Maintenance Man

“A little soap and water never killed anybody.”
                                                                          ~Anonymous Mother

         Henry “Hank” Ferguson spun his key-ring expertly around his finger as he waited in one of Mount Bellow’s lengthy, intersecting hallways.  He glanced at the jail-barred timepiece hanging on the wall in front of him, and read the hands with non-fabricated sluggishness.
         3:12.
         He compared the wall clock to his own wristwatch and saw the numbers were the same, although his digital piece had no second-hand to compare.  It made no difference; he had set the watch himself to school time just last Friday.  He spun the keys faster.
         A series of split-pea book lockers lined many of the school’s matching colored walls, each row protecting years of uncollected dust and juvenile litter.  Hank had made no effort to find what treasures were hidden behind them.  In truth, he had added to the collection quite frequently, depositing his own used containers and wadded paper towels while his eyes kept watch in both directions.  He was never caught in the act, and would often laugh hysterically after he would throw a can and, instead of a clatter, hear it settle gently atop other items of unneed.
         3:14.
         His key-ring was in furious motion now, approaching the tip of his finger but remaining there in masterful rhythm.  One slight hesitation and it would go flying off down the hallway, keys sticking out like a multi-bladed Ninja star.  But Hank knew his limits and kept his finger pointing slightly upwards as he rotated the metal ring.  He checked his watch.
         3:14.
         He looked at the wall.  The second hand was just gliding past the six.  Thirty seconds.
         A job that might take five hours for two lesser experienced janitors, Hank could do in three.  He worked without thinking, completing tasks with the silent efficiency of a programmed machine.  He knew the divot in the third tile across from Ms. Lauder’s home room, how it caved slightly creating a dust-ball burial ground- sweep down, across, up, and out.  And the trophy case which sat on four wobbly legs, he knew not to touch with either mop or broom.  And the last toilet in the main ladies room would not flush(Henry was never given a replacement), and although every one of the two hundred eighteen girls knew that fact, they used it anyway.  And the windows had to be toweled dry, for a squeegee left streaks.  And the sixty-five gallon mobile waste receptacle with a fading 16 marked on the side had two faulty wheels.  And...
         “Ringgggg!”
         3:15.
         Hank took a step backwards, pressing his forty-two-year-old spine against the wall.  He downgraded his key-ring action to a Kansas tornado, then to a tri-winged fan, to a saucer cup ride at Disney World, and finally to a complete stop.  He slid them into his pocket, where they bulged out like a fairly serious-sized tumor.
         Doors began to open and students began to file out in clusters- a clique of blonde-haired beauties chatting quite overtly about who Mr. Stanley was planning to deflower, a gang of four-eyed, socially challenged intellectuals arguing over the tao of the molecular formula, an introvert shielding eyes in youthful paranoia- all these Hank saw every day, and wondered if perhaps he were invisible.  Or maybe his average, middle-aged pedophiliac appearance made him ignorable.
         Within seconds, the secluded hallway had turned into a stomping grounds for potential substance abusers and parents-in-waiting.  Hank watched as they milled around lockers, tossed jabs at the weak(Darwin knew best), and slobbered mercilessly onto each other’s faces.  He kept his back firmly against the wall and tried to recall his own days as a student...
         (the noises faded)
         ...at our Lady Grace.

    “Kick ‘im in the nuts, Henry!”
         “Give it to him!  Yeah!  Yeah, his hair!”
         He had Ralph McKenzie in a headlock, and the two were struggling mightily to pull the other down.  He could see the fire in Ralph’s eyes and hear the cheers from his classmates surrounding them.  Ralph had socked him pretty hard in the ribs, but he couldn’t feel the hurt.  He was sure he had landed a few good blows as well, and that masked the pain.
         The ground was muddy from the previous night’s storm, and both he and Ralph were slipping as they exchanged fists and teeth and kneecaps.  Now Ralph had him around the waist, and he could feel himself falling backwards as the boy drove a bony shoulder into his chest.
