Sliding Home

(I haven’t written much for months as I’ve been traveling with Pippa, the boys, friends, fishing, sailing and starting classes again. This one is a bit namby bamby but I want to get back into the spirit. I doubt most readers will recognize the names I use but they all stem from my past.)

Charlie O’Brien thought he heard the bell ring, although these days he could never be 100% sure. His hearing, which hadn’t been great to start with, wasn’t very good anymore.  If indeed it was the bell, it would mean it was 3:00 p.m. Not that it mattered. He had an internal clock that ticked away in very accurate time, a talent he had gained over the last several decades. His ears may have missed the bell, but that internal clock told him school was out.

He went to his janitor’s closet, his inner sanctum, and extracted the waxing machine from its spot. The thing had been in that closet of his almost since the day he’d started this job and it still worked like a charm. It was a heavy old aluminum buffer and the old gal could still polish up a mirror finish. He’ replaced the pads on it at least 30 times. They were made of wool in the old days, lasting longer and buffing better than the new ones, which were probably made from some hifalutin stuff and came in colors that made his eyes water. Those colors turned to a shiny grey once the wax went on and buffing got started; it showed they were doing their job.  

He loved the way the machine would slide across the linoleum floor and bring a glow to the dull sheen after the kids had scrambled over it. The routine was to buff them everything once a week but one hallway got it every day. He liked routines. Over the years, people from various school committees that had passed through the halls of his school. If someone saw him tinkering with the waxer, they’d ask if he needed a new machine. Charlie would look up from his reflection in the floor. No, he would say, this old one worked fine; always had, always would.

 It was the grips he grew to really love. When the machine hummed those grips vibrated enough to give his hands a massage and, he was sure, tingle away the occasional numbness from the arthritic pain. If they ever forced a new on one him, he was determined to take this one to his home even though he had no use for it there. Maybe he’d just let it vibrate in his hands. He’d had his hands massaged that winter in Belgium. It was in some basement that passed for an army hospital from an angel who passed as an army nurse. She didn’t speak much English, and Charlie didn’t speak more than a few words of French, and he never did get her name. But he’d fallen in love with her, especially her smile.

He was reminded of that smile every morning. In his wallet was crinkled photo of her, a in her nurse’s outfit, probably when she got out of school she was so young. That smile was there with some French words on the back Charlie never did understand and didn’t dare to. He wanted to think she’d given it to him because she liked him and that the words said something like “to my love.”  He did recognize ‘mon cheri’ and a smudge after that he hoped was his name.  Tears caused the smudge, he imagined. She’d gotten two packs of cigarettes from him the day she gave him that photo.    Every morning when he looked at her face he worried if it was nothing more than a trade.  And if it was he thought he’d got the better deal; a lifetime of ‘maybe.’

Charlie kept all that a secret.  And anyway, whom would he tell?    

A few kids, not many, always stayed late after school because their parents wouldn’t be home. A couple of them only had the one parent. A teacher would get paid a bit extra to watch over them in a classroom. It was usually the same group of kids. They got along, behaved nicely, and got a jump on their homework. These were young kids, elementary school, meaning lots of energy, and it bothered Charlie that they were cooped up when they should’ve been out playing. Heck, thought, Charlie, they could see kids playing kickball just outside. He felt bad for those kids left behind.

Which was why, first thing, after three everyday, he waxed the floor outside that particular classroom, even when it didn’t need any waxing. His kids would stand inside the doorway, watching as he talked to himself and moved the humming machine back and forth down the hall. Right as he turned the corner at the end of the hallways, he’d signal the children with a thumbs-up. They’d already have their shoes off, boys and girls both,. They’d run halfway down the hallway to locker number 122 before sliding as far as they could. The furthest anyone ever slid was to locker number 156, a record set in 1958. Once, every few years, Charlie would paint those lockers in a dull institutional green, everyone except for 122. That one he painted orange to mark the starting line. He then put a star sticker on 156 to mark the record held by Ross “Gasser” Gassior. Hundreds of kids over the years had tried and failed at beating the record. None had made it past 148.

