The Janitor
By: Stamatis Kakleas
“Sweeping floors isn’t rocket science” he thought, as he flipped through job postings in his local newspaper. It was an advertisement was for a full-time position as a janitor at well-known museum in New York City near central park. He was in his early twenties and hadn’t made the best decisions through his life; it was time to get his act together. Growing up he didn’t have that source of inspiration like others seemed to have in their everyday lives. It didn’t necessarily bother him, but without anything to motivate him, he didn’t have that essential “need” to move forward – he wasn’t driven. He’d always dreamt of finding something that inspired him; but for now he just needed a paying job. “Seems legit” he said to himself; so he called to inquire about the position. After the manager of the museum told him more about the role he decided he would give it a try. He was a “clean freak” and a bit of a perfectionist, so keeping a museum clean would practically be second nature to him. “See you tomorrow.” said the manager of the museum to him and he hung up the phone. He paused to contemplate for a moment if this was a good decision. He was applying to be a janitor after all, not the kind of work you would brag about to all your friends and family.
He headed to the museum for his first day. He was nervous when he walked through the main corridor; the museum was flooded with beautiful works of art but he paid little attention to them. The artwork was of no interest to him, he never understood why people would pay outrageous sums of money for paintings; there was “nothing really special about them anyway” he thought. He admired the hard work and talent required to produce a piece of art but he was there to clean, not to observe artwork. In his opinion, it was the patrons of the museum that were the people paying to be there, not the employees.
His first day was just a basic introduction to the museum’s policies and processes and he simply shadowed one of the other janitors during their shift. He was anxious to get started but they didn’t let him get his hands dirty immediately. After two or three days of hands-on training, he was ready to go. Within a few weeks, the person who trained him had left and by his third month he was one of the few janitors left. Without enough time to season properly, he had to assume more shifts and more responsibilities. Even though he hadn’t been there for long and the museum was still somewhat of a maze to him, he tended to his duties immaculately. There wasn’t a speck of dust, fingerprint, or stray piece of garbage to be found anywhere in the museum. A true perfectionist and master in the art of cleaning. He took much pride in his work. All the showcases were always remarkably clear, the floors flawlessly swept, and a single grain never in sight. He was an artist in his very own way.
His art was never admired in the same manner that all of the other works of art were in the museum. Ironically, his “artwork” affected each piece of art in the museum yet he never received any of the glory for it. The museum’s visitors weren’t aware of the fact that without him all the exhibits wouldn’t have been nearly as elegant or appealing as they were without his daily work. He was their caretaker; it was his job to make sure they were in pristine condition and nothing could pose as a potential distraction to the passing observers of these exhibits.
After a few months, the museum finally became a place he liked to call home. The layout of the museum was as familiar as the back of his hand; he could make his way through it backwards and blindfolded. He knew which areas accumulated the most waste, which exhibits collected the most fingerprints, and where to go if he needed a moment to himself. His managers thanked him for his work from time to time, his coworkers felt more like friends than colleagues, and he enjoyed watching all of the spectators that visited the museum on a daily basis. Even though working at the museum was interesting, something was still missing. He pursued perfection in his work but never quite found it; as if there was a void inside him that needed to be filled. Each day he worked harder, hoping someone would notice, but eventually even the compliments of his colleagues and superiors weren’t enough. He was seeking something “more”, something that even he had no understanding or insight as to what it was. He had been working hard, maybe over-working himself, he thought, so he decided to take a short vacation from work and venture to warmer weather. He was starting to feel bored and a week or two of time off would potentially “recharge his batteries”.
