Cafeteria

Although I quit my part-time custodian job several months ago, the school district has kept me on as a sub. Since my “real job” is only a couple of days a week and we have three kids in college, I take extra shifts when I can.

And so it came to pass that, one warm September Friday, I am asked to do a lunchtime set up and tear down at an elementary school. It’s a new gig for me; I had never been to this school, and I've never set up lunch. I am always up for a little adventure.

When I arrive, the secretary at the front desk points me toward the custodian’s office, where I find a set of keys, a map of the school, and instructions written in what I can only surmise is a kind of code. I use the map to find the lunch room, where I introduce myself to the lunch ladies, all of them grandma-types who work very hard for their pay. They are pleasant and helpful, and are happy to answer my questions when they can. Willie tells me that during lunch there are several parents who volunteer, and that part of my duties will include opening granola bars and policing the kids.

I need a few things from the supply room, so I consult the map. The principal, who happens to be coming by, sees me trying to get my bearings and stops to introduce himself. He quickly and efficiently arranges things on the cleaning cart while giving me a few more pointers on lunch procedures before heading off to do administrative stuff.

Cafeteria food has its own particular smell, and when the smell has filled the room, the kids begin coming in: second graders, kindergartners, first graders, and then the tiniest of breaks before the third and fourth graders. It’s like a crescendo of kids: the congestion and noise start low, increase with each grade level, then drop off slightly until the next groups come in. I seem to blend in with the parent volunteers, and kids are more than willing to ask me to open juice boxes or find them a band aid.

The principal, who spends the entire lunch hour in the room, beckons to me from across the room. A pudding cup has oozed all over inside a kindergartner’s lunch box; he asks me to help her get some pizza while he takes care of cleaning out the lunch box. Pretty classy on his part: I’m the custodian, but he takes the messy job while I get the far better task of helping a child. I even earn a shy smile of gratitude as I help her find her table.

As the first lunch fades, I notice an overly tanned mom waiting at an empty table with a multipack of chocolate cupcakes, a birthday treat for her son’s class. She wears hot pink head to toe—hoodie, tee shirt, short shorts, and sneakers—and her bleached blond ponytail is pulled through the back of her hot pink baseball cap. She’s not old, but she’s way too old for her outfit.  Hell, most of her son’s classmates are too old for her outfit. Clearly she does not want to blend in with the other parents.

The older kids don’t need help opening their food, but they are louder, and they do need a little encouragement to use walking feet and inside voices. The lunch ladies and the principal insist that the kids clean up their own tables, and with only a little prodding they do. And suddenly they are gone: the kids, the aides, the principal, the parents, Malibu Barbie mom. The lunch ladies retreat to the kitchen, and I begin cleanup.

There’s a lovely breeze blowing through the room, which makes sweeping up the Capri Sun straw wrappers a little tricky. I finally get everything corralled and into the trash, and I begin mopping. I use a nasty string mop, which is heavy and hard to manipulate, but it does seems to get the job done. I try to work methodically so I can tell what’s been washed and what hasn’t, but everything is so sticky the contrast between dirty and clean is pretty obvious.

One of the lunch ladies comes out and asks again my name. She says, “You’re a hard worker; I’m going to tell Jim [the regular custodian] that you did a good job.”

In blue collar world, this is the highest compliment that can be paid. No one cares if you’re smart or creative or well dressed. They don’t care what your grades were or what other jobs you’ve had. They want to see you work, which requires actual physical movement. In blue collar world, paper pushers are useless and overpaid, because they don’t DO anything.

I am tired, and glad to be finished. I make one more trek out to the dumpster, return the keys to the custodian’s desk, and walk out into the sunshine. Being a custodian is the hardest I’ve ever worked for the least amount of money.  And mostly I hate it, but it does have its rewards. As I walk to my car I remember the gratitude on the face of a cherubic kindergartner, and I smile.