Charlie played the role of the official for this after-school challenge. He’d stand at the end hallway, making sure the kids started at locker 122 and determining where they stopped; someone was always trying to eke out a few more inches to get to the next locker. That was, at least, what the kids thought Charlie was doing. In reality, Charlie was there to make sure no one got hurt if they slipped. The teacher, who was, in theory, supposed to oversee the after-school program might get in trouble for letting them out of her out of her sight.  

He remembered back to when it started. A Miss Faucett was the teacher. He’d forgotten her first name, if he ever knew it, a first-year teacher of the third grade. She was nice to him, not condescending, always asking about his day. She called him Mister, formal, but respectful. She reminded him of that Belgian nurse. Charlie took a liking to her, but offered little more than smile in return. The little more was brushing the snow off her car when the weather demanded it and throwing some sand under the tires so she could get out.  Later, he did that for all the teachers, but it started with Miss Faucett.

Those smiles stayed with him even after he watched one afternoon as a man, younger than him and without a limp, picked her up in a green sports car, a Triumph TR2. The man had a grey tweed jacket, an Ivy League crew cut, and pearly white teeth behind an assessing smile, which he somehow managed while biting on an unlit briar pipe. Charlie’s eyes fixed on the thick silver ring on the pipe’s stem. The man jumped out of the car to give her a big hug and kiss—inappropriate around the school, Charlie thought.

She wouldn’t be interested in a guy like him, who walked funny, didn’t have much of a job, rarely had much to say anyway. Also he had that hearing issue, a result of the explosion that hit his leg. Earned him a Purple Heart and got him on a ship back home. This is the sob story Charlie told himself whenever he took a fancy to a new teacher, or most other women he rarely had a chance to meet. He was just Charlie, the school janitor.

“Charlie, do you have a moment?”

It was the principal, Mister Barrone, the new guy, who’d only been at the school a few months. He took the helm from Waldo Weatherbee, the man who’d hired Charlie way back when. Charlie liked Weatherbee. He almost got as much of a kick out of his name, a name he shared with the Principal in the Archie comics, as the kids did.

Weatherbee was also fond of Charlie. He’d taken off a couple of years to serve, like Charlie, and also got hurt in his leg. “Well, Mister Charlie, I’ll hire you and you know why?” That’s what he asked when Charlie applied for the job. “I’ll tell you why, young man. Because if I have to chase you down for something you won’t outrun me!” Weatherbee’s belly, which had already started to expand, jiggled with his deep laugh.

His esteem for Weatherbee grew from then on but surged one day when an old prune of a teacher, Florence Bragdon, had sent an eight-year old boy crying to the principal’s office with a rolled up copy of an Archie she had whacked across his face with when the little boy starting giggling over the name Waldo Weatherbee.

Weatherbee was walking down the hall just as the boy was walking to him. “Now, son,” said Weatherbee. “What can all these tears be about? What can possibly be so bad? I can’t imagine anything.”

The little one stammered about the comic and how he’d laughed over the name Waldo Weatherbee. “Hmm,” said Weatherbee to the boy. “That doesn’t seem like a federal crime to me. Did you actually read the comic?”

The boy nodded his teary face in a guilty yes.

“Well, that’s good. It’s good you’re reading. Between you and me, I thought they stole that name from me. I probably should try and get them to pay for using it. What do you think?”

The little boy smiled and said that seemed about fair.

Weatherbee walked the boy back into the classroom and dragged Mrs. Florence Bragdon out. “Flo, honestly, it’s just a comic and an amazing coincidence to boot. Let it be. In fact, I’ll just go and tell the kids I’m not THAT Waldo Weatherbee even if we do look somewhat alike.”

Bragdon’s lips stiffened as Weatherbee entered the classroom, and you could almost hear her jaw cracking from the way she gritted her teeth when the class started laughing. Bragdon forced a smile, adjusted her hair, and feigned a laugh when she went back in.

Charlie watched the whole episode. Bragdon retired after that year.

The new principal, Barrone, smiled a lot. He would walk around the school, smiling at the kids, usually saying, “hi kiddo!” or some variation. He said it to the teachers, too. “Hi, Miss,” or “Hi, buddy,” or “Hi, pal.” If a member of the school board or a parent came around, Barrone knew their actual names readily enough. He’d take their hand in both of his and shake as if he was trying to take their arm off. Then he’d whisper, the smile replaced by an intense look of interest, and walk them to whatever destination he had in mind. If Charlie ever heard him call a teacher by their name, he didn’t know about it but then Charlie’s hearing wasn’t so very good. Maybe he’d just missed that, but he doubted it.