         But Ralph McKenzie fell face down in the mud.
         His classmates never laughed or cheered.  Instead they stopped their clamor and watched grimly as Sister Phyllis lowered the victim from the hold she had on his collar.
         “Henry,” she waited until a subdued Ralph picked himself up, “Ralph, who started this?”
         Neither boy answered.
         “Boys?” Keeping a hand on his neck, she turned to his friends and fellow mates.  They would never give him up.  They weren’t brave enough to-
         “It was Henry, Sister Phyllis.  He called Ralph a muther-luvin’ Commie.”
         Didn’t it figure Ryan Elmore had to be watching?  He shot a glare across to the tattletale.
         “Thank you, Ryan.  Now, everyone back inside.  All of you.”  She caught an escaping Ralph by the ear.  “Aah, no, sir.  You two are coming with me.”
         Then she took he and Ralph to the boy’s bathroom and marched them directly to the sink.  He could see his battle-scarred face in the tiny mirror, causing him to compare his damage against the bruises he’d inflicted.  He had clearly won.
         “I want the two of you to apologize,” Sister Phyllis was saying.  “That’s it.  Shake hands.  We’ll decide your punishment later.”
         He took Ralph’s hand grudgingly and gave it a squeeze.  Ralph did the same.
         She turned the faucet on with a creak, and waited until the steam had fogged every square inch of the mirror.  Then she grabbed his hands and held them under the water, rubbing them furiously with the solitary bar of soap.
         “Owww!,” he screamed and tried to jerk away.  But she held him tight, and rubbed even harder with the corrugated bar.  “Stop that.  We’ve got to wash you clean of this dirt, this sin, young man.  Besides, a little soap and water never killed anybody...”

         3:21.
         Already the crowded hallways were nearly deserted.  A few lovers still remained, bonded together with lustful appetites, but they were in fantasyland, miles and worlds apart from Mount Bellow.  They would no doubt arrive back on earth when forced to fabricate an explanation for their dinner table absence.  Put on cap, wipe off mouth, straighten clothes, and calmly show everyone the Russian novel you picked out at the library.
         The keys were beginning to itch in Hank’s pocket, so he pulled them out with not a little struggle.  Thirty-two of them, each branded separately with what he liked to call abbreviated cryptography- his own special code of identification.  For instance, a search for door R32B would prove futile unless accompanied by his knowledge of the markings.  The first letter was the initial of the teacher’s last name- in this case, Miss Redman.  The next three or four figures were an approximation of her cup size- in this case, fairly insignificant.  Even the male teachers were subject to Hank’s scrutinous, sex-deprived opinions.  The keys to their home rooms and offices were marked by sizes as well- in inches.
         A harmless game, Hank always reminded himself when thoughts of impropriety threatened to snuff his fun, my secret game.
         3:30.
         He was alone once more in the salad leaf hallway, keys held limply in hand.  “Time for action,” he said.  “For action, fr-action, fraction, time fraction.”  He walked down the narrow hall and began to spin his key-ring on his strong, calloused fingertip.  “Tiiiime to clean.”
         The maintenance area was much more a walk-in closet than a full-sized room, but Hank didn’t mind the skimpy dimensions.  Just give him enough space to mix his chemicals and clean his brushes, and he would be fine.
         He unlocked the door which had JA IT R on the front in gold and black adhesive lettering(they wouldn’t send stickers either), stepped inside, and breathed in deeply.  An antiseptic aroma of bleach and ammonia immediately filled his lungs, and he quickly shut the door to keep the flavor to himself.  There was no greater smell on earth.  Not gasoline, highlighter, or even burning leaves came close to this reminder that dirt was but a shell covering the beauty inside.
         The interior of the room was immaculate, walls fresh and shelves spotless.  Hank had designated a section for each supply and item, labeling them in normal English, and they sat in their places quietly waiting their turn.  A deep metal sink about three feet long took up most of the back wall, and it too rested serenely, counting each drop as it fell with a tink.