Upon his return to the museum, he noticed that they had changed a few of the exhibits around and things weren’t quite where he had left them. As he walked through the halls he felt a sense of excitement fall over him. It was like an adventure, he felt like he was in a different museum all together. He knew all the exhibits were the same but he looked at them just a little bit differently. He made sure to notice little details he hadn’t before; changing the sequence with which he observed the paintings. Then it happened; he felt it like a rush of new blood shooting straight through his veins. From the moment he turned his head he found himself staring motionless at a painting, tingling with an unfamiliar sensation. He was completely captured by its beauty, mesmerized by its elegance, and frozen in disbelief by its sheer existence. He didn’t know how to react; all he was able do was stare and wonder how this whole time he could’ve missed such a beautiful work of art. It was right under his nose the whole time yet he was oblivious to it until this very moment. He almost felt disappointed that he hadn’t noticed before; it seemed to lift him off of his feet. He couldn’t believe how a painting could make him feel this way. Time froze and his body was in a temporary state of paralysis, he couldn’t blink, he couldn’t speak; he couldn’t even compose a single logical thought. The only thing he could feel at that very instant was the sensation that this work of art brought upon him. A blanket of euphoria had been pulled over him. He felt relieved, he felt motivated, and for the first time in a long time….he felt alive. The dwindling fire within him had just been reignited by this painting. He couldn’t explain it, he couldn’t put it in words, he could only embrace the feeling that it gave him.
“Pretty isn’t she” whispered a co-worker who crept up behind him; snapping him out of his trance. He blushed immediately, turning red like a plum tomato. “Just pretty?” he thought to himself. He felt slightly insulted by the person’s comment but could not say anything because he knew it was of good and harmless intent. So he replied with a simple “yes” and his co-worker moved on with his daily routine. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen” he whispered to himself. It was a painting of a woman resting her head on a window pane. He could only see the vague reflection of her eyes as she stared outward, but even though she was looking out the window, he felt like her reflection was looking directly at him. He quickly approached the painting to read its description.
Untitled.
Artist: Unknown
Origin: Unknown
That was all there was on the painting’s information panel. It was a mystery and for the rest of the day he couldn’t take his mind off it. He couldn’t believe how much beauty could exist in such a simple object. He let the thoughts of this painting stir through him for the rest of the day; embracing every emotion it made him feel. From the moment his eyes connected with it, work was never the same again.
He began arriving to the museum thirty minutes earlier than required just so that he could spend some time to reflect upon the panting in the mornings before any one else arrived. It intrigued him and he couldn’t understand why he felt so attracted to it. It seemed to absorb his gaze, occupy his every thought, and affect his imagination in ways he never thought possible. Even when he wasn’t standing in front of it he would think about it. It gave him a feeling of purpose; it motivated him. Without incentive he worked harder, without request he did more, without even noticing he was becoming a better man.
Each day he spent at the museum he developed a deeper connection with this painting. He would become disappointed in people who failed to acknowledge its beauty, as if they were insulting him. When spectators stood in front of it he felt as if he was the artist himself and they were admiring his work. If anyone came close to touching it he would shout at them or get angry at the disregard people had for the museum’s rules. He felt like it was his obligation to protect it, as if he was its newfound guardian. He felt a sense of belonging when he was in front of it, just standing and staring. Something was missing though, because whenever he approached it, even if he was alone, he felt separated from it. Standing only inches away, he would look down and see nothing but a thin cable on the floor marking the virtual barrier in between him and his painting. There was nothing stopping him, he could have easily brushed the canvas with his fingers to feel the grain and texture of the paint, he could’ve even kissed it if he wanted to, but he knew not to. He knew that the line on the ground meant that touching the painting was not allowed; so he refrained. Even though he admired the painting’s beauty, he knew he had to obey the museum’s rules and that he was forbidden from touching it.
As the weeks rolled on, the museum became so crowded that he didn’t have many opportunities, other than his mornings, to sit with the painting. He wanted to stare at it alone but he couldn’t; his work and the crowds occupied the time he could have spent with it. He wanted more than just a morning; he wanted as much time as possible. It had made all of the other works of art in the museum obsolete, as if it had drained them of their beauty and kept it for itself. All the other paintings were simply colors, layered on a canvas, while this painting, this simple oil-on-canvas, was an essence of his being.
He eventually realized his increasing need to see the painting and had to plot a way to find more time to spend with it. One day, during his break, he overheard a few colleagues talking about how management was in desperate need for someone to take the night shift. They needed someone to wax the floors because the current guy wasn’t doing a good enough job. He became filled with excitement at the thought except there was one problem; he had never waxed a floor before in his life. He wasn’t going to let that stop him though, so he went to his manager to inquire about the night shift.
