The Breakroom

Mendi’s coworkers were sad to see him go.

I know because there was a banner on the wall of the breakroom that read, “we are sad to see you go.” It certainly wasn’t the first time that the banner had been used. Though taped to the wall, there were multiple little thumbtack holes in each of the four corners.

Beneath the banner, there was a table with a cake, a tray of raw vegetables, ranch dip, plastic forks, small paper plates, and napkins. The plates and napkins matched the confetti motif of the plastic tablecloth.

I was meeting everyone for the first time, but I already knew who they were. This was part of the plan. Mendi had prepped me beforehand. The breakroom shindig, you see, served a double function. Mendi had only a few days left in town, and this would be his last chance to see his coworkers, who had proven so supportive over the previous months. At the same time, he was leaving his former employers in quite a bind. His work visa was revoked from one day to the next, and the immigration authorities were clear that the termination of his work visa was effective immediately, so he had been unable to give notice. This is where I come in. Mendi was to introduce me to the big bosses, Kay and Rylan, and recommend me as his replacement.

It had taken me a few days and a considerable amount of late-night pacing to accept this arrangement. For the better part of two decades, I had worked as a teacher. More than just a job, it had been the cornerstone of my identity. Despite its myriad difficulties, I had always defended my profession and its humble contribution to transforming individual and collective subjects through critical thought and a more comprehensive understanding of history and society. Over the years, I have watched as working conditions in my field progressively worsen, inching ever closer toward the precipice, until the present crisis, that is, freefall, the great unravelling. It wasn’t easy for me to accept defeat, but teaching had become unsustainable. Unable to make it to the end of the month, it had become martyrdom, so I caved and agreed to Mendi’s plan.

The only problem with putting the plan into action, however, was that Kay and Rylan still hadn’t shown up. Mendi was making the rounds, but the rest of us were just kind of standing around, shifting our weight from one foot and then to the other, like pupils in homeroom when the teacher forgets to take attendance.  

I sparked up a conversation with Arturo, one of the other janitors. The conversation was easy, like we had been old friends, not only because Mendi had prepped us both beforehand but also because Arturo was from The Old Country. The similarities, in fact, didn’t end there. Both of us had lived two decades in The Old Country without having been born there. If you add the present context to the mix, Arturo and I had both immigrated to the same country on two separate occasions.

We reminisced about The Old Country, as if we were had been born there. Do you remember the black walnut trees, the really tall ones with the squiggly branches, on the northwest corner of the park by the children’s hospital? How hard is it to hear yourself think, let alone chat with a friend, when the rain is hitting the vaulted ceiling of the train station on first and forty-fourth street? How much better is it to ride in the caboose, as opposed to the passenger cars, when the jacarandas are in bloom?  Can you think of any place better to buy socks, bootleg independent films, and used books than the street fair under the overhang of the university building on the corner of seventh and forty-eighth streets? Is there any better cure for a hangover than that crazy little hotdog stand in the plaza on thirteenth and sixtieth, the one hidden under the branches of the giant cypresses?

As a general personal policy, a necessity really, I avoid, at all costs, any such romanticization of the past, not out of any aversion to remembrance but precisely because I’m so susceptible to nostalgia. Even the slightest dose can be lethal. As much as possible, I try to keep my head above water and my sights set on the present and near future, lest the kraken of my past lives, that shadowy bottom-feeder, wrap one of its cold tentacles around my ankle and pull me under the surface.

Something in the room changed. Arturo stood up straighter. The conversations fizzled out as Kay and Rylan made their appearance amid a flurry of apologies. They had a meeting, a phone call, an email, important business to attend to. The effusiveness of their explanations was in sharp contrast to the fact that nobody needed or wanted any justification for their delay.

 Rylan was holding a Hallmark card, which she proceeded to take out of the envelope and read aloud. Given or take a few words, it paraphrased the content of the banner on the wall above the cake. Her voice seemed to break towards the end of the reading.

Mendi would be a tough act to follow, that is, if I did indeed get the job. In the few months that he had worked at The Community Center, he had won over the hearts of his coworkers through elbow grease and an unrelentingly positive outlook. His were big boots for my cranky emo feet to fill. Besides, there was a further disadvantage: Mendi is a musician and an athlete, which, as everyone agrees, is infinitely more loveable than an intellectual.

Rylan’s speech marked the beginning of the end of the festivities. Within a few minutes, the cake was reduced to a few dark crumbs on a white cardstock doily. Most of the attendees were on the clock and had to get back to their posts. Naturally, the presence of their bosses gave extra weight to this injunction.

As the acting janitor, Arturo cleared the table, turned it on its side, folded its leg into its underside, and carried it out of the breakroom. Mendi, Kay, Rylan, and I were the only ones left standing.

Stepping up to the proverbial plate, Mendi introduced me to his bosses. His intention was to put in a good word, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t laying the platitudes on too thick when he said that he knew “janitor material when he sees it” and that I “definitely had what it takes” to “get the job done.” In a way that sounded procedural, Kay and Rylan confirmed that they were “glad to hear it” and suggested that I return Monday for an interview so that we could “talk about my qualifications.”

My heart sank. Wait, hadn’t we all been on the same page? Weren’t we in agreement about the stakes? After all, wasn’t my job to consist of cleaning toilets? Able-bodied, willing, and legally sanctioned by the proper immigration authorities, what further qualifications did I need to do the job? What else was there to talk about?

I had imagined the situation playing out in a slightly different way. I had been prepared for them to offer me the job on the spot or, alternately, to do a short interview right there sometime before or after the breakdown party. In fact, I had brought all the necessary documentation with me. I had even made plans to be able to work over the weekend, that is, to cover Mendi’s usual shifts, if need be. I would have told them as much, but Kay and Rylan had simply stopped making eye contact with me after suggesting the Monday morning interview.

They wanted to hear the minutiae of Mendi’s immigration troubles and impromptu travel plans. Since I was accompanying him and his family throughout the whole process, I thought that I might have an opportunity to contribute to the conversation, which would also allow me to build rapport with my future interviewers, but I just couldn’t get a word in edgewise. By no choice of mine own, I wallflowered the rest of the conversation with a kindergarten photo-day smile pasted on my face. The only other words that Kay and Rylan addressed to me were “see you on Monday,” right before they reiterated how busy they were and promptly took leave of the breakroom.

“Well, that went well,” Mendi exclaimed, turning to me and putting his arm around my shoulder. It took me a moment to realize that he wasn’t being facetious.