         Tink?
         “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Hank looked into the sink and watched in horror as the spigot leaked another drop.  “Oh, shit, no!”  He reached across and tightened both taps to stop the flow that would likely cause an eventual clog of mineral deposits and microscopic soil in the drain.
         Someone had been in here.  Hank could feel his ears turning red as he fought back his rage.  Someone had been in here and left the water dripping.  “Probably that goddammed cook...” an Mar name he could not recall, Margaret or Marigold, “Rotten bitch.”  He shook his head with displeasure and glanced around to check for any other disturbances.  Everything else seemed normal, but he remained wary of what he might find.  He would have to get the lock changed on his door.  “Buy it myself,” he muttered to the colored solvents sitting to his left.  “I’ll change it myself, and then we won’t have these little problems to deal with.”  They agreed.
         3:33.
         Regiments are easy to follow if personal or financial incentives are attached- a condition based on outcome.  Hank followed the same structured checklist he had created on his first day at Mount Bellow.  He made copies every month in the teacher’s lounge and kept them in a plastic, waterproof folder he had hung above the sink.  He glanced up there now, half-expecting to find the folder replaced by a menu for that shit Marlene(a-ha) called food.  But, no, the opaque container hung exactly where he had left it the night before, and he could sense his ears tingle as the blood departed to carry on its duty elsewhere.  “Oh, but we’ll still have a talk,” he said.  “First thing tomorrow.  I’ll have the talk, and she’ll have the listen.”  He grabbed a handful of plastic garbage bags, not bothering to count- he never missed- and stepped back outside of his office.  “Hold my calls, Charlene,” he shot over his shoulder.
         A harried looking man with a butt belly(Hank’s description of an ass so flat it actually extended the stomach)and a shining dome passed by, and raised an eyebrow in Hank’s direction.
         Hank scowled at the eyebrow, but reversed his lips as he glimpsed the teacher’s figure.  Ha, if your ass were any flatter, you’d be shittin’ out your navel, he called at the man’s back.  Damn pricks.  He glanced at his watch.
         3:34.
         3:35.
         “Ah, good luck,” he said, catching the four switch to the five.  “Somebody’s watching me.  Watch me, wash me.”  He smiled and started down the hall to begin his day.
         
         Mount Bellow had eighteen wheeled cans inside the school, twelve of them in the cafeteria, five positioned strategically at the hallway exits, and one in the teacher’s lounge, where he started each day.  Funny, he thought, that the original meaning of lounge was acting lazy and idle.  Now we’ve made it a noun to make ourselves feel better.
         A few teachers were still relaxing from their extended doses of hostile environment when Hank pushed his way into the room.  As he had expected from years of neglect, they gave him no more than a glance before returning to the bottoms of their caffeine-spiked beverages.  There was Phillip Saunders, special assistant to Administrator Leeks, and, Hank knew, much more than that.  Coach Trudy Billet was here discussing strategy with her counterpart Coach Noor, and off in a back corner was Dr. Chavrin, who looked quite uncannily like Colonel Sanders.  Hank could recognize all of them simply by viewing the shape and color of their heads, but to them he himself was air.
         Number five was an optimist’s half-full, but Hank squished the waste down until it stretched the bag to its limits.  No sense in wasting.  He patted down the sides, and gave one final push into the eclectic mix of plastic bottles and vending machine finest- and yelped in pain.
         The blood appeared to be spaghetti sauce or ketchup, but when he wiped his wrist clean, the flow continued without an extra squeeze.  No one had bothered to check out his cry, although now the two stockily-built butches were standing and walking over...to the exit.
