This preview has intentionally blurred sections. Sign up to view the full version.View Full Document
Unformatted text preview: n ~.v,.’~wv'/fzg<-wg;mwwnwyym~4 DON'T LOOK FOR DlGNIl’Y in public bathrooms. The most you’ll ﬁnd is
privacy and sticky ﬂoors. But when my boss gave me the glossy enve—
lope, the bathroom was the ﬁrst place I ran. What can I say? Lurking in
toilets was my job. I was a janitor at Union Station in Utica, New York. Speciﬁcally con-
tracted through Trailways to keep their little ticket booth and nearby
bathroom clean. I’d done the same job in other upstate towns, places so
small their whole bus stations could’ve ﬁt inside Union Station’s mar—
bled hall. A year in Kingston, six months in Elmira. Then Troy. Quit one
and ﬁnd the next. Sometimes I told them I was leaving, other times I
just disappeared. I When I got the envelope, I went to the bathroom and shut the door.
I couldn't lock it from the inside so I did the next best thing and pulled
my cleaning cart in front of the door to block the way. My boss was a
woman, but if the floors in front of the Trailways booth weren’t shining
she’d launch into the men's room with a fury. She had hopes for a pro—
motion. But even with the cart in the way I felt exposed. I went into the third
stall, the last stall, so I could have my peace. Soon as I opened the door,
though, I shut it again. Good God. Me and my eyes agreed that the 'sec—
ond stall would be better. I don’t know what to say about the hygiene of
the male species. I can understand how a person misses the hole when
he’s standing, but how does he miss the hole while sitting down? My
goodness, my goodness. So, it was decided, I entered stall number two. The front of the envelope had my name, written by hand, and noth— 4 VICTOR LAVALLE different papers inside. One a long rectangle and the other a small
square. I tapped the envelope against my palm, then tore the top half
slowly. I blew into the open envelope, turned it upside down and
dropped both pieces of paper into my hand. ’ “Ricky Rice!" I heard my name and a slap against the bathroom door. Hit hard
enough that the push broom fell right off my cleaning cart and clacked
against the tile floor. You would’ve thought a grenade had gone off from the way I jumped. The little sheets of ’
paper sh ed from I
ﬂoated to that sticky toilet floor. PP . my pa m and “AW, Cheryl!" I shouted. “Don’t give me that,” she yelled back. I walked out the stall to my cleaning cart. Lifted the broom and
pilled the cirtdaside. Didn’t even have time to open the door for Cheryl
s ejust pus e at it an damn wa . Iflick ' ' ' ' 7
kid who thinks the darklhess Will hllde him.ed the celhng hghts Off, hke a I’m going to tell you something nice about my boss, Cheryl McGee
She could be sweet as baby’s feet as long as she didn’t think you, were
taking advantage. When I ﬁrst moved to Utica, she and her son even
took me out for Chicken Riggies. It was a date, but I pretended I didn’t
know The stink of failure had followed my relationships for years and I
preferred keeping this job to trying for love again. I Now she stood at the bathroom door, trying to peek around me. A
slim little redhead who’d grown her hair down to her waist and wore
open-toed sandals in all but the worst of winter. :‘Someone’s in there?” she asked, looked up at the darkened lights. ‘Me,” I said. She pointed her chin down, but her eyes up at me. She thought she
looked like a mastermind, dominating with her glare but I’d been shot
at before. Once, I was thrown down a ﬂight of stairs: “I mean, is there anyone in there that I can’tﬁre?" Oop. I lifted the broom and shook it. “I was just sweeping," I said. Cheryl nodded and stepped back two paces. “I don’t mind breaks, Ricky, you know that.” She took out her cell
phone and ﬂipped it open, looked at the face. “But I need this station
looking crisp first thing in the morning,” “I’ll be done in a minute,” I said. BIG MACHINE 5' Cheryl nodded, reached back, and swept her hand through her waist-
length hair. The gesture didn’t look like ﬂirtation, just hard work. “Hey! What did that letter say?" I looked back into the bathroom. “Don’t know yet." She nodded and squeezed her lips together. “Well, I’d love to know,"
she said, and smiled weakly “Me too,” I told her, not unkindly. I Then, of all things, she gave me a limp salute with her right hand. After that she turned in her puffy gray boots and walked toward the
ticket booth. THE BATH ROOM'S WINDOWS were a row of small frosted glass rectangles
right near the ceiling. They let in light, but turned it green and murky.
