He was always at lunch the same time as me. It was my first semester since I transferred from Harding, and I really appreciated the semi-scheduled comfort. My twelve o'clock class typically let out early, giving me plenty of time get to the "home cooked" line, get the daily special that was allotted by my C Class meal plan, and find a table outside in the square between the cafeteria and library before all the tables were filled. It was Thursday, so more people than usual would be in the home style meal line for the weekly chicken tender meal; four extra-large slabs of breaded fried chicken tenders accompanied by an irresponsible heap of curly fries.
He was almost always out there before me. He would usually be sitting with two of his friends he had known for years, since high school, so I would try to find a table within the spectrum of his gaze, but not so close as to make things awkward for his friends, who never seemed interested in meeting me.
It was especially bright out that day. The refreshing Spring weather had the pre-tanned sorority girls galloping through campus in butt hugging hot pants, skirts that failed fingertip tests, and low cut printed tank-tops, among other things of course. I woke up not realizing the drastic change, and was still sporting jeans and a thin burgundy hoodie. I was wearing a tight white t-shirt I was ready to expose after he came over to the table. All of the tables with attached aluminum umbrellas were filled, so I found the next best thing under a large elm whose arms blocked the sun like a big brother shielding a weaker sibling from an advancing threat. A light breeze rustled the wax paper that lined my paper food trough. It was nice.
His friends sat at a covered table diagonally across the square from me. The tall one with glasses and shaggy red hair sat with his back to the cafeteria, his laid back, open-legged pose was lined up with my surreptitious gaze. The rows of small holes that made up the veins of the table’s attached umbrella casted black dotted shadows down the middle of his brow, briefly giving him an Aboriginal effect. He squinted in my direction, then leaned into the table to say something discreetly to the other friend. It was the most either of them had acknowledged me; if that’s even what they were addressing. He said the red-headed one’s name was Ryan. I think the other one was named Nate, but I was never formally introduced to either of them.
The other one, Nate, perhaps, was much shorter than Ryan. I watched from the vague veil of whatever paperback I was reading at the time, as he held his torso close against the table as his lunch partner went on. I figured they must have been talking about something else by now, because there was no way they knew enough about me to keep carrying on for as long as they did. He didn’t even know that much about me for that matter. I was into the third paragraph when the two simultaneously fell back into their chairs. The close discussion was over. They refocused their dialogue to baseball, the girls passing by, and whatever other insincere interests they were prone to cover.
I looked back at the words in the book. It was a murder mystery my creative writing professor released earlier that winter. The story told of a disgruntled student gone army commando who kills a number of his past college professors who ridiculed his Master’s thesis and kept him from moving forward toward a PhD in English. The premise was awful and I wished I hadn’t bought it. At that point, I didn’t even care what the words said. I couldn’t stop wondering where he was.
I started in on the chicken tenders. I had been nibbling on the fries all along, and their satisfying powers almost caused me to forget about the chicken altogether. When I double dipped the tender into an oversized Styrofoam ramekin of honey mustard and drew it back toward my mouth, an extra shadow fell upon the table next to my back pack. I expected to hear his smooth voice and warm breath against the back ridge of my ear. “It’s Tender Thursday already?” he would say. I turned to see the strange projection’s origin. Over my shoulder, a thin elbow steadily pumped close to, and then away from my face for two or three jerky measures. I pulled my neck farther back, not only to avoid the bobbing elbow, but also to assess the questionable scene. With my back twisted like pulled taffy, I rested my chest against the chair’s metal back and watched as the man behind me poked at something in the enclosed flower bed that split the eating area into two halves.
He was dressed in the gray button down shirt and black slack uniform of the campus cleaning staff. It was the janitor I frequently saw in transit from task to task around this side of campus. His sleeves were rolled to his meager biceps and his teeth were clinched with frustrated concentration as he held a broom upside down, using its handle as a tool against whatever was in the flower bed. He peeked over at me and noticed I was watching him. He looked into my eyes and smiled. I could see his age. Often times black men look younger to me at first, but if I get a good look at the wrinkles that crack around their eyes and around their mouths, then I can tell. This man’s aged features are especially subtle, but I quickly determined he was at least in his late forties. He smiled at me with cavity lined teeth that shined bright against his dark skin. I smiled back, letting him go back to prodding whatever was in the flower bed.
I turned back around, and tried to bring my focus back to my food, but then I remembered he still wasn’t there. I had never had to wait for him before, so I couldn’t figure out where he was or when he would be there if he were on his way. I didn’t even know what direction he would be coming from. I quickly threw a glance to his friends. He still wasn’t there.
The second chicken tender had just enough time to cool to where it was perfect. The first one was too hot and forced me to expel hot breath in between chews. I was going for my second dunk in the honey mustard before my arm got bumped hard from behind, forcing the chicken to the bare grated table. It was ruined. I turned quickly around to see the janitor pumping his elbow even more ferociously then before. He noticed my turning and it must have registered to him what had happened.
“Oh, uh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean ta hit ya miss,” he said with his head down in sincere solemnity.
“Oh, you’re perfectly fine,” I said back, perhaps overly sweet, but he seemed satisfied and smiled as he went back in with the broom handle. I leaned back as far as my attached chair would allow, used my hands on the chair’s sides to push myself taller, and finally was able to peer over the small brick wall that enclosed the flower bed. Yellow carnations lined the bottom of the bed, followed by a thick patch of purple pansies that spread out along the perimeter of the compacted soil. The main attraction was a nice sized arrangement of gold budded calla lilies that grew above the other flowers in the center of the bed. The soil at the front right corner was loose and had several quarter sized holes stamped into it just at the base of the first row of carnations.