         Hank clamped his free palm over the slit wrist and quickly entered the teacher’s toilet facilities.  So much nicer in here, he thought.  No pee on the tiles, or crap crusted on stall doors from chimpanzee fly-overs.  He reached the sink and turned the tap to a bitter cold before placing his arm underneath.  The fresh blood washed off, and Hank could see the tiny opening that was nearly on the flat of his palm.  A centimeter lower and he would have looked like a fool for forgetting his gloves- a fool two pints short on life.  He must have left them by the sink when he’d rushed to stop the leak.  “Of all the days to mash a fuckin’ can,” he started, as he wrapped a paper towel bandage around the cut and shook his head.  “Hank takes on Vegas, beats the house with a Royal Flush.”  He jerked the handle down on an imaginary toilet, and carried his hand back into the lounge.
         The only sounds present were the mild buzzing of the lone soda machine and the gentle pop of depressed trash regaining its form.  The last few faculty members had left, apparently sensing an obligatory SOS, which they chose to negate.  Hank laughed, “Right, and I’m kiddin’ whom?”  He crossed the chair-scattered lounge and exited, eager to find a bandage that would not rip on contact.
         The next few hours went by quite smoothly, even if only compared to a faucet vandal and an unprescribed bloodletting.  Hank worked with relative ease despite the injury to his left wrist, which now boasted a Scooby-Doo character bandage.  Eight cans were wheeled outside for disposal, sixteen glass doors were washed inside and out, thirty-eight hundred square feet of modern clay tiles were swept clean, six bathrooms were tidied up, and the checklist was nearly complete.
         5:48.
         Fortunately for Hank, his right finger and wrist were still in perfect condition, so he tested them out by starting a spin.  The keys made only a slight whirring noise, as they were pressed too tightly for a jingle.  He detested those people who constantly jiggled their keys from a pants or coat pocket- so annoying, that hellish sound.  He stuffed them back into his massive pocket and turned on the hot tap.
         5:49.
         The water was steaming now, condensation building on the sink’s metal sides, fog covering the child-sized mirror.  Hank tested it cautiously and quickly withdrew his finger.  “Perfect-o.”  He shut it off and screwed on the thirty-six inch hose, before releasing the flow into an abnormally fresh, schoolbus-yellow bucket.
         When the water had filled the bottom, Hank turned the tap back off, letting the hose drape limply over the bucket.  He was always sure to never let a single drop fall onto the closet’s concrete floor, because then you stepped on the wet spot and left your shoe print on already cleaned tiles, and he hated extra work.
         Grabbing a jug labeled Blu-N-Nu, he twisted off the cap and gently poured the Hank-adjusted recommended amount into the sizzling water.  It landed softly and spiraled to the bottom, creating an aqua floor minus all the sea life.  He set the soap down, and turned on the tap.  The hose became erect, and he reached down to steady it, when suddenly...
         5:50.
         ...the jet of scalding water shot upwards into his face, splashing around his nose and forehead with alarming accuracy.  “Aaaah, shit, shit, shit!”  He screamed and instinctively drew back, blindly reaching out for the hose.  At first he couldn’t find anything, although the stream of boiling water was splattering directly into his face, but then he felt the rigid tube and grabbed it with both hands.  He tried to push it down and away, but it slithered in his grasp with quick, powerful motions, and continued to abuse his pain-seared body.
         It was a wild scene; a balding man in one corner, with head turned and hands pushing away a possessed hose like he might do to an awfully forward woman whose advances were unwelcome.  A strong woman.  And extremely strong advances.
         Finally, without warning, the hose grew soft and the hot stream dissipated.  Hank wasted no time in bending over the sink and unscrewing the tubing.  He wrenched the tap to the right and let out the breath he had been holding behind clenched jaws and tightened nostrils.  “Fuckin’ hose,” he grumbled through gritted teeth, more in shock than anger.  His face was burning, throbbing sharply with every minute muscular movement.  He was afraid to look, but still swept a hand across the fogged mirror.
         He did not notice the blood trickling down his arm from underneath a soaked Shaggy.  Or the trembles his fingers were performing as they dropped to his side.  His hand clenched the rim of the sink as he stared into
         (the monster’s eyes.)
         his eyes.  Bright red blotches were pasted violently across his once beautiful visage.  Already, tiny white blisters were spreading over his skin at “a blistering pace,” he grinned, and immediately winced it away.  He tried speaking again, this time practicing a ventriloquil approach.  “Oh, well.  Still got work to do.  Can’t let those kiddies walk on a dirty floor now, can we?”
