Issue #153 : The Lessons We’re Taught
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Samantha slammed the grading book down on the desk and glared up at the clock which was still content to carry on ticking by the seconds, regardless of how much more work she still needed to finish. It looked like it was going to be another night of calling ahead. “Don’t bother waiting, I’ll grab dinner on the way home.”
And all of this in the wake of rumblings about more department cutbacks. As if they weren’t stretched thin enough as it was. She had already broken down and started buying her own office supplies. Better to hang the expense and write it off at tax time than deal with the scrutinizing glare from the cave troll any time she dared to go down to the supply closet for another ream of paper or a dry erase marker.
She looked up at a sudden sound from the hallway, so alien and rare that she almost didn’t recognize it. After several perplexed moments, she finally realized that it was the tell-tale squeaking from the wheels of a mop bucket.
A tall, lanky man strolled in through the doorway, the crisp fabric of his light blue janitorial uniform almost glowing in the low light of the room.
“Oh!” Samantha sat up straighter in her chair. She found herself struggling to come up with something to say and felt her cheeks flushing in the awkwardness of the moment. “Hello. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we had janitorial services here on Wednesdays.”
He smiled and shook his head. “No, you’re not supposed to, that’s the right of it,” he said, his smile easy and relaxed as it lit up the rest of his face. “But I couldn’t rightly let these children suffer the tight pockets of their elders, could I?”
Samantha smiled in spite of herself. She felt the same way but seeing that attitude in others was rare.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself, uh…”
“Sorry Ma’am. Names Randall. Randall Binsworth. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m Samantha.”
“Very nice to meet you. It’s noble work you do here. The least I can do is provide you with a clean school to do it in.”
She felt her cheeks going warm again from the unexpected compliment. “I don’t know about that. All I am is—”
“Ma’am, besides a good preacher or maybe a doctor, I can’t think of anyone more important than you. All those young minds and you get to help shape every single one of them. You get to be the hands in the clay.”
“Well, I guess I never thought about it that way. But you know there are far more important subjects out there. I wouldn’t put myself next to them”
Randall leaned the handle of the mop against the door frame. “Ma’am, would you mind terribly if I sat down for a moment?”
She felt embarrassed that he felt the need to ask her permission. “No, of course not. And please call me Samantha.”
He grinned, as if she had suggested he could drink sand. “Of course, Ma’am. Can I say something to you? Would that be all right?”
“Yes, please.”
“Subject don’t matter. Nope, it don’t matter if you’re teaching ‘em how to fix a car or flip an egg or split the atom or write a haiku. You’re giving ‘em the model. You’re showing ‘em what it looks like to be a good person. That’s what they need, more than the rest.” He waved a hand through the air as if shooing away an insect. “All that, they can right well figure out on their own.”
Samantha nodded. “I suppose that’s true.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
He smiled again, a huge toothy grin that she couldn’t help but returning. “I can see. I know. You’d just as soon take anything else except a compliment for yourself, wouldn’t you”
She laughed, but looked away briefly before shrugging and nodding.
“Everyone in your class is paying so much attention to how you do the things you do. Hardly anyone at that age ever thinks about the kind of person they’ll be when they get the things they want. More people need that kind of an education.”
“But you don’t even know me. How do you know that’s the kind of person I am?”
“I know, ma’am. Same way you can tell the inherent goodness in anyone. You just know.” He moved to stand back up. “Now, I think one of those other rooms is going to need some attention before the old dust mites start forming a chorus line.”
Samantha shook her head to clear it. “You know, I can get out of your way so you can work. I can take all of this home.”
He waved her offer off. “Don’t make no difference. I’m going to be here either the way. Do your work and I can tidy up after you go.”
Taking in a revitalizing breath, she smiled. A more genuine smile than she had felt in some time. “Thank you for that, Mr. Binsworth.”
He stopped short, halfway out the door, looking offended. “Ma’am, I told you my name is—”
Samantha put out a mocking finger. “If it’s good enough for you…”
He paused and then grinned, letting out a laugh that filled the room. “Cooked my goose in my own pan, didn’t you? Have a wonderful evening then, ma’am.”
Samantha watched him go and somehow the frustration she had just felt ten minutes ago seemed to have gone completely.
The next day, she still felt the high from the previous night and the brief conversation. It was as if she had taken the most potent energy drink and multiplied it by a hundred. She had debated the idea with herself all night but had decided in that moment that she would reach out to Randall Binsworth. Even though he would likely reject any gesture, she wanted to at least try and show her gratitude.
Before trying to call the company directly, she went to Google. His employers might not be able to give out any information and she hated to think that they might get the wrong impression, that she was calling to complain about him, especially if he had been coming in on his own without being scheduled.
His name was unique enough that the article was at the top of the list. Just reading the link brought her to her seat, knees unable to keep her standing. She opened the article to make sure, immediately recognizing the picture and the uniform. But it couldn’t be possible. It had to be a mistake, couldn’t have happened.
Could it?
Her hands trembled as she closed the browser, feeling her breath go short as Randall Binsworth’s obituary blinked off of the screen.
There was no point if asking if it could be possible. She wasn’t crazy so clearly it had to be possible. For whatever reason, he had reached across from wherever he now was. Why had he chosen her? What had she done to deserve it?
She could almost hear his voice. There weren’t any answers. That she had enough inherent goodness to ask the question in the first place should be all the answer she needed. The job, her calling, that was what mattered. That was what she needed to focus on. So the work was hard and thankless and unsupported. It was also what she was supposed to be doing. That much had never been so clear.
And who knew what might happen. Maybe on another late night, she would get the chance to meet her friend again and thank him properly.
Even though he would likely reject it.
It was the least, and the most she could do.
And that made it perfect.
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