Bathroom custodian
The coffee shop on the corner
of St. Charles and University
brews my favorite cup,
so I find myself there in the morning hour before work
nearly every work week morning.
The restroom is located conveniently close
to the line
where we all wait to place our much needed orders,
so I find myself in there nearly every post coffee order morning.
In a hurry to relieve myself,
in a hurry to rush out of the small sterile room
that everyone uses to relieve themselves.
While hurriedly washing my hands in the ceramic sink,
a bottle of nail polish falls out of my messenger bag-
glass shatters
Brilliant Blue lacquer
into a spiderweb of viscous veins
crawling across the tile floor.
I should clean it, I know-
but I do not have time to deal with this mess-
I’ve got a hot cup of coffee waiting
and a desk to sit at.
I leave the restroom- almost guiltily-
with a newly decorated floor.
The next morning
I am back at that same coffee shop.
Order placed, I need to use that same restroom.
As I sit down to relieve myself,
I am relieved to see that the splattered nail polish
is gone.
Scanning the bathroom for something to look at
I fix my eyes on the bathroom cleaning chart
posted on the back of the door.
There are two columns on the chart:
Day of the Week and Initials.
In the former column is written
Monday,
Tuesday,Wednesday,
Thursday, Friday, Saturday
and
Sunday.
In the latter is written only
“M.L.”
At the bottom of the page on a long line alongside Signature
is the name María Lopez, carefully signed.
María Lopez must be
the bathroom custodian.
The one responsible for cleaning up
the mess I left behind yesterday.
The one
responsible for cleaning up
the mess that we all leave behind every day.
Her domain is our five minute inconvenience.
“M.L.” - two letters that represent so much:
a task dutifully performed, an enterprise run efficiently,
an underpaid and overworked employee,
a nomenclature of another America-
a person.
So the mess of nail polish that I had left
on the floor of the coffee shop bathroom
did not just disappear overnight-
it had been fastidiously removed
by María herself.
And she had signed her initials dutifully
in uncertain penmanship to prove
that she had, yet again, fulfilled her daily tasks.
“M.L.”-
bathroom custodian,
person.
Person,
bathroom custodian.
of St. Charles and University
brews my favorite cup,
so I find myself there in the morning hour before work
nearly every work week morning.
The restroom is located conveniently close
to the line
where we all wait to place our much needed orders,
so I find myself in there nearly every post coffee order morning.
In a hurry to relieve myself,
in a hurry to rush out of the small sterile room
that everyone uses to relieve themselves.
While hurriedly washing my hands in the ceramic sink,
a bottle of nail polish falls out of my messenger bag-
glass shatters
Brilliant Blue lacquer
into a spiderweb of viscous veins
crawling across the tile floor.
I should clean it, I know-
but I do not have time to deal with this mess-
I’ve got a hot cup of coffee waiting
and a desk to sit at.
I leave the restroom- almost guiltily-
with a newly decorated floor.
The next morning
I am back at that same coffee shop.
Order placed, I need to use that same restroom.
As I sit down to relieve myself,
I am relieved to see that the splattered nail polish
is gone.
Scanning the bathroom for something to look at
I fix my eyes on the bathroom cleaning chart
posted on the back of the door.
There are two columns on the chart:
Day of the Week and Initials.
In the former column is written
Monday,
Tuesday,Wednesday,
Thursday, Friday, Saturday
and
Sunday.
In the latter is written only
“M.L.”
At the bottom of the page on a long line alongside Signature
is the name María Lopez, carefully signed.
María Lopez must be
the bathroom custodian.
The one responsible for cleaning up
the mess I left behind yesterday.
The one
responsible for cleaning up
the mess that we all leave behind every day.
Her domain is our five minute inconvenience.
“M.L.” - two letters that represent so much:
a task dutifully performed, an enterprise run efficiently,
an underpaid and overworked employee,
a nomenclature of another America-
a person.
So the mess of nail polish that I had left
on the floor of the coffee shop bathroom
did not just disappear overnight-
it had been fastidiously removed
by María herself.
And she had signed her initials dutifully
in uncertain penmanship to prove
that she had, yet again, fulfilled her daily tasks.
“M.L.”-
bathroom custodian,
person.
Person,
bathroom custodian.