         The scorched face shook its agreement.  No, we couldn’t allow that.
         6:03.
         The figure that reappeared in Mount Bellow’s main hallway bore a striking resemblance to the Invisible Man’s attempt at socializing.  Hank had located an unused roll of gauze in his medical kit marked A1D, and had wrapped the fabric over his scarring face.  The pain he could bear; the hideous sight he could ignore, at least until every tile was mopped clean.  What a funny day, he puzzled.  I’m a target with a fuckin’ bull’s-eye on my chest.  On my chest.  Onmichest.  Omnichest.
         6:05.
         Hank preferred dim lighting when mopping.  Too much light and washed tiles would appear to still accentuate grime and dirt.  Too little and he could not keep track of which sections were finished.  It was a delicate balance.
         He was eighteen minutes behind schedule(blame the poor swaddling of incompetent hands)when he first touched mop-head to floor.  He had passed no one in the halls; apparently only silence was still present.
         With expert strokes, Hank Ferguson started his final duty of the day.  He kept his sore head down, eyes pointing narrowly from beneath several thin layers of cotton.  Back and forth.  Across.  Up and down on a stubborn spot.  The tiles smelled faintly of burnt popcorn and now isopropyl alcohol, an ingredient not found in the fresh, antiseptic odor of Blu-N-Nu.  Hank allowed himself to relax, and gradually fell into his groove.

         “There.  Ralph, use the towel.  Pants are for wearing, not for wiping.” Sister Phyllis watched as the boys dried their hands, then marched them into the long corridor of Our Lady Grace.  “In two hours, I want every single tile scrubbed clean.  Not a speck of dirt.  Since you both enjoy the mud so much, you should have a lot of fun.”  She waited.  “Shouldn’t you?”
         “Yes, ma’am.”
         “Henry?”
         “Yes, ma’am, Sister Phyllis, ma’am.” He hoped she would ignore protocol and slap him, but instead she pointed to a nearby metal bucket and said, “Get started.”
         He watched as she glided off, teen-age hormones raging, wondering what lay hidden beneath the dark robe.  He glanced at Ralph who appeared to be thinking along with him.  “Well, get started.”
         “Why don’t you?” Ralph peered into the bucket of murky water and fished out two moldy wooden brushes.  “Here.”
         He jumped.  “Get that away from me!”
         “Or what?” Ralph challenged.
         “Or I’ll kick your ass.”
         “Oooo, such strong language for a little boy.”
         They both laughed then, and he grabbed the dripping brush from his friend.  He flicked it forward and it shot a spray of wet filth on mud-caked Ralph.
         “What the-” Ralph began, and was cut off as another round of mist sprayed his open mouth.  “Oh, no, no, no.”  A sharp flick...

         6:21.
         The water splashed onto Hank’s pant cuffs, and he stared down dumbly.  The wooden mop handle remained loosely in his hands, but the bucket was gone.  The schoolbus-yellow bucket had wheeled itself away while he’d been working through his daydream.  He looked around, but saw only lockers on both sides holding the walls up.  He spun around- but no bucket.
         “Well, damn if that ain’t strange,” he wondered through his mask.  “I must’a already wheeled it back to change the water.”  He swept the mop a few times until the moisture was gone, and then propped it against a locker.  “Losin’ my mind...and my memory.”
         6:22.
         A rattling squeak caught Hank’s ear, and he turned just in time to watch his bucket cross the last few feet before colliding sharply into his shins with a- Crack!  His left foot slipped on the gleaming tiles, buckling his knees, and sending him sharply onto his back.  His head hit the floor with an even louder Crack!, and he felt the air around him being sucked away, drawn upwards and out of his body and he could not bring it back...
         6:24.
