Janitorhood
You don’t become a janitor overnight. Sure, you might get a few extra keys on your keyring; you might get the codes to the alarm; you might step into your coveralls and push the supply cart down the hallways; you might be the last one to leave the building at night; you might see some things that are hidden to others, unsavory things, the dirty secrets; but none of these things is enough. There is something else, something harder to qualify and indeed impossible to quantify.
Not all at once, from one day to the next, but little by little, spread out over many shifts, you stop being your plainclothes self, the one that goes to the corner store for coffee, the one that cashes checks at the bank, the one that waits in the line at the supermarket, the one that returns books to the library past their due date, the one that sends birthday cards to relatives, the one that occasionally goes out for drinks with friends. Gradually, you become something different, something very different, the eyes and ears of the building, a fixture, not unlike a folded chair propped up against the wall, not unlike an umbrella that got left behind or a glove, just one of them, in any case a non-person.
People walk past you, but they do not see you. They see through you toward wherever it is that they are headed, the next point of interest, the next subject, the content of their lives. You see them, these people, in all their personhood. You see them walk by, with purpose, in possession of themselves. And, in some way, you contribute to their personhood, their sturdiness, their seaworthiness, just by being there, on the shore, a part of their scenery, blending in, mostly invisible. You begin to suspect that you are made of something different altogether, something more roughly hewn, something less animate, something heavier, something that sinks to the bottom, rebar and cement blocks and particle board and duct tape and bird wire, more of an object than a subject.
There comes a time when the process is complete, when you cross the line into janitorhood, without the possibility of turning back, naturally. I felt it coming for a long time, uncertain when it would arrive, the consummation, uncertain of what it would look like when it did. I was confident, nonetheless, that I would recognize it when it came. And I did. It happened last week.
The Big Boss asked me into her office. There was something important, she said, that she wanted to discuss, a delicate matter. She asked if I could please close the door behind me. She was speaking so low that I almost couldn’t hear her when she began to lay out her plans for the annual employee party.
It was really important to her, she said, to get it right this year, to go all out, above and beyond. It had been a hard year for everyone, employers as well as employees, a hard year all around, she said, financially speaking, with all the budget cuts and all. Naturally, she could not give out bonuses, she said, not this year, with the freeze on pay raises, no, she said, out of the question.
When times are hard, she said, we have to pull together. She wanted to do something, she said, to boost morale, to lift spirits, to bring the team together, a party. And not just any party, she said. It had to be big, the whole nine yards. She could see it now, she said, a DJ and streamers and beverages and pizzas, the whole kit and caboodle, she said. In fact, she had already designed the invitations. Everyone is going to be there, she said, the whole family.
She did not want to do it in a restaurant this year, she said. She had something more intimate in mind, something more within our budget. So, she took the decision, the executive decision, she said, to do it in the gym. Besides, she said, we have all those tables and chairs in storage.
“This is where you come in.”
She was going to need me to come late at night, she said, after everyone leaves, to clean the gym and put the tables and chairs back in storage. She could schedule me for a short shift that day from midnight until three in the morning or something like that, she said.
“What do you say?”
“I’m honored,” I said. “But, just to be clear, you want me to stay late after the party, right?”
“The way that I see it is that you can come afterwards, when the party is finished. I mean, there is no point cleaning while the party is going on.”
“Well, I thought that you just said that everyone is invited.”
“Well, yeah, all the regular employees…”
“The regular employees?”
“Well, you know what? I’m sure there will be some pizza left over after the party. You are welcome to help yourself to it after everyone has left.”
How could I not recognize it, my coronation, my achievement, the fusion of my menial job with my identity?
I wanted to thank The Big Boss for clarifying something important, for being so consistent, for ushering me into this new phase, for seeing me through to the end, across the line into facticity, but I couldn’t find the words.
Comments