Beneath the stark glare of a harsh bathroom bulb, he had no problem locating crow’s feet and frown lines and the three horizontals etched in his forehead.  Red blotches and brown skin discolorations stood out like warning signs on a road under construction.  But this was no work in progress.  This was the canvas he was left with after sixty-three years of struggle, success and whatever it was that had come after that.

The feature that wasn’t as obvious visually, the thing that was more difficult to find, was that elusive element called dignity.  Surely it was still there.  It must be, he reasoned.  Hidden behind the time and the mileage and the unrelenting belief that a man shouldn’t be judged by what he did, but rather by how well he did it.  Surely that was the true measure of what one saw in the mirror each day.  Why then, was it so elusive?  Why did he always have to look south of his neck to find it?

His coat was white linen, with satin lapels.  A white shirt, festooned with black onyx studs and topped with a black satin bow tie, fit snugly beneath it.  The coat hung acceptably, if somewhat loose.  It covered black slacks and laced brogans that shone like a full moon at midnight.  Spit-polished, though it wasn’t mandatory.  One must maintain standards, he told himself.  Even if they’re one’s own.

Slipping on his well-worn topcoat, more for camouflage than warmth, he walked to the bus stop.  The ride took twenty minutes.  Twenty minutes he always spent wondering how he had come to this.  He never came up with a definitive answer.  Absolutes were too elusive.  Too subject to debate and rationalization, he thought.  So he would console himself by admitting there were far too many variables to reach a finite conclusion. Then, arriving, he would content himself with the routine.  The regimen of simply doing the job. 

He was always at least an hour early.  Not because he felt it was necessary to curry favor.  Not because he had a number of things to do to prepare for the coming evening.  In fact, each night before he left, he performed all his closing tasks and made virtually all his next-day preparations before going home.  He swept, mopped and buffed the floor.  Scrubbed and sanitized the commodes.  Checked to make sure the stall latches were in working order and appropriately shined.  Refilled the toilet paper rolls and folded the ends into a perfect V.  He thoroughly cleaned the urinals and replaced each sanitary cake. Washed all vestiges of fingerprints from the sinks and mirrors.  Polished the brass and marble.  Refilled the soap dispensers.  Replaced the used cologne bottles.  Collected and sent to housekeeping the soiled linen hand towels.  It was a nightly routine that generally took him at least an hour after the restaurant officially closed. 

So the only things he had to do prior to each evening’s opening were to retrieve the washed and ironed linens, put them in place, and fill the urinals with ice cubes.  But he continually arrived early anyway.  He did so because the completion of these remaining tasks and the quiet, reflective minutes that followed, were simply the most pleasurable moments of his day. 

During these interludes he daydreamed of the life he once lived. The subtle satisfaction of awaiting the arrival of his dinner guests and knowing everything was in perfect order. These quiet remembrances always seemed to occur as he was taking loving care to fold each hand towel into a precise breast pocket square and lining them up from the splashguard to the edge of the vanity, like a chorus line of legless Rockets. It made him feel as though he was still capable of impressing smart, intelligent people.  People not unlike himself.  Or, at least, the person he had once been. 

This night began like most others.  Few patrons arrived early.  It was considered bad form to be seen dining in an empty room.  So the bar filled up first.  Executives elbow to elbow.  Their dates or wives or escorts joining them after one or two drinks had already been consumed.  Eventually the larger parties would agree to be seated.  Some of the males excusing themselves to make room for the wine and food that would follow.  Then his night began in earnest.

“Good evening, sir.”

Some would return his greeting.  Some would simply smile and amble past him.  A few paid him no mind at all, as if he were invisible.

Turning both the hot and cold handle in unison, so the temperature would be just right, he would generally say, “Let me get that for you, sir.”  Then he would offer a crisp hand towel as he added, “Enjoy your evening.”  If the individual looked like he was unsure where to toss the used linen, he would say, “Just leave it there sir, I’ll take care of it.”

Sometimes they would see the copper bowl on the vanity and put in change or a bill.  Often they would overlook it and simply hand him a tip, to which he’d always reply, “Thank you, sir.”  And of course, there were those who would walk out leaving nothing.  Usually the ones who failed to acknowledge him initially.  When it was too crowded to address each customer individually, he would simply stand against the wall, stepping forward silently when there was room, to wipe and dry the marble vanity. 

