He sits still at his desk, listening for the catch on the door a story beneath his feet. It’s easy enough to hear when the building is empty; almost like a cough coming through the double-wide stairwell, the bound books, the old wood.
The boy has left. Took his time, shouldn’t take that long. No one else inside now — the janitor, maybe? Other side of the building today, Rita’s class.
He’s been staring at a smear of ink. Doesn’t move for letting his eyes drift around the clutter. So much paper: letters, textbooks, a notebook or two left behind. And the essays to read and the tests to grade. Looks at the desks in front, each a quarter the size of his own — two perfect columns, thin little legs slanted just so. He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes. All the little legs are gone in the blur, now they’re a frozen formation of clouds, hollowed-out clouds of wood. Frozen in drift towards him.
Glasses on. Stupid. Just desks.
“It’s stupid,” he says out loud. A little too loud. Stupid to say anything out loud now. That kind of drift, that’s for the stupid, stupid boy. Always looking out the window. Even when he’s looking at his work he’s just looking through it as often as not. I see him, I see the way his eyes get wide when he does that. Never can look at what’s right in front of him. Should move his desk to the back.
But no. He has to be here, up front.
Looking at his own clutter again. Passive disgust at letting himself get so disorganized, so unfocused. The sun dull off the silver of his letter opener, the one his father gave him, upright in its stand. Pride of place among the chaos. And all the rest just looks as dirty and out of place as they are next to this one little thing that is perfect wherever it is.
He starts to move the papers but only now notices how sore his wrist is. He looks at his hand, moves it up and down like a hinge, trying to work the ache out of it. Still not so bad that he can’t do some collating. Get something done. The grading can wait a day; it’s the weekend. Shouldn’t have pressed so hard on the wall like that.
Still, got to get things done.
He looks at the wall. Hasn’t looked at the spot till now since the boy left. A smudge there. Would the janitor think anything of it once he got up here? Why should he? Why should anyone think about anything that happens in here?
He looks off through the window at the sycamores. Minutes, maybe? So quiet and so much to do and — minutes? Or just a few moments?
Just a few moments.
He looks at the smudge again.
He looks through his desk drawers for something — a handkerchief, a napkin. Nothing. How the fuck does he not have some kind of cloth around? With all the damn kids? That bit of ink, it’s worked into the wood, that’s never gonna come off.
He looks at the smudge again.
He lets out an angry sigh and half-slams his chair back against the wall as he stands up. Walks over to the spot and gets down on his knees to get to the smudge. It’s ink; the boy must’ve had some on his hands when he pressed into the wall here. Always a little sloppy.
Wonder if his wrists are hurting right now like this. Must be halfway home by now. Can’t you just see him. Sitting there flapping his wrists up and down like broken hinges. And they’re so small, you could just grab them and snap them right off their hinges. But he’s such a mess with his hands, what would you want with his hands?
He wipes the little smudge of ink with his sleeve but this only spreads it out a bit. Snorts angrily, spits into the tip of his sleeve and works at it, digs in with the pressure of his fingernail through the fabric.
Finally it’s gone. Most of it; a little trace left. But there’s so many little marks on the walls and the floor if you look for them. Or really if you know that they’re there. The coming and the going and the whole buildup of the movement and the chaos when they’re piling in and rushing back out. And you see all the marks that get left in place. All the little marks and things that build up and nothing can get them out completely. All the janitor can do is wear them down. Wear them down fainter into the wood and the plaster and the linoleum. So hard to get a mark in them, so much harder to get them out.
He stands up, looks at his sleeve. And now there’s ink on this too. Gets everywhere. Should be going home anyway and get all these in the wash. Get these pants and get the — get all these clothes in the wash.
He gathers up the papers and packs up. Drifts across the clutter of the desk again. But leave it. The mess will keep.
And he leaves and pulls the door to but it doesn’t close completely. It hasn’t for a long time, it keeps getting stuck on something. The janitor can get it to close but sooner or later it worries open again. Makes a stupid noise when it comes to as well.
All the little noises of this place seem so loud here in the room when the rest of the building is empty. Even with people though, what was it one of those mothers said? She said there’s something about this room that makes you want to keep quiet. — I just wish the kids felt that way, ha ha.
But they do keep quiet. They’re a quiet group, even him. Like that about him. Glad today that he was so quiet. It’s just the way the sounds carry through the old wood of this place. Listen if you can to anyone talking in another room, it’s like coughing.
He tugs at the door again forgetting again and wishing he could get it to close by himself just this once.
March 2010