Pep Talk

Lowell hit all the notes. This doesn’t mean that he knew all the words. He usually didn’t. A few la-la-las and na-na-nas were enough, enough for his to complete the syllable, to make it to the end of the verse, to hit the notes all the same, every last one of them.

Alone in the warehouse or in the front office, Lowell was enveloped in song, one big seamless song, composed of many little songs, bits and pieces, shards, patches, choruses and verses, broken apart, swept into the dustpan and sewn together like a quilt, a quilt of chords and notes that he wrapped around his shoulders like a garment that only he could wear.

It announced his presence, which was good because I worked alone in the warehouse, the vast and shadowy and drafty warehouse, just a little guy, a tiny thing, ego diminished to a faint flicker, a tenuous thread, gossamer, a dust bunny, huddled and trembling at the foot of the massive aisles, canyon walls, heavy with wares.

Occasionally Lowell would come and check in on me, preceded by his song and its warm hues, his extraordinary garment. This had less to do with control than with care. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps he had knowledge of small things, saplings, dust bunnies, late bloomers, aspiring skaters, doubters of everything. Perhaps this knowledge was firsthand, a recognition, a comparable experience of radical placelessness, so much so that a warehouse became a place, a comfort, the darkness and silence, a locus amoenus, deep in the forest, an unexpected clearing and a rock in the sunlight for sitting and thinking. Or maybe it was just an instinct to protect, everyday kindness, the kind that, despite the name, you don’t come across every day.

No one could give a pep talk like Lowell. Somehow he seemed to know when I needed one.

“Orders pile up. It’s just what they do. That is how this works. Your co-workers will arrive in the morning, tired, distracted, thinking about their lives, thinking about coffee, or whatever, and what will be waiting for them? Stacking up on them? Lying in wait, ready to pounce? You guessed it: orders, not one, not two, but a stack of them, and that is just the start and, once it gets started, it doesn’t stop, just keeps coming, a steady stream of them, orders and then more orders, the whole damn day. That’s just how this works. It’s how you get your checks. It’s how I get mine.

“The floors? Are you kidding me? When your co-workers walk through that door,” Lowell said pointing over his shoulder toward the door next to the loading dock, the one with the punch clock mounted next to it on the wall, “do you think that anyone notices the floors? I hate to break it to you, kid. It’s the last thing they’re thinking about. Orders, coffee, their kids, their love lives, bills, sure, but the floors? No, no one will appreciate how much they shine. No one will think to themselves, hey, that kid must have been here late again, spreading the sweeping compound between the aisles, making the rounds with the pushbroom, dragging the mop bucket from one damn end of the building to the other. No one will notice that the forklifts have been returned to their charging docks. No one will notice that there are no more cardboard boxes congregating around the dumpster. No one will notice that you broke them down and stuff them into the mouth of the baler. Most of all, no one will notice the bathrooms. Notice that there are no more skid marks in the toilet bowl? No more dark yellow beads of dried urine on the lip of the urinals? Least of all, pal. Bathrooms magically clean themselves. You turn on the light in the morning, and all the surfaces are clean. No one asks how. I hate to tell, kid. It’s just how this works.

“But, here’s the thing. None of this can function, not the pickers, not the packers, not The Floor, none of it can function without you coming in here at night and taking care of all of this for us. It matters. Other people will think what they will. Or just not think. But you can’t control what other people think. Or don’t think. It matters. Period. You know it matters, and I know it matters, and that is what matters.”

As sound as Lowell’s cleaning advice was all those years ago, back when I was a shop boy, I don’t think that he ever imagined that I would grow up to be a janitor, a professional of the custodial arts, yet here I am.

It’s the end of my shift. There’s nothing left to do but punch the code into the keypad on the alarm mounted to the wall on the inside of the employee entrance and then exit the building. Yet something is keeping me. Keeping me here in the foyer.

I look back. On a day’s work. The surfaces shine. They sing. The whole building in unison, a low song, soulful. It’s there, in the details, the care, artistry I’m almost tempted to say, an artistry that goes unnoticed, an invisible artistry, an ephemeral artistry, a balance that is disrupted right after it is achieved, toppled as soon as it is righted.

In the morning, the first employees, my co-workers, will turn on the lights but they will not see. The clients will gather outside the double doors, gym bags under their arms, googles hanging from their elbows, anxious for their morning swim, a school of fish. They will not notice. The day will be up and running. The gears will be turning, sputtering oil, gathering dust. We will go about our days, from one task to the next, without ever seeing beyond the task at hand. Most of the details will be lost most of the time. It is just how this works.

It has been twenty-five years since the last time I saw Lowell. I never had a chance to say goodbye, but I still hear his song, still hear his pep talks, alone in the foyer, last thing before clocking out.