A young man, not yet thirty, shaking his head and smiling to himself, returned to his table on legs wobbly from strong drink.  The women were engaged in conversation, but the man who rounded out the foursome spoke to him as he took his seat.

“What’s that look on your face?  Just tell yourself a joke or something?”

“You’re not going to believe who I just saw.”

“Who?”

“Russell Parker.”

“Russell Parker.  Where do I know that name from?”

“From me, idiot.  I told you about Russell Parker…the man I used to work for.”   

“Oh, yes.  Now I remember.  Parker.  You weren’t too keen on him as I recall.”

“Not too keen?  The bastard fired me.”

“Oh…that’s right.  He’s the guy who let you go.  Then later, what was it?  You said he got into some sort of trouble.  Didn’t you?”

“You’ve got a memory like a sieve, Einstein.  I told you that he went to prison.”

“That’s right.  You said he was caught embezzling, or something like that.”

“Not embezzling, exactly.  He went to trial for bilking the government.  Inflating the number of hours his firm put in on government contracts.  He swore he didn’t do it.   Swore it was just an accounting screw-up.  Amplified by the government’s labyrinth of arcane rules and regulations for coding actual hours worked.  But nobody at the agency would back him up.  He did two years in one of those minimum security lock-ups.”

“You think he was telling the truth?  You think he got a raw deal?”

“Who the fuck knows,” the tipsy young man spat back.  “The agency wasn’t going to take the fall.  And he sure as hell hadn’t gone out of his way to make a lot of friends who were willing to stick their necks out for him.”

“So, did he recognize you?  Did you ask him what it was like to be in the slammer?”

“No,” the young man said, taking a gulp from his fourth Scotch on the rocks,  “I don’t think he recognized me.”

“Well why should he,” his friend replied, draining his Vodka martini.  “I’m sure you were just another in a long line of young Turks he dumped when the quarterlies were plummeting.  Now that’s he back, dining in a place like this…who’s going to remember one of the expendables?”

“No, you don’t understand, imbecile.  He’s not dining here.  I think he’s working here.  As the fucking men’s room attendant!” 

The friend almost choked on the plastic sword in his olive. “What?  You’re joking.  It can’t be. You have had a number of drinks, you know.”

“It was him alright.  I’m not likely to forget that face.  Or that voice.  So haughty.  So patrician.  Well, he’s damn sure not so high and mighty anymore.”

“But why in the world would he be working as a men’s room attendant?”

“I guess he couldn’t get back in advertising.  Tainted goods, you know.  All doors closed to him.  Plus, he’s no spring chicken.  It’s bad enough being old in this game.  Throw in high profile embarrassment for the whole industry, and on top of it all, an ex-con.  Hell, there’s no way he’d land a decent job in any business again.”

“But jeez, a men’s room attendant, I mean really.  You must be mistaken.”

“I’m not.  I’ll prove it to you.  Come on, lets have some fun,” he said pulling his chair back and beginning to rise unsteadily.

“I don’t think that’s such a great idea.  I wouldn’t—“

Undeterred, the young man jerked his friend up by the shoulder and spoke to the women. 

“We’ll be right back.”

“Oh, don’t worry about us,” the blonde said sarcastically, “we’re only the ones you dragged here.”

“Yeah,” the brunette echoed.  “Your dates, remember?”

Shoving his friend toward the back of the restaurant as he left the table, the young man

squawked, “Have another drink you two.  You seem to be pretty good at that.  Hell, the way you both gab, we’ll be back before you finish it.”

Just outside the dark mahogany door with the brushed brass nameplate, the young man told his friend, “Just follow my lead.  This will be good for some laughs.”

They walked inside and over to the row of urinals, each separated by thin rectangular marble. They hadn’t looked directly at him when they entered, but their peripheral vision had spotted him standing by the vanity.

“Hey, did I ever tell you about this asshole I used to work for?”

The friend played along.  “No.  I don’t think so.”

“Sure.  Sure I did.  You remember.  Russell Parker.  I must have told you about him.  Man, I never worked for such a stuck-up son of a bitch.” 

Now that they were actually underway, the friend realized what a crass endeavor he was participating in.  So he just stood there, penis in hand, trying to urinate.

“He used to prance around the office like he was king or something.  Barking orders.  Very la-de-da, you know.  A real prick.”

