by Sam Pink
Hot diggity . . .
I looked around the office.
There were stacks of papers on a shelf next to me, with a few sheets pinned up on a corkboard.
One was someone’s resume, for a custodial job.
It had his name in a huge font at the top and then the word ‘skills’ in a slightly smaller font, a bullet point beneath that said, ‘am a good worker.’
Under ‘previous jobs’ he’d put, ‘custodian/janitor’ and under ‘duties performed’ he had, ‘what a janitor do.’
The temp office employee came back and said, ‘Okay, got the paperwork in, you start tomorrow at three p.m., work until midnight. Bring a lot of water and something to eat. You got steel-toed boots?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm, shit,’ he said. ‘You need steel-toed boots.’
‘Okay I’ll get some before the shift,’ I said.
He asked what my shoe size was.
‘One sec,’ he said, exiting the room.
Came back with a box containing steel-toed boots in my size.
There was a sticky note on the box that said, ‘DeMontero Smith.’
‘Okay, this guy never showed, so you’re good to go! Tomorrow at three. It’s in Largo, address on that card I gave you!’
I thanked him and left.
I sat in the car, idling in the parking lot as it rained, staring at the box of boots and the sticky note.
DeMontero Smith.
Never showed.
DeMontero, where have you gone?
I imagined him crawling his way down the highway toward the boots, only to arrive, tattered and bloody, to glimpse through the window me accepting his boots.
No . . . NO!
Reaching to the sky with bloody hands . . .
The boots were really nice too.
One of the nicest things anyone has given me, actually.
Made me want to leave the boots back on the doorstep of the temp office with a note on them that says, ‘I can’t possibly accept these.’
And never go back.
Never show up for the job.
DeMontero, get me there.
What a janitor do.
*
I drove up to Largo the next day.
It was a plant that manufactured and boxed metal pieces.
‘Contractor packs.’
The plant encompassed a vast array of machines, each producing different-sized pieces of metal.
It encompassed a dizzying heat, loud clanking, and the muffled yelling of workers.
It encompassed a small office area, where he who’d lasted longest reigned as air-conditioned overseer.
Who—when I introduced myself—had no idea who I was, and told me to go to Machine 18.
Ah yes, Machine 18.
‘Go to Machine 18,’ said the supervisor, bad root beer breath in my face.
I put on safety glasses, earplugs, and gloves, and walked across the floor.
Workers looked at me, in between catching metal pieces clanking out of the machines.
I saw someone welding.
Someone pushing a wheelbarrow.
People fixing machines.
People measuring parts.
Guy on a forklift.
All to a soundtrack of clanking and droning.
It was hot as fuck and smelled like gas.
I went to Machine 18.
There was a guy already working it.
He introduced himself as D’Amato, but said people call him Mato.
‘What’s up, Mato?’ I said, slapping his hand.
‘Wha’s happenin, padna?’ he said, smiling.
He was missing both front teeth.
Wearing a black baseball hat, an oversized black T-shirt stained with yellow paint, and wide-legged black jeans.
He turned his hat backward and explained the machine to me.
‘This shit be easy,’ he said, waving downward at the machine.
He started the machine by pressing two buttons at the same time, then throwing a switch.
We stood there catching parts as they came out of the machine.
Chung—down goes the top part of the machine, pressing the die onto the length of metal.
Fwoosh—die returning upward.
Skingskingsking— the metal piece coming down the chute toward us.
I caught it and jammed it up against the previous piece—clank.
Then the next one.
Chung . . . fwoosh . . . skingskingsking . . . clank.
Until I had twenty-five.
Then I set the stack in a box.
‘See? You got it bruh.’
Four stacks to a box.
Put the box through a machine that taped it on both sides and slid it down a conveyor belt to a wooden pallet.
Stack the boxes on the pallet until there’s fifty, then someone takes the pallet on a forklift.
Spray the machine down with lube.
And start over.
Like nothing had happened.
A never-ending process.
What a janitor do.
‘See, this shit be easy,’ Mato said, shrugging.
He told me it was only his second day.
He’d worked here five years ago, though.
‘I work at this bitch years ago, padna, heh heh. Didn’t realize that shit until I show up yessaday. And I’m like fuuuuuuck. See because I got fired in this bitch five years ago, heh heh.’ He leaned forward with his eyebrows up and hit my shoulder with the back of his hand.
The machine die came down and sent a metal piece skinging down the chute.
‘What?’ I said, smiling.
I caught the metal piece and slapped it against the others, waiting for the next one.
‘Yeah bruh, I got fired for fighting someone,’ he said, pointing maybe twenty feet away.
‘Right there?’
He was smiling again and laughing like heh heh.
He’d gotten into a fight with a boss.
A fistfight.
So they fired him.
‘I pull up with o’girl today,’ he said, ‘and I say, “Don’t go pullin away jess yet,” heh heh . . . “I mighta bout to come right back.”’
A metal piece came down the chute.