“Have you ever even waxed a floor before” asked his manager with a slightly condescending laugh. Being the honest person he was he admittedly said “No, but if you give me three days I’ll wax floors better than anyone you’ve ever seen.” Astonished by the janitor’s proposition and curious to see if he was bluffing, the manager decided to give him three days off of work to fulfill his promise; effective immediately. The janitor smiled and walked away. Before he exited the museum he made one final stop to the painting to say his temporary farewell.
For three days he did all the research he possibly could on waxing floors, he never thought it could be such a science. He would sit in his apartment and work through the motions of handling the floor buffer using his laundry hamper and a computer chair. Occasionally he would stop and stare at an empty space on his wall, wishing that the painting was there. He knew that it was impossible for him to ever have the painting entirely to himself but it is perfectly normal for a man to dream.
When he returned to work in three days he showcased his new skills and his manager couldn’t believe it. In less than seventy-two hours he had become impressively skilled without ever having touched an actual waxing machine. It was a few hours past the museum’s closing time and the manager walked over to him and handed him the key. “Please remember to lock up. The alarm will be set once you shut the door behind you.” He felt a slight jolt of adrenaline when his manager placed the key in his hands. He couldn’t exhibit this sense of excitement because the manager would then realize that the janitor had another motive. A simple “Thank you” was all the janitor said and he reassured the manager that his museum was in good hands.
After the manger left for the evening; the janitor went to go and pay a visit to his painting. He spent fifteen minutes with it and decided it was time to get started with his work. “I’ll be back” he said out loud to the painting “I’ve got some work to do;” and he put his headphones on, plugged them into his smart phone, and started his playlist that was primarily composed of new age tango and other tranquil songs. With the soft and rhythmic beats resonating in his ear drums and the vivid vision of the painting in his head, he waxed all the floors in the museum without realizing how much time had passed. It was only the sunrise, creeping up from the east wing, that gave him a warning that it was only a short matter of time before the other employees started arriving to the museum. He quickly finished the rest of his route, stored all the equipment away, and circled back to his painting.
He stared at the painting like he trying to peel off each layer of paint to see what was hiding behind it. “I want to understand you” he said to the painting. “What for?” he imagined it replied; “So I can better understand myself.” He wanted to learn about its origin, how it came to exist, the journey it traveled, what it had witnessed, and what the artist felt when he painted it; all of these questions flowed through him. Why was this painting so much different than all of the others?
Even though he wasn’t always in front of the painting, its image was seared into his memory. He could not go long periods of time without thinking about it. It occupied his every thought and it was out of his control; he was enchanted. He was entirely focused and completely distracted at the same time. He felt more content with his work, more confident in his step, and higher than any substance could help him achieve. Lack of focus was the least of this poor janitor’s concern; he had a real and powerful source of inspiration for the first time in his life. He was motivated to achieve goals he never knew existed within him. He was no longer interested in impressing his superiors or gaining the respect of others. He knew his work was impressive; he did not need the reassurance of another to know that. After all, being a good janitor doesn’t necessarily qualify someone as an elite member of society, but the confidence that this painting invoked on him made him feel like he could conquer the world. He aspired to be a better version of himself. In an extraordinary way, a simple oil-on-canvas brought out the best man in him. It ignited a powerful set of feelings and emotions within him that were once dormant… It burned him with passion.
On some occasions he would talk about the painting with others; family, friends, coworkers, etc. He was curious to see if they found it as beautiful or interesting as he did. “What would they think if I told them I couldn’t stop dreaming about this painting; that it has the power to motivate me?” He didn’t want anyone to question his mental soundness so he kept the majority of his feelings to himself. How was he supposed to tell others that he was falling in love with a painting? He knew that it was impractical and that some people would likely think he was crazy. He was curious if he was the only person who truly appreciated this painting for everything that it was. Some people liked it, some people didn’t, but most of them couldn’t care less. He was the only person that truly admired everything about it, even the minor flaws that are natural occurrences in all paintings.