Now, as I crept back to the second toilet stall, I imagined I was walking
underwater, and felt queasy. I opened the door to ﬁnd the ﬁrst piece of
paper right where I’d dropped it. And I recognized it immediately. A bus ticket. 7’
I bent at the knees and braced one hand against the stall wall for bal- ance. My right leg ached something awful. I even let out an old man’s
groan as I crouched, but that kind of ache was nothing new. I’d felt forty
ever since I was ﬁfteen. I held the ticket at an angle so I could read it in the hazy light. One way, from Union Station to Burlington, Vermont. An eleven— or twelve-hour trip if you ﬁgured all the station stops be—
tween here and there. The date on the ticket read Thursday, the twenty-
ﬁrst of January, just three days off. The name of the company on the top
was Greyhound. I worked for Trailways. It sounds silly, but the logo
made the ticket feel like contraband. I leaned back, out of the stall, and
peeked at the bathroom door to make sure I was still alone. I checked the back of the ticket for something, a note, an explana—
tion. Nothing. Then I remembered that I’d seen two silhouettes through the envelope.
I ducked my head to the left, looking to the floor of the sanitary ﬁrst stall, but it hadn’t landed there. Then I looked to my right and saw that
little cream-colored sheet, not much bigger than a Post—it, flat on the
ﬂoor of ﬁlthy old stall number three. Let me be more precise. _
Flat on the floor, in a gray puddle, in ﬁlthy old stall number three. Forget it.
Better to leave it behind than dip ﬁngers in the muck on that floor.
Even wearing gloves didn’t seem like enoughvprotection. Maybe a haz- mat suit. VICTOR LAVALLE it wouldn’t move. I had to use my hand.
I lurched my middle ﬁnger forward, even as I picked the paper up, right out of the muc
even run dowu my ﬁngers, it just clung, . ' k. The gray liquid didn’t
like Jelly, to the tips. It was cold 1Ellack ink on the paper. Make out the same hand
ed my name on the outside of that envelope
I mean it, Ricky.” . Cheryl pushed and strained at the You made a promise in Cedar Rapids in 2002.
sze to honor it. Without thinking 1 -
; Pure aut t ' .
let stall and ﬂushed the nolfe mg? ml I walked baCk Into that ﬁlthy t0]— But not the ticket. THREE DAYS I thought about that note. Thought about it, repeated it in
my mind, tried to forget it. But on the third dayl showed up at my job
with a packed duffel bag, which I stored in my locker, my mind not yet
made up. Cheryl kept to herself that morning, which was for the best. If she'd
chatted with me like usual, I might’ve admitted what I was considering
and she’d have convinced me to stay. It was stupid to do otherwise in
2005. Lots of people were already losing jobs down here in the lower sec—
tor. The rest of the country hadn’t been sucker punched yet. The bad
news hadn’t trickled up, but it would. Cheryl would’ve pointed all this
out, and I would’ve agreed, ripped up the ticket, and taken my duffel bag
home at the end of the shift. But I wanted to make up my own mind
about this, so my cleaning took on a meditative silence. The only sounds
I heard as I wiped down her computer screen were the growling winds outside her ofﬁce window.
The outdoor crew worked on the other side of the glass, shoveling in the storm. I knew the guys who were doing it, and I sympathized. The
snow had been up to my shins when I came in at eight, and it hadn’t let up for an hour.
I washed windows, emptied trash, dust mopped and wet mopped the Trailways area, and all the while I wondered what to do when the clock
struck noon. The bus wasn’t actually leaving until twelve twenty—ﬁve, but where’s the poetry in that?
By eleven I’d done as much in three hours as I would’ve stretched to ...
View Full Document
- Fall '08