| 1 The stuffy, distinct smell of the janitor�s room exudes into the hall as I open the door. By the light in the hall, I can see the outline of my dull grey cart with its various cleaning agents and handles of mops and brooms. The other two carts are parked beside mine. I guess it�s safe to assume that Ralph and John aren�t going to show up again this morning. I sigh. It�s Monday again. Another long, dreadful week in this forty floored prison. More wastebaskets, spills and urine-stained toilet seats - this is my life. Four years in Cambridge University and this is the best that I could do. What a disgrace. Clive Hamilton. Graduated with honours, yet wasting his life on mopping up others� puke. I button up the last few grey buttons on my janitor�s jumpsuit, hiding several clumps of greying chest hair; the same chest hair that I was proud of at seventeen, but now am embarrassed of at sixty-two, as it exposes my real age. I fancy myself to be a forty-five or fifty year old man, slightly balding yet still dark haired. Appearances are important, however shallow that may be. Pushing the cart ahead of me, I walk down the dingy janitor hallway and step into the main lobby. The light is extremely bright, and extenuates the pristine, tiled walkway to the elevators. The wheels on my cart squeak loudly. My head starts to pound. I regret taking this job. The elevator doors open as I approach them. I turn and pull my cart into the elevator. My large bulky cart takes up a lot of space, and forces several people to squeeze together. I smile meekly. Just as the doors are closing, a woman runs through the lobby and barely makes it to the elevator in time. She looks completely lost, as if the world has turned on her all of a sudden and left her without a single solitary person to turn to. Her hair trails behind her and she is dragging an oversized briefcase. Does she know how pitiful she looks? I plaster another fake smile on my face as the elevator starts to move. An anxious-looking man in a brown UPS uniform stands alone in a corner. He�s whistling a faintly recognizable tune, one that will plague me for the rest of the day. It sounds light and airy - the product of a poor whistler. His uniform is crisp and clean. It�s apparent that he is either new to the job or else he is an extraordinarily neat person . I wonder if he knows that his stomach is hanging out of the bottom of his shirt. I choke back a chuckle. Farting and laughing are the most inexcusable things to do in an elevator, neither of which I am prepared to do. On the fifth floor, the elevator doors open, and the horrifically large UPS man bumbles out of the doors, with several packages in tow. I wonder how he has managed to not have a heart attack. He is easily two hundred pounds, and just as tall as he is wide. I shudder. Thank God I don�t look like that. What would people think of me? All of a sudden, I�m struck with a horrid scent. It smells like someone has doused a skunk in cheap cologne. The cologne smells like something a child would pick out for a father, or one that an overly-confident man would choose on his own. My second assumption is true, for standing beside me is a clean-shaven, slick-looking man. He is eyeing the scattered woman like she is livestock. What a pig. Men like him gives us real men bad names. To my left is Cleo Rosedale, the rich Vice President from the fortieth floor. Everyone in the building knows her, for she is notoriously bitchy. One day, when Ralph forgot to replace the toilet paper rolls in the bathroom on her floor, she swore she would have him fired. Fortunately, that never occurred. Cleo is a beautiful woman, I can�t deny that. However, in her gloomy grey business suits, her facial features seem so washed out. Her figure is amazing, though. The ridge that her breasts create protrudes from beneath her high-collared shirt. Maybe if I was thirty years younger, I would make a move. She smells almost as bad as the pig in the corner, but on the opposite end of the spectrum. Her perfume hangs heavily around my nose. It smells like a mixture of roses and pumpkins, although I�m sure that it isn�t. I wonder if the others in the elevator are thinking about my appearance or my scent? I�m suddenly struck with a wave of insecurities. Why didn�t I comb my hair before leaving the janitor�s room? Why hadn�t I bothered to clean my jumpsuit last night or clip my fingernails? The doors open again, and the flighty woman steps out of the elevator. As the doors start to close, I notice that there is a long tear up the back of her skirt. I am about to call after her and warn her about it, but the doors close quickly and there is nothing that I can do. Within several seconds, we reach the 18th floor, and I push my cart carefully out of the elevator. Behind me, the elevator doors close to the sound of Cleo shouting angrily. I wonder what the hell her problem is. �Good morning, Clive,� the pleasant receptionist says as I enter the office. �Good morning,� I reply. �How was your weekend?� The woman smiles and responds, �Oh, it was splendid. Charles took me to buy an engagement ring...� I zone out. I nod and smile, of course, it�s only polite of me. But my asking how her weekend was only was a pleasantry, and I didn�t expect a play-by-play. �Marvelous,� I say, cutting her off. She looks like a wounded child as I push my cart down the row of cubicles. I pick up seven wastebaskets, and dump their contents into a garbage bag that sits half-full in my cart. Sometimes, I am tempted to read the letters that I find in the trash heaps. I wonder if there are any scandalous love letters between coworkers, or if they are all simply business documents. I go about my work humming that ridiculous tune that the UPS man was whistling in the elevator. I despise people like him; they are so selfish. They don�t care if others are humming the song for the rest of the day. As long as it isn�t in their head, they couldn�t give half a shit. I fill my bucket with warm water and mix it with several drops of soap. Almost mechanically, I wash the floor. Several young women brush past me, without so much as a hello. Is it because of my age? Or like dogs smelling fear, can they smell desperation? I lean on my mop and watch them leave the room. I sigh again. I push up my jumpsuit sleeve and glance at my watch. How can it be 10:00 already? I find that, the older I become, the faster time flies. As a teenager, I remember time crawling slower than a half-dead turtle. However, now I�m faced with the grim fact that I, too, will dwindle away and not long thereafter, my candle will be snuffed out. I will no longer exist. My God, how time flies. Page 2 More Stories Lair Homepage |