         ...until the bucket began moving again, away from him, down the lengthy corridor.  “You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”  His head pounded and his leg was grotesquely skewed in an unsavory position, but he watched it squeak off until a jerk around his foot caused him to momentarily divert his gaze.  What are those- ropes?  No, they’re mop hairs, and- the revelation hit Hank seconds before he began to move.
         “Oh, c’mon.  Shit, no!  Get...the...fuck...off...me!”  He struggled to reach his feet and screamed in agony as the tugging fabric wrenched his leg back into its joint.  Now he could feel his head leaving a soapy water trail behind it, as he was dragged forward by the schoolbus-yellow mop bucket with the words DANGER!  SLIPPERY SURFACE! shining on both sides.  “Help!  Anyone!”  He gathered his breath.  “Please, help!  You goddam pricks!”  He was sliding along faster now, his back re-sweeping the unwashed tiles.  His head lolled about wildly, as he searched for anyone who would pinch him awake from his nightmare.
         But the dim hallway offered no such hope.  The kicking, screaming man would have to fight his own battles- on his own time.  School was closed.  Hadn’t the bell rung a final time?  And, please, clean up your own mess.  And it frowned back at the man, and at the bloody trail his bandaged head was leaving in its wake.
         6:27.
         After three grueling minutes, Hank’s ride finally ended.  His burnt face was sprouting quarter-sized blisters, and they were beginning to itch underneath the gauze.  He couldn’t feel his hurt leg at all, and the thought made him light-headed and nauseated.  I’ll never walk straight again.  They’ll have to cut it off and I’ll be one-legged Hank.  He peered up at the motionless bucket, which was stationed outside the maintenance room...waiting?...or watching?
         “Okay, you’ve had your fun.”  The words came off his tongue in a whisper.  Geez, his head ached.  “Now, stay still, and we can solve this little misunderstanding.”  He rolled to his side and hunched forward in an extremely uncomfortable fetal position.  He could see the gray mop filaments looped around his ankles, and he forced his body to forget its limits, stretching his hand towards the absorbent chains.  Almost there, and...
         The door reading JA IT R swung open.
         “All right, someone...” Hank looked up expectantly, but once again a strong wind had apparently fooled his senses.  “C’mon, this isn’t funny anymore.  I’ve got half a school to mop.”
         The bucket inched forward.
         “Oh, no, we’re not goin’ anywhere!” He reached his ankles with a desperation lunge and fumbled for the knots- they were shrink-dried tight.  His right leg swung violently onto the taut hairs, but they wouldn’t give.
         The bucket began to enter the closet.
         “Fuck, no!” he screamed, and scraped his body backwards with every aching muscle in full throttle.  A blunt prick jabbed his hip and shot a welcome reminder up to his brain.  The keys, he thought suddenly.  Use the keys.
         Bracing his back against the floor, he dug his hand into his pocket and brought out the familiar metal ring.  What a beautiful sight!  Instead of starting a final workout of finger aerobics though, he chose a key and bent forward, even as he inched closer to the open door.  He used the key’s ridges as a blade, and began to saw feverishly on his right leg’s binding.
         It was working!  The string was separating with every motion.  He could feel it beginning to give, so he pulled his leg back to stretch the cut- and he was free!
         Fighting the urge to stand and shout, he quickly turned his body to cut the other string- the one still dragging him away from his final duty.  He began to saw.
         6:29.
         From out of nowhere,(or more likely, from where Hank had left it) the wooden mop handle came hurtling through the air like a battery-powered javelin defying gravity.  It struck the disheveled, defenseless man squarely on his temple, easily penetrating the thin white cloth.  A dark spot appeared immediately, a tiny red dot which paled to the growing stain just inches away.  As the man’s head drooped and his body careened backwards, the handle fell beside him, clattering noisily about a job well done.
         And the bucket continued to move, eventually pulling an unconscious Hank feet-first into the dark room. 
         And the door swung shut.
         
         8:33.
