We’re janitors, but we’re called floor-crew technicians. We work at night. Darius lives in a trailer with his dad because his dad has cirrhosis and emphysema. His dad still drinks and he’s drunk antifreeze more than once. On his breaks Darius can’t stand still: he rocks on his feet, looks to the sky for shooting stars, and throws lit cigarettes into trash cans. Supervisor Mike, sixty, has had three heart attacks and got his ass beat yesterday while walking his dog. Three college kids jumped him and he awoke to his dog lapping his blood. Ron is going to prison for manslaughter. Drove drunk and his best friend flew through the windshield. One of us, a giant we’ve nicknamed Big Foot the Bearded, works the graveyard shift in a factory of soot and when I bring up the guy he used to work with, tears fall down his face. Manuel’s baby died. All of this seems unbelievable even to me, but it’s the truth. Sometimes the last thing you need is to talk about the news.