Silence.  From the friend, and from the only other man in the room.

“And speaking of pricks, oops!  I kind of missed the urinal and hit the wall.”  Then, looking over his shoulder, he said, “Hey, fella, you might want to clean this up over here, before it starts to really smell, you know.”

The answer was slow and deliberate.  “I’ll take care of it when you leave sir.”

“Oh, good.  Wouldn’t want your office to be untidy, now would we,” the young man giggled.

Both men went over to wash their hands.  Still, neither had looked at the third man directly.  The friend finished quickly, no longer wanting to be part of whatever his mate had in mind.  The young man made a point of thrashing about, splashing water on the counter and the mirror.  He purposely grabbed a towel from the middle of the regimental stack, knocking over those in front of it.  By now his friend had made a quick exit.

The older man stood silently by the vanity as the younger opened a bottle of cologne.  He shook some into his hands and slapped his cheeks, rubbed his neck and then made a farce of accidentally tipping the bottle of cologne over and into the copper bowl filled with coins and dollar bills.

“Oh, sorry about that,” he said, righting it.  Then grabbing even more hand towels to wipe the excess off his palms and fingers, he added, “Of course, it might help, right?  I mean that spare change must get pretty ripe from time to time, huh?”

“Whenever you’re through, sir,” was the only reply.

Now, for the first time since he had entered the lavatory, the young man turned and looked squarely into the older man’s eyes.

“You don’t even remember me, do you?

“Actually, I remember you quiet well,” came the reply.

Then, as if the man had not spoken at all, the young man said, “Just another one of the little people you walked on, then spit out, right?”

“There are as many interpretations of history as there are historians,” the older man answered.

 Becoming even more belligerent, if such a thing were possible, the young man bleated, “Yeah, well who’s getting walked on now, huh?  I’m pulling down two hundred and fifty grand, and you’re cleaning the shit house.  Kind of makes you question your decision to get rid of me, doesn’t it?

“On the contrary” the older man replied in an unrushed, somber tone.  “Your behavior tonight only reinforces that decision.”

“Oh it does, does it?  Well, listen to me Mr. Russell fucking Parker, I’m going to find the manager of this dump and tell him that you were rude and insulting to me and my associate and if he wants to keep me and my agency-friends coming in here, he’ll dump your ass as of tonight.  What the hell do you think of that?”

“Frankly, it’s no less than I would have expected of you…sir.”

Now, red-faced and slewing spittle, the young man clamored, “I’m not kidding Parker, I’ll do it.  Your hotshot ass will be on the street and you’ll have to live with the fact that you couldn’t even hold down a god-damned janitor’s job.”

“That’s true.  I might indeed have to live with that,” began his reply, “but on the plus side, I shan’t have to live with the likes of you.”

With the back of his hand, the young man raked the remaining hand towels onto the floor.  They lay scattered about like battlefield dead.  Virtually yelling now, he shouted, “You didn’t learn shit in prison, did you?  You haven’t changed at all!”

“I learned a bit about humility, I think,” the older man answered.  “But we never really change, do we?  Witness your performance tonight.”

His energy spent, the young man mumbled, “Screw you,” and headed for the door.

“Enjoy your evening, sir,” were the last words that passed between them.

The manager was dispassionate.  It wasn’t personal.  No malice was involved.  It wasn’t even necessary to ask if the accusations were true.  It didn’t matter.  The young man and his friends were regular customers.  They brought in a lot of money.  It wasn’t worth the potential loss of income.  Particularly for a position the establishment had planned on eventually phasing out anyway.  Surely he understood.  And in fact, he did.

Later, in the dark hours of one day’s death and another’s birth, the bathroom bulb he stood beneath was as harsh as usual.  It left no room for wishful thinking.  No potential for self-pity.  It washed a light across a countenance as withered and worn as ever.  A mien sculpted by both self-inflicted wounds and those that chance serves up from time to time.  But there was something different too.  Something different in what was reflected there.  The uniform hung not on his shoulders, but on a hanger behind him.  He was told he could return it the next day.  And somehow now, he didn’t need it anymore.  He didn’t need a costume to find that which had seemed so elusive.  This time he could see what he thought he had lost.  He could see it behind the lips that didn’t smile but the eyes that did.  Maybe, he thought to himself, it had always been there.  Maybe, it always would be.

– Joe Kilgore