Sking sking sking.
Mato caught it and slammed it against the stack corralled in his other hand.
‘But yeah uh,’ he said, scratching his face a little, ‘when I ax about him they said he died or some shit.’
He shrugged.
We laughed.
‘Nice,’ I said, taking over as he slammed down a stack into the box.
The machine kept working.
I hated it for its soulless determination.
I hated it for its strength.
Sometimes I watched the giant spool of metal behind the machine, seemingly undiminished no matter how long we stood there.
It weighed over three tons, Mato told me.
One had recently fallen on an employee and killed him while they were unloading it.
‘Had a six-month-old kid too,’ said Mato, shaking his head. ‘Forklift du told me.’
He turned his hat to sideways.
He caught the pieces, stacked them together, and placed them in a box.
‘This shit be easy, though, man,’ he said, waving down at the machine.
I sprayed the machine down with lube.
I was sweating and really hungry.
My hands hurt, even with the gloves.
Pinched, cut, and dinged.
Zinged by the skinging clinkers.
‘Tellin you, this shit be easy,’ Mato said, slamming a stack of metal parts down into a box. ‘Muffuckers don’t never work no more than one day here, but this shit be easy. The machine do most the work. I’m movin back to Georgia anyhow, bruh. Fuck this shit. Give a fuck if they DO fire me again heh heh.’
Chung . . . fwoosh . . . skingskingsking . . . clank.
We caught more and more pieces.
Filled more and more
boxes.
Mato kept changing the direction of his hat.
We talked about boxing.
He was excited that I knew about the boxers of his youth.
But mostly we remained quiet, in the same strange communion of people focused on the same task.
Doing what you had to do.
Every once in a while, a ‘quality control tech’ would wheel his cart over and ask for a piece, to test its specs.
We’d stop the machine and hand him the most recent piece to measure.
Eventually I began saying, ‘My finest piece,’ and slightly bowing when handing him the sample.
He seemed to enjoy it.
Mato did too.
But not as much as I did.
DeMontero, teach us laughter.
‘Tangs guyce,’ said the quality control tech, wheeling his cart away.
The alarm went, boop boop boop boop to signal one minute until break.
‘Bout time in this bitch,’ said Mato, turning his hat forward.
Everyone marched toward the front of the building, for cigarettes, food, phone calls, stares, and head hangs.
The alarm went, ONG . . . ONG . . . ONG to signal that break had begun.
Fifteen minutes, beginning after the last ONG.
I sat at a picnic bench alone, staring through the fence and across the street at an empty high school parking lot.
A giant American flag flew above it.
Empty football field, lit up.
Everyone congregated around the drainage ditch twenty yards away, smoking.
‘Yo man, here,’ said this guy, on his way to smoke, noticing I wasn’t eating.
He placed two dollars on the picnic table, preemptively blocking my protest with his hand.
‘Oh, I’m good, man, thanks,’ I said, going to hand them back.
‘Nah, I can’t,’ he said, still holding up his hand. ‘Getchoo a pop and a candy bar.’
Then he took out a pack of cigarettes and gave me a cigarette.
I bought a candy bar and a pop.
He was right.
It was great.
DeMontero, remind us to be kind.
I had a cigarette, sitting on either side of a drainage ditch.
Someone who seemed like he’d been there a long time was complaining about the day shift.
The fuckers from the day . . .
Those day fuckers . . .
How they leave shit all fucked up.
Boxes everywhere.
Unfinished pallets.
Everything a mess.
‘Every night, fuckin mess,’ said the guy.
Which, I guessed, was because that’s how it was left to them by the night fuckers.
Us.
Fuckers as well.
Fuckers everywhere.
Fuckers against fuckers, for the prize of biggest complainer.
Pitted against each other to hide larger power structures.
Was I sent here to bridge the gap?
Promote understanding?
What a janitor do?
No, I was just another piece.
‘I swear they got shit for brains,’ the guy said, of the day fuckers.
He had his safety glasses around the back of his neck.
He shook his head as he pinched off the cherry of his cigarette, putting what remained in his front shirt pocket.
I saw in his eyes that, yes, he really did hate the day fuckers.
He really did.
Which reminded me that there will always be animosity like this.
An excuse for who you are, because of who they are.
Ranging from very abstract to insanely specific.
From parts of the globe, to parts of the same country, city, street, home, flag, banner, or blood.
‘I hate the day fuckers,’ I said, shaking my head.
It was loud enough for a couple people close by to hear and laugh.
The alarm went, boop . . . boop . . . boop, signaling we had one minute.
Everyone stood up—groaning, pocketing phones, extinguishing cigarettes.
We walked back to our various machines.
The alarm went ONG ONG ONG.
And the machines made noise again.
*
When I got home that night, I lay in bed naked, stretching and groaning.
My feet steamed.
They were covered in blisters.
Each one throbbed according to its own spirit.
And I named them.
Justin was a well-meaning, overall nice fellow, just looking to exist.
