Mark, the janitor

This piece is about Mark, who used to be the janitor of the fifth floor of the engineering building at Arizona State University. I worked at a lab there for six years, and Mark was the janitor for more than four of those years.

Mark was a constant presence in the hallways and restrooms every weekday from four in the afternoon. Most times you just heard his presence: the clink of his thick bunch of keys; the rumble of the large trash-can-on-wheels; a pause; a knock on an office or lab door; the emptying of trash; and then clink and rumble again before the next pause. And at times you heard an insistent squeak in the hallway – that was Mark using his sneakers to erase a smear off the linoleum floor.

Mark was probably in his early sixties. He was balding, but had a thin ponytail. Most days, he wore a light gray shirt, blue jeans, and glasses. He had a gray-white beard, and an intense, withering gaze. His movements were short and abrupt.

He took his work very seriously and did it well. He worked with such verve that the offices, labs, and hallways of our level might well have been a cherished, sacred space to be meticulously guarded and maintained. He would stand and stare at a blemish on the floor as if it were a personal affront. With a look of annoyance and a few mumbled words, he would angrily set about effacing it. I remember how my friends and I had once played a makeshift version of cricket in the lab (with a squishy ball, and a notebook serving as a bat) and left scattered imprints of our soles with our frantic running. Mark noticed these imprints later that afternoon; he was puzzled and looked long and hard and intensely at them. I did not feel like playing anymore.

I wasn’t the only one mindful of Mark and his moods. Others – students, staff and professors – were keen as well on ensuring they cooperated with him. Mark chatted with with only a few of the faculty and students. He was closest to Dan Riviera, a professor who worked late, and with whom he developed a lasting friendship. I heard them talking often when I stepped into the hallway: Dan, leaning against his office door, and Mark with his mop or trash can; or just-arrived Mark still with his cap on and with his dinner in a blue and white box.

___

I too wanted to talk to him and be friends. But I never managed to. There were a lot of hellos but I never went beyond the preliminaries. I was nervous, and there was a reason for it.

Mark once put up a notice on our lab door requesting everyone to leave by 5 pm. He was going to wax the floor and clean the room; it would take him all of that evening. He came in at the appointed time and announced to those of us still working that we had to leave. So we packed our bags and left but I went back in a minute later.

“I need to get a textbook for the evening,” I told him.

“Get out of here!” he said.

I thought he was just joking, so I smiled sheepishly and continued to stand in the middle of the room, though hesitantly.

“Don’t screw with me,” he said, his rage now plain. “Get the f*** out of here!”

He was carrying a long wooden pole with a brush at one end for cleaning the ceiling. It looked like a weapon to me then. I left in a hurry, shaken, my knees weak and wobbly. I wondered if he would always remember me from that incident. I tried to avoid him for the next few weeks, looking down so as to conceal my face whenever I passed him, and scurrying away from him. But I don’t think he recognized me or really cared. Mark was just sincere about his work; he abhorred interruptions and I had interrupted his work – it was the interruption he had yelled at, not me. It was a feature of Mark’s work: anyone who upset his work was at the receiving end of his ire.

On another occasion, I came across a section of the floor that he had just mopped with great effort. I had to walk through that portion; there was no other way I could have gone. I walked on my toes, and after I crossed I looked at him apologetically.

He sighed and held his mop in disappointment – it was his obsession with perfection again. I shrugged uncertainly and left. There was nothing I could have done.

___

I did not know anything about his personal life. There were only glimpses. He didn't come to work one day. I wouldn’t have noticed, but he came to our lab the next day (presumably, he went to other labs and offices too) and said with great earnestness, “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come yesterday. My little dog wasn’t feeling well.”

And on November 02 2004, Election Day, I thought I could talk to him about politics and elections, and start a conversation that way.

“Have you already voted, Mark?” I asked.

“No, I am not a registered voter,” he said, smiling.

I hadn’t expected this response – for some reason, it threw me off and I and couldn’t go further. Besides he was busy.

But I did know that his health wasn’t good. He looked exhausted most of the time. I saw him once next to the sink in the hallway, holding on to the ledge of the sink for support, his head bowed. At other times, he seemed to just will himself on despite his fatigue. I learned later that he was epileptic and had diabetes. He had suffered a collapse once in the hallway. And it was his health that eventually put an end to his work. When he stopped coming for his janitorial duties, I asked Dan Riviera what had happened. He told me Mark had had an amputation because of health complications, and had claimed for disability.

___

I last saw Mark in the loading area behind the building a few months later. He was using crutches and walking weakly. I stopped and said hello. His face lit up when he saw me and said: “Hey, how are you?” I was surprised because I’d never felt that he knew me or could recognize me. I told him I was doing well. But as before, our conversation did not go further – this time I was afraid the topic of his health would come up. I wish now I’d talked more. For apart from his fierce, uncompromising work ethic, which I'd seen and experienced firsthand, there isn’t much I know about Mark.