“How’s it going Charlie?” That was the first time Barrone had ever addressed him by any name. It was always like “hey Buddy, do this” or “Pal, there’s a leak in the girl’s bathroom Did you see it?”  Charlie was pretty sure Barrone didn’t know his name.  He certainly didn’t know Charli.  If he had he wouldn’t have asked if Charlie knew about a leak in any bathroom.

“No complaints. Everything’s working, you know.”

“Ah, that’s a good thing at your age, I bet!”

“I mean the school. Equipment and such. Everything’s good. I might have to change some of the tiles in 132. The art room. But I got those. This weekend I’ll get to it.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

Barrone leaned back in his chair, a new one he’d ordered and that Charlie had put together. It was what they called Danish Modern, chrome and black leather and able to adjust so you could do what Barrone was doing just then, leaning way back. The older chair that Weatherbee had used for years worked just fine, thought Charlie. He didn’t like the way Barrone could lean all that way, nearly touching the radiator under the window, and looking down his long Roman nose, his foot tapping the edge of the desk. The desk, a birch-colored wooden thing that felt flimsy when Charlie helped carry it in, was also new. It only had a couple of drawers. Weatherbee’s old one had plenty of drawers. A principal needed that space. Charlie wondered where Barrone kept all of his work, all the notes on the kids.

“Charlie, you’ve been here…what…30 years if it’s been a day. I just received a note that you’ve hit retirement age. Past due, in fact. Shit, Charlie, you could have retired years ago!”

“I like what I do.”

“Yes, you do,” said Barrone. “And you are damned good at it.” Charlie didn’t like Barrone swearing—twice so far. A principal shouldn’t speak that way, even if it was a compliment. If that’s what it was.

“But it’s time. You’ve got a nice pension coming. Very nice. And I gather there’s the disability from your time in the service?”

“Yeah, the war.”

“Yes, the war. Why, between the two, you’ll almost make more than me, and I’ve got a Phd!” Barron’s mouth opened with another smile, and he tapped a finger to the side of his nose. Charlie didn’t think it was any of his business.

Charlie wasn’t listening very much after that and he’d stopped looking at Barrone. He fixed his gaze out the window at the kids on the playground, thinking he saw the slide shimmying as they went down. He’d have to cement it at the base, maybe Friday, so it would set over the weekend. Barrone went on looking at the ceiling, at some papers on his desk, that unchanging smile sticking to his face. He’s got good teeth, Charlie, thought, I’ll give him that.

“So we’re all set?”

Barrone was now looking at Charlie, his smile replaced with arching eyebrows and lifted cheeks in what could pass for a smile or a look like he had just caught scent of a dead animal. Charlie smirked at the image. He recalled such a smell years back when a rat had died behind a panel in the school’s library. In fact, he saw similar look on Mr. Weatherbee’s face.

 “Charlie, something smells to high heaven in there,” Weatherbee had said. “Would you mind taking a look? Durned stink of the thing makes the kids want to barf, pardon my French.” After that Charlie put out traps, well out of any child’s reach, and soon the rats were gone. Ike was President then, Charlie remembered.

“Charlie?

“Sorry, Mister Barrone. My mind was elsewhere.”

“It’s a lot to take in. We’ll throw you a party, of course. Next week, just before spring break. I’ll have my gal arrange it. There’s a teacher’s day Wednesday. That work?”

“Wait just a second. You want me out next week? What if I want to stay? That would be okay, right?”

“Charlie, Charlie, it’s time. At your age, you’re past the mandatory. The union is, well, we’ve spoken to the union. They won’t fight it. We checked.”

“I haven’t been to a union meeting, ever, I don’t think. What if I want to stay on?”

“Sorry, Charlie. No can do. They, the union, have some guys they want to bring up. Hell, Charlie. Christ, most people would be thrilled to be in your spot.”

“My spot? I’m getting fired for wanting to do my job.”

