The Janitor

My janitor was a tall man with a small head. His balding black hair was slicked back and his moustache was well trimmed and fine toothed. He wore a grey and black striped shirt tucked into his high black pants and back supporter. His name was Pierre. As I recall, he had a red bandana tied around his neck and a black beret and walked delicately, dancing, through the halls, around silver puddles, his face twisted like a braid.

Since he was the only janitor, he was my janitor. We only needed one and he was broken into 300 small parts, depending on the size of the child. You would think the grownups would have larger sections of him, but, the children required the most physical cleaning while the adults required spiritual cleansing, that which they received from outside sources. My section of my janitor was located on his left hip, right above the bone. It was a small fleshy area on the rise of becoming a prominent handlebar-perfect for my future spills, psychic even.

My janitor had a small smile and a tiny twinkle in his eye. Somewhere back behind the stage was his small office. I imagined cocoa and wooden walls and one squeaky black chair he would lean back on with a cigar heavy in a musky wood scent with notes of cinnamon. Brooms, dustpans, brown paper towel rolls, and cleaning supplies yellowed and aged amber against the walls. The twins, red-headed Courtney, and I would talk to our janitor after lunch by his office. He always had jolly ranchers or gum to give us. The louder of the two twins was scandalous and full of mischief, Courtney was the pretty rich girl with large gums and new shoes, the quiet blonde twin spoke sweetly but in needles, like a snake. I, luminescent, dirty, plain, smart, saw him as a playful character. They saw him as a man toy.

My memory recedes away from the three girls in the dark hallway. I am watching them flirt mercilessly, the other children are playing in the sunshine outside to my right, his large hairy pink paw rests on their shiny curls. After a while we were not allowed to talk to our janitor. Then, simple Pierre was gone. The girls licked their lips at the boys in the corner of class instead. I remember seeing my janitor years later. His hair had frosted and thinned revealing his shiny red scalp. His eyes were blue sapphires. A thin black moustache stretched over his upper lip. He looked at me and smiled a beautiful French smile. In the distance an accordion player stepped off a curb.