When it comes to artwork, it is the small cracks in the paint or flaws made by the artist that give a painting personality, character, and substance. Many talented and gifted artists are capable of creating counterfeits or replicas of great works of art, but it is the cracks and small mistakes in the originals that cannot be replicated. The steady passage of time is what gives a timeless work of art its true beauty. This inherently makes each work of art unique by nature and curators look for these small flaws and cracks to determine the true value of a painting.
Some people even went as far to criticize him for admiring such a painting. They rambled about Monet’s, Picasso’s, and Rafael’s, or more modern pieces and how superior they were to this painting. He even reached the point when he actually began to question his interest in it, moments when he thought “maybe they’re right, maybe I have to focus my attention on more popular works of art.” All of the other paintings in the museum just seemed inanimate though. They were pretty, but they lacked substance; they had no depth to them. To him, they were nothing more than an intricate placement of colors on a stretched canvas medium made popular by a small group of society that had no idea what true beauty was. No other work of art had ever given him the feeling of inspiration that this one did, and for this, he became emotionally attached to it.
As time passed, he became more and more enchanted by it and began to lose sight of its role in his life and where he physically was when he was with it; in the museum. The emotions it stirred within him were akin to being obsessed in love, but how could he fall in love with a painting, a material object? He had spent so much time with it that he failed to realize that there was a whole world outside of the bubble he was living in; a bubble where it was just him and his beautiful painting.
One night, as a special occasion, he decided to bring dinner, and some music to share with his painting. After he had finished waxing the floors for the evening, he plated the fancy meal he had prepared, poured himself a glass of wine, and with the sweet sound of the violin playing from his little radio he began to drink and dine in front of his lovely painting. The more he drank, the more he talked to it, out loud, telling it all of his dreams and aspirations; telling it how much it motivated him and how thankful he was for it. As he got more drunk, his gestures and words were filled with even more passion. In his drunkenness, he rambled on and on, and the more he talked to it, the hotter the urge to touch it burned within him.
He approached the painting and raised his hand slowly towards it. With the back of his index finger he gently caressed the canvas and it was as if his senses had just been awakened. It was exhilarating to him, he had never touched it before, and this just amplified his feelings. He was not only intoxicated by the alcohol, but the emotions he felt running through him were also clouding his judgment. He had stopped eating, his bottle ws empty, and he just stared at it, his body slightly wading from left to right. He was deep in thought and was experiencing internal contradiction of whether he should follow the rules and do what’s right, or follow his heart. “I love you” he said to it, and he opened his arms wide, gently curled his fingers around the wooden frame, and leaned in to hug the painting and rest his head on it.
His eyes shot open and his heart stopped instantly and his face became blush red as if he had suddenly been slapped by the firm hand of reality. He knew at that very moment his dream was over; his wonderful fantasy had come to an abrupt and bitter end. The loud piercing sound of the alarms seemed to be everywhere, drowning out the sweet sounds of the violin. He flashed back through every moment he spent in front of the painting, from the day he first witnessed its beauty until now. He knew the police would be there in less than a minute so he simply stood there and stared at his painting one last time. There was an unpleasant feeling sinking within him; as if he had lost something he never truly had. He knew this would be the last time he would ever rest his eyes on it and the most disheartening thing was that he knew precisely why.
The police barged in through the entrance and he just waited there, staring and thanking it for what it showed him, what it had opened his eyes to. And just before the police charged into the room, he saw the woman in the reflection shed a tear, “I love you too” she said to him and he cracked a small smile before he was seized. As the police carried him out of the museum, the expression on his face showed that he learned his lesson, but learned it a little too late. If only he didn’t get carried away, if he didn’t let greed and selfishness distort his reality, things would have never progressed to this bitter end. If he only learned sooner to appreciate what little bit he had, he would’ve been able to keep his painting forever, even if it would never truly be his. Even though he was fully aware that he would never rest his eyes on that beautiful painting ever again, he knew in his heart that he would never forget it and what it did to him.
The Chronicles of Stam 