“Charlie, you are not getting fired, not in the least. You’re getting retired from the rat race. You beat the rats!”

He’d beaten the rats twenty years ago, maybe 30 years. “We got a rat problem ya think?”

“No, Charlie. It’s an expression.”

“I was being funny.”

  “Oh,” said Barrone who sat back in the chair and laughed too loudly. “Very good, very good.” He got up from the chair, leaned on the desk, which Charlie worried might break it was so flimsy, and offered his hand. “Good luck, Charlie.”

Charlie got up and brushed his hands down his green shirt and pants. “My hands are kind of dirty. Next time maybe.”

“Sure, Charlie. Next time, next time.”

The word was out about Charlie’s retirement. He got some hugs, a handshake or two, and a theatrical kiss on his lips by the school nurse, a voluptuously late middle-aged Miss Fuller who squeezed her phone number into his hand. “Stay in touch. Let’s have dinner. At my place. Soon.” He pocketed the note. A few tears were shed and there were a lot of pats on the back.

“I’m right behind you my man,” said Tom Collins, the gym teacher. “I’ve got a few Carlings on ice. Come by later.” Charlie passed. He didn’t think it was good to drink in the school.

It wasn’t much of a party. Barrone came in, put his arm around Charlie’s shoulder, thanked him for his 30 years—it was closer to 50—and said he had to leave early to go to a board of ed meeting. “We’ll miss you pal,” he said and left in a rush still grinning.

 One by one, the partygoers left, as well, careful to put paper plates in the garbage bin. Some offered to help clean up, but that was Charlie’s job, as he made it clear. After he shut the lights off, he went to his closet and put fresh wax on the buffer for a final shining. He wished he’d put in for a new one so he could take the old bird home. He went over all the floors, proud of this sheen, and then did it again. He was going to write a note for the new guy telling him to wax the floors first thing so the kids could skim on it but figured it wasn’t his place. The union would tell the guy what to do.

He put the buffer away, wrote out labels for the bundle of keys, and left them on his chair for the new guy. He wrote down his phone number, too, with a note, “Call me if you have any questions. Charlie.”

Charlie wanted to be sadder than he was. He looked up and down the halls, thinking about kids come and gone, teachers he’d known, not sure what he was feeling but sure it wasn’t just sadness. It was the hall, the tiles, and the wax smell of the buffing job he’d just done and done again. The school would miss him. This very hall would miss him. And he’d miss it, too. He stared down the main hall, admiring the double waxing job and the especially bright shine it gave off, that he’d given it, for the final time. The new guy wouldn’t do it twice. Union rules. That idea made him sad, sadder than he’d been feeling. He felt bad for the floors; his shiny floors.

There was a desk outside the after-school room with an old chair by it, one that was supposed to used by the teacher who was on monitoring duty, though, these days, it mostly sat empty. In fact, he couldn’t remember anyone ever sitting in it. Maybe it was loose. Some of these old wooden seats could splinter, too. He didn’t want to leave it that way.

He jiggled the chair about. It was solid enough. The seat was worn, but hardly threatening to puncture a teacher’s rear end. The desk was clean, too. He’d dusted it just a week before. He sat down trying to figure out if there was a problem, why no one ever sat there. Then he remembered: the chair was there for the kids, the after-school crowd. The only ones to use the desk these days were those kids. He smiled seeing that and at his increasing forgetfulness.

He looked down the hall again, at his work, and with his left toe took the right shoe off and then took the left shoe off revealing white socks that were almost blinding against the gleaming brown linoleum floor. He rubbed one foot against a smudge he hadn’t noticed until the spot glowed again. He walked around, seeking more smudges but finding none. It had been a good job and a long day.

Charlie put a hand against one of the lockers, admiring his work, and felt his finger on a slightly protruding edge of the little metal label. With his fingernail he pushed the edge back down; a kid might cut himself. The number on the label was 122. Charlie shook his head with a smile. Locker 122. Then he did something he’d never ever done in all his years. He walked back to the start of the hall and tore off fast as he could, almost hearing high-pitched squeals behind. When he reached the orange locker, 122, he slid and slid and slid, not stopping until he got to locker 162 for a new school record and a fitting end for Charlie O’Brien.