I found the green broom handle still swiping at something in the dirt, spreading soil and white flakes of fertilizer all over the petals of the front row flowers. It reminded me of the punctual casualties at a Gallagher show that get blasted with chunks of watermelon and cheese head effigies. It also made me think of the first line of soldiers in that great archaic game, war, that simply get replaced by the second line of soldiers if they are to fall. The three extra rows of carnations kept the tainted flowers from being noticed. The janitor pulled his wrists back to full tension, released the broom handle into a full swing against the top of the soil, and finally, the thing he was after popped out of the flower bed and thudded against the glossy granite tile that outlined the base of the enclosed garden.
I looked through the janitor’s legs, which seemed to be trying to block the scene from passersby, and saw the large, gray and white bird lying on the ground wide-eyed, and as lifeless as a paperweight.
The janitor turned the broom stick right-side-up and started sweeping the smooth-feathered carcass toward his gray cart that supplied an attached trash can along with various bottles of cleaning materials hooked around the cart’s edges by their nozzles. He pushed the bird lightly with the flat side of the bristles and the pigeon slid across the clean tiles like a curling stone and overshot the cart by a few feet. He scrambled after it and made a blockade around it using the broom and his legs.
I looked down at my tray no longer wanting the two remaining tenders, and the fries were the last thing I wanted to see. I took a sip from my coke's straw, placed it back on the tray, stood up and headed toward the nearest thrash can. I started moving toward the cafeteria where there was a stone thrash can just outside the doors. En route, however, I realized that the receptacle attached to the janitor's cart was much closer. I didn't see any reason to make such a long trek to the cafeteria, especially since was headed in the opposite direction, so I walked over toward the janitor and stood next to his cart.
He was still trying to wrestle the dead bird up into the trashcan, sweeping it into his feet, and unsuccessfully trying to pin the thing between his foot and the broom head and flip it into the hanging thrash bag. His legs proved too short with each feeble attempt. I watched him do this for a few moments until he noticed me looking and standing so close to him. He immediately stopped shuffling, stood with both hands propped on the erect broom handle, and nervously looked back at me. He must've been waiting for me leave before he went back to his work. What a gentlemen. I suddenly felt bad about using his thrash can and merely walking away. I needed to earn its use.
"Where's your dustpan?" I decided to ask, but immediately felt guilty for asking something so borderline antagonizing. I hoped he wouldn't feel too embarrassed, but there was no way to tell.
"I let someone borrow it uhlier this mawnin'," he replied in a surprisingly thick accent. It sounded like it may have originated from one of the islands off the coast of the state, maybe even one of the one's Pat Conroy wrote about. "They jus' ain't give it back all dey." It dawned on me that he had probably started his shift around six a.m. I had only been up since ten.
"Can I help you with anything?" I proffered to compensate for feeling rude.
"Ah naw, I be alright," he said with his head still facing the ground.
I let the paper boat of food and the ice-loaded cup slide off my tray and into the janitor's thrash can. But what about the tray? I couldn't believe I had made such a careless mistake. I held the tray behind my back with two hands and started walking backwards toward my table. I heard the janitor say aw, fuck it, just before I watched him bend down and pick the dead pigeon up with his bare hand, and then spike it down into his trashcan. He then furiously wiped the disposing hand against his black work jeans.
I stopped walking, bloated by a sudden curiosity, and decided to ask one last question "So, is that a pigeon that came out of that flower bed?" I knew the answer, but I was hoping the question would weigh enough for him to explain further.
"Ya, it was a pid-gen," he replied shaking his head. "I jus hope dey's not ennie mo' 'round chere." I took a step closer to him, hoping to invite more explanation. He started talking again, quickly, but then slowed down when he started to stutter. "S-s-ee, my boss, my boss he, he give me a tinna poison, rat poison, and he tell me to put it in with some bird feed and get ridda some of these pid-gens that shit everywhere. I didn't put mo' than just a pinky pinch, didn't wanna hurt nuthin', but I guess this guy got a holda some. Hopefully th' others'll see what happened and not come around here no more. Cause my boss watches I throw around the seeds."
"Yeah, hopefully," I said, somewhat dumbfounded. I didn't know what else to say, whether to offer a formal departure, or not, so I just turned around, walked briskly to my table and plunged my book into my backpack. I threw the right strap around my shoulder, held the tray under my arm, and headed toward the cafeteria.
But before I even hit my stride toward the door I saw him. There he was sitting on the back of one of the chairs attached the table that had now been abandoned by his two friends. He must have missed them too. His shaggy brown hair grew in a swoop just above his thin eyebrows. The breeze lightly blew his sandy bangs across the surface of his forehead. He wore a solid black Polo shirt that I had seen many times before along with his standard issue blue jeans and running style sneakers. He sat there, coolly, smiling at me and shaking his leg on the chair's seat in what I hoped to be anticipation to talk to me.
I smiled back at him the entire time I walked across the square, bloated with the nervous excitement of seeing him for the first time that day. I passed the janitor without acknowledging his existence. My sole focus was on maintaining a graceful gait and how I would greet him. I thought about whether I should greet him with a hug or not. Did we even know each other that well, or was my desire for his physical touch premature? He gave me plenty of signals; spending more time at my table than with his friends during most lunches, making sure to be terribly witty around me, letting his bare arm graze against mine when we walked next to each other. I couldn't think of any signs that would thwart the reception of a proffered hug. The diagonal length of the square passed under my feet in an unnoticed blur, and then I was standing directly in front of him, and though I wanted nothing more to see him, and talk to him, and hold him, my mind was pounding with a boisterous concern. Would he even care to hear about the damn pigeon? I had no idea.

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