         Sammy Lipster always arrived on time- well, give or take five seconds, he thought.  He was never embarrassed to show up an hour early at parties or meetings; there was always something to be done.  He had always detested the sloths wandering in amicably, quoting the oft-used catchphrase ‘Better late than never’ as their defense.
         So three minutes late was a crime.  Despite the absence of an authoritative employer, Sammy felt a twinge of guilt and shame plucking his chest from the inside.  “No reason at all,” he muttered.  “I’m no better than the rest of them.”
         He strode hurriedly through the hallways and reached the main lighting panel, now easily on schedule.  There were twenty-four switches to be raised and lowered, so he set to work, flicking upwards and raking downwards with expert strokes.
         Soon, the entire building was illuminated, and Sammy gazed about him with undisguised admiration.  Split-pea book lockers sparkled brightly off of floors which shone electric in the revealing glare.  Door handles were wiped clean of incriminating fingerprints and unidentified illnesses, and appeared to be virtually palatable.  The school was spotless.
         “Incredible,” he stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “These kids are incredible.”  Inside, he was amazed and slightly perplexed.  How do four hundred high school rats leave a building this...perfect every day?  Even an empty shell or blood-laced needle would be comforting.  Anything to make him feel needed, heck, to give him job security.  He couldn’t afford to lose another client.  But these students...
         “They’re perfect,” Sammy Lipster finished aloud.  He walked slowly through the hall, astonished by the gum-free tiles and print-less glass.  No, I’m being crazy, he thought, but reached out anyway and mashed a finger on one of the immaculate windows.  He pulled away, and- surprise, it left a smudge.  What had he expected?  It was, after all, a complex mix of silicone and oxygen- an insoluble object.  Not a transparent, ectoplasmic entity.
         He wandered purposely over to his favorite bathroom and pushed the door open, flicking the light switch as he entered.  Clean mirrors.  Clean sinks.  Clean toilets.  Clean urinals.  Clean dispensers. 
         “Disgusting,” he smirked.  “And they call themselves men?”  He was tempted to kneel down and lick the floor, but the idea quickly passed.  There were much more pleasing ways to scar a tongue for life.
         After relieving himself, the janitor exited and stepped casually to the maintenance room, which was much more a walk-in closet than an entire room.  The letters N and O were missing from the adhesive sign on the front, but it didn’t bother Sammy at all.  He would have left the door blank himself- the gold-outlined letters looked quite tacky.
         The door was unlocked,(Had he locked up last night?)so he turned the knob and stepped inside.  The single hundred-watt bulb was lit and heating the closet with an eerily dim glow.  The pungent aroma of Blu-N-Nu permeated the air with an overwhelming sanitary attack, and Sammy coughed, looking around for the spill.  There was none apparent, but he did notice the spigot leaking, and reached over to tighten the tap.  “Uh-oh, we don’t want another visit from Mr. Leeks, do we?”  He smiled to himself as he imitated his employer.  “Mr. Lipster, we have been over-budget for several months now, especially with our maintenance department.  I would appreciate your cooperation by controlling your water usage.”  Sammy giggled and bent forward, whispering in perfect mimicry, “We have had reports of leaks.”  He roared now, his laughter reverberating cheerfully against the shelved walls.  Still shaking his head, he grabbed a precise number of garbage bags(three) and left the tiny room.
         Behind him, with the walls still echoing the raucous noise, the room itself began to laugh- a deep, guttural, heart-palpitating cry.  It watched the man swing busily down the hallway, and wondered how he could have missed the digital timepiece lying by the sink.  Or the colorful bandage sticking precariously on the mop bucket, adhesive backing all but destroyed.  It laughed again- this time a low, rumbling sound from its yawning mouth.  The drain gurgled and a geyser of coppery liquid came spurting upwards, spraying the metallic sink with modern art.
         And outside the ill-labeled room, not far down the hall, a clock continued to run, watching with motionless eyes, and ticking the seconds away.

Reprinted with permission by Lost in the Dark