A Quiet Job
I once enjoyed being a janitor. Not that I was excited about cleaning dirty toilets but it was a job where I was my own boss. I had the freedom to daydream while carrying out each task. I usually worked alone at night. It was different at the John George Home because residents were there all the time.
The building, which once served as the first hospital in Jackson, Michigan, became a home for men with special needs such as mental disabilities. At about 2:00 a.m., on my first night, I began cleaning the second floor bathroom. My thoughts were disrupted by the sound of someone coming down the hall. With dripping toilet brush in hand, I stepped into the hall and was met by a short stocky Hispanic man. He wore white clothes like a hospital orderly.
I asked if he needed the restroom; he just stared with a smile painted on his face. I inquired again and he said, “You don’t know who I am.” Standing just a foot away he made me nervous. Again, I asked what he wanted.
He said, “I don’t live here. You should be careful, anyone off the street can walk right in, just as I did.”
I realized I could be in danger when he added, “I could be a murderer.”
I don’t know where it came from, perhaps my survival gene, or the fact that my toilet brush would make poor weapon, but I looked stared back at him and said “You don’t know who I am either. Deranged murderers have jobs, like scrubbing toilets where they can be left alone. How do you know I’m not a murderer?”
The stranger said “Relax man, I was just kidding. I used to work here.”
He didn’t tell me why he was there and I knew I needed to get him out of there. I asked him to show me how got in. Walking to one of the exits he demonstrated how the residents placed a small stone in the door so it would only appear to be closed. They did this to sneak prostitutes into their rooms. Then, he said that he got in a different way, through the basement. Reluctantly, I asked him to show me. I didn’t take my eyes off of him as we passed through a dimly lit section of the basement, which was once the morgue—a good place for a murder, I thought.
He finally showed me where he came in but hesitated to leave. I kept giving him the “I could be a murderer too” look, so he complied. Immediately, I secured all the doors and windows. I continued to feel I was being watched. Relief came at sunrise when I went home. I never learned who he was or why he was there. The next day I told the management that I wouldn’t be back. I needed a job with less excitement, like a bomb defuser.
Comments
Post a comment