Nigel
pushed open the swinging door and entered a dimly lit and poorly
ventilated room. He bore a backpack, brown and thread-bare,
and with every step the muffled clanking of canisters filled the
silence. Head held high, he walked to the back wall, where a dusty
red block of four lockers sat. The two on the left were decorated
with combination locks; the two on the right were empty. Nigel
opened the door of the end locker, slung off his backpack, and placed
it inside. He reached into the zippered pouch and grabbed his own
lock, closed the door and clicked the shackle shut.
He
turned toward the door and saw someone seated in an antique rocking
chair in a particularly dark corner of the room. The man's face was
silhouetted and he brought a cigarette to his mouth. A shttt
and a flame suddenly breathed to life.
"You're
not allowed to smoke in here."
"So
you're Vowler." The man spoke with the cigarette between his
teeth as he worked to light it. His voice was husky with a touch of
derision. "The superintendent told me you might be dropping off
your shit before the end of the shift."
"I
believe there's a designated smoking area one floor down. There's
also the..."
"I'm
Hutchinson," the man interrupted as he finished his first drag.
"I'm the head of the windows team." He got up slowly and
stepped into the light. He was dressed in jeans and white,
short-sleeved shirt loosely tucked in, and his gut tugged at the
bottom. "Shut the hell up about the cigarette."
Chastened
and unsure how to proceed, Nigel silently watched the trails of
smoke wander upward. He closed his eyes and visualized the sooty ash
on the floor, the slight, mucomembranous coating built up on the
white paint, the musty after-smell. His lips tightened.
Hutchinson
continued, "Enrique works under me. We do fine. I'm not sure
that we need a third man. Where were you set up before?"
"General
indoors custodial."
"Why'd
you get moved?"
Nigel
hesitated to give Hutchinson too much information so quickly. "I...
I requested it. I wanted a change of scenery."
Snort.
"You have problems playing with others? That's usually why
people move."
"I
work well with my peers."
"You
do what you're told?"
"When
what I'm told is reasonable."
Smirk.
"Who decides what's reasonable? You?"
Nigel
couldn't think of an amicable response and remained silent.
Mercifully, Hutchinson was undeterred. His eyes were fixed on
Nigel's, as if Nigel were a lock that inexplicably would not open and
was enjoying the brute challenge of prying and prodding, searching
with worn and dirtied fingers and thumbs for weaknesses.
Nigel
tightened his lips again, a sign of his determination not to speak
next, but as a consolation dropped his eyes to Hutchinson's cloying
mouth, visibly putrid, unshaven, with coarse, solitary hairs jutting
out from charred moles. He sucked again on the cigarette.
"I don't want to dally. It's
almost seven. But this is it. You want to work under me, you do what
you're told. No arguing. Unreasonable or not." He paused to let
his words sink in. "I know the buildings like the back of my
hand and I know my business like that, too. Your business is to be my
fucking squeegee, ok? You do that and my department stays in the
clear, we're paid well and no one interferes."
Nigel remained entirely still and
expressionless. "I understand."
"Report here at noon tomorrow and
I'll give you the tour. You'll work with me until you've got a handle
on things."
"Good night, sir."
As if on cue, Hutchinson bristled with
pleasure and his eyes softened. "Good night." He flicked
his cigarette between thumb and forefinger. Ash plunged down onto the
tiled flooring.
Nigel immediately turned on his heel
and walked out the door. He marched down a long corridor toward the
pair of elevators, and decided he positively hated Hutchinson, that
power-monger, falsely ebullient, sans pedantry,
without nuance or delicacy in words – and hence, it was clear,
without the philosophical spirit that lent itself to a true,
immaculate fastidiousness. How could he possibly be a professional
cleaner? And how could he work with such a clumsy goon? No.
Hutchinson had to go.
And
this Enrique was the key. Nigel closed his eyes and let his fingers
trace the white stucco beside the call button. He would start to work tomorrow at noon.
