the warnings.

Several of the other clients, however, demanded to know why Joshland could have a locker on a permanent basis if they weren’t allowed to. They wanted answers, and The Big Boss couldn’t give them one.

On the day that the overeducated janitor removed the lock from Joshland’s locker with the bolt-cutters, The Big Boss decided that it was time to act. Once she made up her mind, there was no turning back. The Center would hold Joshland’s belongings at the front desk until he claimed them. Joshland would understand, she said, being so mild mannered and all.

The overeducated janitor was surprised at how soft the metal felt as the pincers of the bolt-cutters sliced through Joshland’s lock. In two pieces, the device fell to the floor. The hinges of the locker chirped as the door swing open solemnly to reveal a rolled-up beach towel and a wooden box, the kind that they use in the military to store ammunition. At first glance, it resembled a small coffin.

The beach towel, when the overeducated janitor reached for it, was surprisingly heavy. It unravelled as he tried to remove it from the locker. Upwards towards seventeen hunting knives spilled out onto the tile floor of the locker room, blades clanking, at the feet of The Big Boss. The overeducated janitor looked up at The Big Boss. The Big Boss, in turn, looked down at the overeducated janitor. Neither of them said a word. Neither of them had an answer. Then they both looked back down at the knives.

It took the overeducated janitor a second to remember to extract the box from the locker. It was covered in clumps of dirt, as if it had previously been buried in the ground. It was so full that the lid did not close properly, overflowing with what turned out to be photographs.

There were so many of them that it wasn’t possible for the overeducated janitor to remove the box from the locker without spilling photographs everywhere.

The Big Boss picked one up and then another and then another and then another. Unable to believe her eyes, she looked to each new photograph for confirmation, for an answer. Then suddenly she stopped and dropped the photograph that she was holding in her hands. It fell to the floor at the feet of the overeducated.

“Call the police,” The Big Boss said to the overeducated janitor, her voice barely audible, as if it came from a far-off place.

The overeducated janitor, however, did not react at first. He couldn’t take his eyes off the photographs. They were of the highest quality, clearly taken with professional equipment. Each one depicted the scene of a crime enacted against a different children’s toy. Dozens of photos. Dozens of unspeakable crimes. Little plastic figurines. Bent. Broken. Burned. Buried. Bound. Gagged. Gouged. Mutilated. Amputated. Violated in every imaginable way. The crimes were naturalistically depicted. Wounds painted in painstaking detail. Dabbed with what appeared to be real blood. Adorned with what appeared to be samples of human hair. Smeared with what appeared to be human feces. Strewn around the crime scenes were tiny torture devices, ancient and modern, meticulously reproduced, adjusted to the scale of the toys. The lighting of the photographs suggested that some of them had been taken in a studio, in a cell, in a specially prepared space where the symbolic offenses were ritualistically performed. Others were clearly taken in the seclusion of the woods, an inverted locus amoenus, an Arcadia gone wrong, the Elysian Fields on fire. 

There were words scratched here and there on the surface of the photographs, insults, sexual and political in nature.

“Call the police.” The Big Boss’s words startled the overeducated janitor from his trance, his morbid musings. “I’m not going to say it again.”

XII

The police were unable to establish whether a crime had been committed. They did, however, confiscate what they believe to be potential evidence and requested the information in Joshland’s file so that they could contact him for questioning. The Big Boss complied, uncertain about what actions The Community Center itself should take. Technically speaking, there was nothing in the rules that expressly prohibited storing weapons and depictions of imaginary atrocities in the lockers.

The police returned after a few hours. The address on Joshland’s file did not exist. Neither did the telephone number. The NGO where he had claimed to work confirmed that nobody by the name of Joshland was currently or had ever been employed there. Before leaving, the police requested that they be contacted if we had any further information about the whereabouts of the person who claimed to be called Joshland.

XIII

Through his coworkers, the overeducated janitor learned that Joshland returned the next day for his morning swim. He was about to wheel his bike into the building, as he was wont to do, but he stopped in his tracks before crossing the threshold. The Big Boss stood in front of the reception desk with her arms crossed over her chest. Apparently, the looks on the faces of his former friends said it all. Mildness now expired, Joshland spun his bike around and darted off down the pathway, mumbling obscenities under his breath the whole time. It was the last any of us saw of him.

XIV

Every time the overeducated janitor comes across a clogged toilet, he grows tense, vigilant. He wonders if there is an archenemy lurking in the shadows, twisting the tips of his moustache, plotting his downfall.

XV

Sometimes the overeducated janitor considers telling his coworkers the story of how Joshland had singled him out. Sometimes he considers telling the story about Joshland, crushed under the weight of his own superego, tormented by its tyrannical injunctions, which he then tried to pass off as virtues, directed that same hatred at a new target, the safest one, an anomaly. And there are moments when he wants to give in to the temptation to be right, to feel vindicated. But he knows it would be in vain. He knows that it wouldn’t bring him any closer to comprehending what happened, beyond an artificial opposition between saints and villains.  

No, the overeducated janitor never said a word to anyone, except of course to Chip and The Celebrities, his co-conspirators. They were the only ones, on this side of The Hole in the Fence, who were capable of looking at the situation from his point of view, the janitorial point of view, the only ones capable of seeing the gum stuck to the bottom of the tabletops, the only ones who know what the world looks like when you look at it upside down, from the very bottom, from the dirtiest floors and toilet basins, looking up.

Illustration by Rokuro Taniuchi (1921-81)