He’d realized his situation, accepted it, and decided to move forward in a way most equal and benevolent to all sides involved, including fellow blisters.
He existed in a normal spot for a blister, was a normal size, caused normal pain, and would—no doubt—live a normal lifespan.
I didn’t mind Justin.
Then there was . . . well, there were many others, even one, having taken the better part of one of my toes, of whom I dare not speak—whom I referred to simply as ‘el hombre.’
A part I would not get back.
No.
For it was now el hombre’s.
DeMontero, defeat no enemy for me, but lead them to me in good health.
*
‘Skrippers in Atlenna be puttin blades in they weave,’ said Mato, razoring open a box.
It was the end of my first week.
We were in a different area of the factory, by a garage door, sorting through damaged boxes of metal parts with a couple other guys.
Returns.
Half of the machines weren’t working and there were always return boxes to sort through and salvage.
‘You heard me bruh?’ said Mato, scratching his elbow.
This other guy said, ‘Huh? I luh Atlenna bitches.’ He lightly struck his open hand with a fist. ‘They bad as hell.’
‘Nah I’m saying,’ Mato said. ‘You heard me bruh? They put blades in they weave.’
‘Wuh? Thass cold! Bitches in New Yock ain on that level.’
I lifted one foot out of an untied boot and let it throb for a second.
Shit.
Felt like howling was the only correct response.
Mato stopped working and turned his hat from forward to sideways just a little. ‘When they figh’in, first thing they grab’s the weave, bruh. And there go a bitch, getting they hand all sliced up, heh heh.’
Everyone laughed.
‘Hell yeah,’ I said, pulling a wet stack of rusted metal parts out of a smashed box.
Seemed like a great move.
Putting razors somewhere you know someone else is going to grab.
Like a reverse scorpion.
Let the fools come to the stinger.
I must be more like the reverse scorpion, I thought, while becoming less and less enthused about sorting and boxing metal pieces.
It had seemed so exciting at first, so new, so wonderful.
But then it really didn’t add up to much.
Mato slapped my shoulder with the back of his hand and said, ‘There go a bitch getting all sliced up.’
I smiled.
Yes.
Water dripped onto me as I removed another stack of metal pieces from a damaged box.
Mato grabbed a broom and pushed some dead leaves toward other dead leaves.
‘They bad as hell,’ said the other guy. ‘I fuck with Atlenna bitches.’
‘Ay bruh, you ever fuck a German bitch?’ Mato said, leaning with the broom and checking his phone. ‘I’m finna go to Germany, bruh. That road where you drive however fast you want.’
Someone said, ‘The autobahn.’
‘Yeah, the valabahn.’
‘Autobahn.’
‘Bruh I’m finna be up on that bitch going hunnit-eighty in a Lambo. You ever fuck a German bitch? Ey, you heard me, bruh?’
‘Nah,’ said the other guy, looking at his phone and holding a half-folded box.
‘Man,’ said Mato, ‘Y
ou ever fuck a Russian bitch?’
‘Nah man, I ain’ever fucked no Russian bitch.’
‘Man I KNOW they ain’t be likin our kind, I hollat dis Russian bitch, you heard me, and she look at me like she’a up and kill my ass.’
Everyone laughed.
Mato did a pose and made a face and said, ‘She said she’a up and kill my ass,’ then walked roughly twenty feet away in a comical fashion, pumping his arms and legs.
People were laughing really hard.
‘Mato you stupid,’ someone said.
Mato came back up and muttered, ‘She’a up and kill my ass.’
He razored open another box.
We sorted some more.
It sucked.
Counting to make sure each smashed box had the right quantity, then reboxing them.
Bullshit dripping all over.
Sharp metal parts.
Floppy cardboard boxes.
What’s worth saving and what’s not.
NOTHING!
Mato and company carried on an impressively nuanced and thoughtful examination of some contemporary musical artists’ personal lives—on matters of finance, romance, and general existence.
They were informed, decisive, and not at all forgiving.
Dead leaves blew into the work area, scraping across the ground under the opened garage door by which we worked.
Sky outside blue and orange.
Assuring me—though only for a moment—that life was best licked.
And never really finished.
No real finish line.
Just a single point from which all other extensions are available.
What a janitor do.
DeMontero, can you hear me?
*
Each day began to feel faster.
Or maybe just further away.
Each day meant less and less.
I lost a bunch of weight as well as the feeling in some toes.
Standing in front of a machine for nine hours, catching metal parts and stacking them in boxes.
Long pieces, medium-sized pieces, oddly shaped pieces, and, worst of all, the small square-shaped pieces.
Oh those little squares . . .
Fasteners, they were called.
Every piece had the potential to hurt you in some mild to severe way, but none like the fastener.
Skipping down the chute—small, resolute, and strong.
Like a blunt throwing star.
I was working the fastener machine today, swearing and grinding my teeth.
Even with the gloves on, they could still catch you the right way.
