Loose Lips and Sunken Ships

The Big Boss wanted me for a special mission. Top secret. Real hush-hush.

It involved falsified documents. “Close the door behind you,” she said as soon as I crossed the doorway into her office. “Please.” She signaled to the empty chair across the table from her.

For a second there, I thought that she was going to fire me, which seemed perfectly coherent, the next logical step, given the dramatic twists and turns my life had taken since graduation.

I averted my gaze and caught a glimpse of a homeless man outside her window: I was prepared to take up my rightful place beside him on the park bench.

The Big Boss slid a key card and a set of master keys across the table. The name written on the surface of the key card wasn’t my name, not even close, far too few syllables.

“I have a little side project for you, if you’re interested. It might be good way to make a little extra money.” She looked down at the keys, still on the table. I sat on my hands, tucking them between the underside of my thighs and the fake leather upholstery of the chair.

By now, she probably knew me well enough to anticipate my response. “No double agent stuff. I don’t do that. I’m no mole.” As everyone knows, my loyalty lies with my brothers and sisters of the broom.

“Nothing of the sort.” The Big Boss was quick to set me at ease.

The Community Center was, in fact, a part of a network of such centers, designed to provide sport, leisure, and educational activities to the residents of their respective neighborhoods. What made The Big Boss so big, then, what made her cast such a large and menacing shadow, then, was the fact that she oversaw many such centers, not just the one I cleaned night in and night out well into the wee hours of the morning.

The Big Boss informed me that there had been an incident. At one of the other centers. In the next neighborhood over. On the other side of the tracks, my side. She paused, and I knew enough about the conventions of conversation to understand that this constituted a cue. “What type of incident?” I said, more to prove my willingness to collaborate in the communicative situation than any genuine concern for content.

“Funny you should ask,” she said before continuing with the narration of the incident. There had been a fight. Not just any fight but a fight between janitors.

The content of her words pierced the external shell of the form of our little verbal exchange and stabbed me in the soft center, the heart region. I was speechless.

A fight between janitors? Punches thrown? Beige coveralls torn? A tipped yellow and black Rubbermaid cleaning supply pushcart? Drops of blood on the floor?

Naturally, I couldn’t believe my ears. This was a flagrant violation of The Code. An inversion of The Natural Order of Things. Janitors clean by example. And, by doing so, they signal a way out of The Mess. Janitors struggle, side by side, united against the Purveyors of Smudge, to clean everything, to start from the very bottom, to leave nothing uncleaned, until all the surfaces shine, until all the Dust Bunnies are removed from The Path, until we set it right, once and for all, for the good of all, ourselves, our communities, and beyond.

The Big Boss, of course, was less concerned with the Custodial Code of Honor than with logistical matters. The Incident took place outside the scope of the security cameras. There were no witnesses, only two conflicting stories of what happened. “It’s a delicate situation. We will have to consult the lawyers on how to proceed. For the time being, both janitors are suspended indefinitely, effectively immediately.”

It wasn’t hard to see the punchline coming. “Some shifts need to be covered.” She figured I was the one for the job. It was mine if I wanted it. I imagine that I was supposed to feel honored.

Before I had time to respond, The Big Boss punctuated her proposal with a plea, more of an injunction really. “You understand, of course, that this type of situation calls for the utmost discretion.” Then, in an unexpected turn of the phrase, she added that “you know what they say: loose lips sink ships.” Perhaps, as the proverbial ship’s captain, she had the right to recur to the time-tested adage, yet I couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t the right idiomatic expression for the context. 

With the ball back in my court, it was my turn to set her at ease. Piggybacking off her imagery, I assured her that my lips were sealed. Besides, I reminded her, janitors are mostly invisible to their coworkers and clients (unless of course something goes wrong). We are the walls and windows of The Center: we see and hear everything without being seen or heard. This is also part of trade and, indeed, part of The Code. I would have been happy to elaborate had she been interested. She clearly wasn’t.

“So, is that a yes?” The way that The Big Boss pronounced the words made me think that it wasn’t really a question.

I dislodged my hand from underneath my thigh and grabbed the master keys from the top of the table.

“Thanks for being such a team player.” I much preferred maritime to sport analogies but was in no position to give advice on rhetorical devices. I got up to leave.

For the next two weeks, I was to be their double hitter, playing both sides of the tracks.

“Oh, and do me a favor,” The Big Boss added. I didn’t turn around. “Close the door on your way out.”

Artwork by Emily Winfield Martin. Visit her website at emilywinfieldmartin.com or follow her on Instagram at emilydreamworld