Call it the Beginning

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Stalwart, Red Giant

Fluorescent lighting is something most never get use to. Colleagues and coworkers alike will complain that it comes at you in waves and never seems to let up, and too much of it will even decrease work morale. Seasonal depression is more than most will admit they have I’m sure. They will quit. The Bobs, the Lindas, or the Harolds even, they will walk out on the spot or lose focus and get fired. The easily aggravated will be goaded into volatile situations that most people would laugh at. I, myself, find that it can be relaxing as long you don’t lose sight on the tasks at hand. Sure, I like good old fashioned American sunlight, but every now and then I marvel at flourescent lighting’s soft touch. Its generic glow.

I catch myself staring out of this two story window often. I catch a glimpse of my reflection and it’s just as much of let down as the morning. Wrinkled work shirt paired with knock off work pants that I don’t mind staining with bleach. My dark brown hair is a mess but past all that is a city that can captivate. It’s as familiar as any large city I suppose. The way people move in their cars hurried and worried leaves some to question that. There’s not enough time in the day for a place like this. Too much to do and everyone is squeezing water out of a rock just to make deadlines, appointments, birthday parties, and wasted happy hours. I just want to go home honestly. I do grab a drink with a past work friend from time to time. I’m not a complete homebody. It’s just that I try not to concern myself with the hustle and bustle. The to and fro activities keep me nervous like a kid past curfew. Nine times out of ten you can catch me working or at home, but every now and then just maybe you’ll catch me throwing back cheap liquor and laughing at anything that moves. That’s me, Elliot Cavinough, social embarrassment. Invite me into your clique, please.

The forever humming of this vacuum is my only friend when I work the late shift. Entrancing me into a mental state I’m still unsure of. The feeling of remaining calm and having the right to remain silent or I’ve eaten the bad acid. On that note, a sudden crunch. Rolling over a random paper clip snaps me out of the hellish astral projection just before my mind wanders too far into the danger zone. These god damn night shifts are endless I’ll admit, I do miss the social interactions from working days. People act as if I’m not there sometimes as I collect trash, or ignore me while I’m cleaning the urinal when directly adjacent is a man clearing his throat, straightening out his news paper, and pushing fresh brown into my next cleaning assignment. At the end of the day I usually always get a, “Hello Elliot, how are you” or “Hey Elliot, you missed a spot”. Usually from the secretaries and assistants. That’s honestly better than nothing, though they are one step above me which isn’t saying much. Maybe they stay in my good graces so if they get fired they have an inside connect to the office cleaning business. Nobodies saying hello to Nobodies, a whisper has more to offer from higher ups I can imagine.

Just about now you’re asking yourself,”Who want’s to clean buildings for a living? Why make a job change when you’re 32?” My only guess is stress in these often troubled times I find myself in. The mind I’ve come to call home is not the one I remember wanting when I was younger. It’s not akin to the daily grind or the misery most may go through. My work needs to be mindless in that regard, monotonous. Nothing could be more marvelous for me because when I’m cleaning sinks I’m free to put my mind at ease and there’s something in manual labor that most can’t see. It’s physically taxing, yes. The body adapts though and muscles have been inoculated so there’s only routine muscle memory to be learned. I turn on the autopilot and let my brain think about the past, present, and future. I can go anywhere into my past to recall the mistakes I’ve made. Fix them if I like, make them even worse if I so chose. It’s a fantasy to fix your mistakes after the fact as if you didn’t know. This isn’t me being delusional let me assure you, I typically like to reach a level of perfection in my social awareness with those around me. I want to have emotional intelligence past the point of normal where I can read the faces of others and act accordingly. Like a magic eye picture. The longer you stare and study the more the person may change. And let me assure you making mistakes is not something taken lightly for me. I’ll destroy my insides at a slight slip up.

I’m off base again, focus. Offices, bathrooms, kitchen, and then stairs. I have it down to a science. Floors so clean you wouldn’t mind if your child started eating off them. White glove my work if you remain a nonbeliever, I dare you. I’m good at what I do and to top it all off I get paid jack shit. It’s not about money seeing as how I have money everywhere. No shortages when you’re from one of the wealthiest families up north. No easy way to say it I guess. I’m either too modest if I don’t mention it or too arrogant if I do decide to name drop. So go ahead and part the seas for the Cavinoughs. We wouldn’t touch a thing unless it was one-of-kind. Designer everything, adorned in anything we wished. We had the whole world and still we were looking for another to own. We wiped our asses with silk made from sweat shops in Tijuana. You could feel the tears crimsoning your bottom. On that note, We’re horrible people, that’s just fact of the matter. It’s something out of a made for TV movie. That’s why I’m hopping face first into urinals scrubbing away. That’s mainly why I’m fisting toilet bowls. I’ll have no part of the wanton misuse of money. When my brother stuffed a twenty in the mouth of a valet I lost it. That was the day I left everything. I applied at Mitchell’s Cleaning Crew in the greater downtown area and here I am now. I’m employee of the month. I take pride in my work. I am the champion beast you all wish to be in your work. I’m the blue collar dispot you all can’t understand.

Focus. Hauling this trash to the dumpster is the worse. Kind of like when you carry the groceries into your house. You don’t want to make two trips. I unpack my kung-fu grip and shove off from the safe confines of the office awning. My arms buckle, knees shake, I curse into the night,and with one last ounce of energy I throw it all into the dumpster. Success in the worst of ways.

“Hey chief, spare a dollar.”

His voice is raspy and the smell is just as bad.

Oh my god, this homeless guy. Night after night this guy walks by and asks me for money. Like clockwork he knows my schedule and always knows, for some reason he knows, I’ll hand out money hand over fist. Never wants to know my name. Never thinks to talk to me about anything but a dollar. What does he do with them? Spends them on cheap liquor. Crack. Meth. The last thing I’d ever think is food. You know, the stuff you need.

“I’m Elliot,” I say and catch him off guard.

“Huh?”

“I’m Elliot, and you ask me for a dollar at least once a week. I at least thought you should know who your benefactor is.”

“Oh, right. Uh, name’s Frank. Good to meet ya. Well listen man, my brother is in the hospital and I’m just trying to get back home so I can see him. He’s in rough shape, so anything you could spare would be great.”

The biggest load of bullshit has just been spilled onto my feet. I can’t let this stand as I’m in a rare mood to be chatty with someone who can’t even care about his own life, let alone mine. I follow up with,

“Look, I know you just need the money. You don’t have to lie. I’m not a tourist and I usually always spare something. So what’s it for?”

“Look man, I told you it was for my bro-”

I cut him off mid sentence, “Liquor, right? Drugs? Beer!? Are you trying to talk miss Sally what’s-her-face into at least looking at your dick!? What do you need?”

“Just some beer...I guess. Just some beer. It’s getting cold, brother and it would be nice to have something warm in your gut.”

“Finally,” I pronounce. I reach into my wallet and hand him a fifty. “Spend it accordingly, but from now on if you see me my name is Elliot. Not man, and you can save that brother story for the tourists.”

He wanders off half amazed and giving me a look of thanks but no thanks. The homeless think they’re so clever. They make these games and ploys to get you to take your wallet out and give them anything. I understand they need it. They’ve been dealt a rough hand and all and by all accounts they’ve maybe even reached too far and exceeded their grasp. I get it though, people. I’ve never grasped for anything. Never have I been in the position of risking it all. I was just born into something I couldn’t stand. Something they wish they had everyday. It’s ironic