short story: sentence (part i)

I didn’t get out until the fifth of August.  
That was six-thousand, three-hundred and fifty-two days. 
Or one-hundred fifty-two-thousand, four-hundred and forty-eight hours.
All together: seventeen years, four months and twenty-two days. 
I counted every day that passed.
Down to the last minute. 
No matter how you look at it, it is a long time to be in prison.

*****

“Mr. Moriarty, what qualifications do you find necessary for this type of profession?” the old man asked, peering over his thick, black-rimmed glasses, looking me up and down. He wrinkled his face, his forehead creasing, waves breaking across his aging countenance.

I pondered for a moment. Qualifications? There really are no qualifications that are suitable for a custodial position at some smalltime private school in North Dakota. You don’t need any skills to clean up shit. You don’t need to know how to put sawdust over vomit. You don’t even need to know how to act like a ghost to the kids. Really, it’s just  second nature.

I had plenty of experience in manual labor when I served my time. I did my best to stay out of the limelight, making it through one day at a time, and of course, tried not to become someone else’s bitch. Sure I may be only getting minimum wage as a janitor, but I figured it was probably the best I was going to get. With my track record, many people wouldn’t give me a second chance.

“People skills,” I said.

“People skills?” he repeated.

“Yes. Even as a janitor, we must know how to be in touch with people.”

“In touch?” he asked. This geezer must really like to repeat other people through questions. Maybe he felt a sense of power in those questions, as if he was interrogating someone, sitting behind that tiny desk in his fading, lacquered swivel chair. Maybe it was the knowledge of being the oldest person at the school, ready to croak at any given moment. Who knows, really?

I still couldn’t take him seriously though, with calendars from years past decorating the walls, falling apart behind him. Miss July of ‘74 gave me a look of sincerity; her blue eyes, as fierce now as they were then, pulled me in closer. I couldn’t help but ogle her, with those perfectly shaped breasts bursting from her yellow bikini, with one open hand luring me in, and the other gently straddling her hip. Her sandy blonde hair fell across half of her face, more mysterious than seductive. I couldn’t help but imagine plenty of others who have sat in this same shitty chair doing the exact same thing: drooling over the former bombshell. I almost felt sorry for her; she’s been in that same pose for more than twenty years now.

I snapped back to where I was sitting, in the uncomfortable chair. Back to the reality, the geezer staring me down.

“When I say ‘in touch,’ I mean that everyone has to keep one foot in reality. As the shepherds for the children of our future, we must know how to deal with the students. Although the custodians may have little interaction with the children compared to teachers, we are nonetheless educators for them. Even in passing through the hallways, we must show them that we are dedicated. Sure, many people may look down on the position of a custodian, but someone has to do it. The world is full of people just cleaning up after someone else.”

Now I was just pulling shit out of my ass.

“Good,” he said, thinking a moment. Maybe he was satisfied. He removed a manila file folder, shuffling a few papers about his desk, making everything look more official than it really was. “Well, Mr. Moriarty. Normally I would never consider hiring someone with…your past, no offense.”

“None taken.”

“But given as how the principal wishes to give you a chance, I would like to congratulate you on the best of luck,” he stood, extending a pruned, liver-spotted hand. “Welcome to the Cavalier family.”

I shook his hand.

I knew I would have to thank Natasha for this one.

short story

Recently, in my off time from working on both my memoir and latest thriller piece, I’ve been toying around with a short story idea that’s been sleeping on a yellow notepad for a while now. It’s a simple story, really. Here, take a look at the brief synopsis. Vincent Moriarty, ex-convict, is finally getting his second chance after completing a seventeen-year sentence working as a janitor for a high school in rural Montana. See? Simple. Would you like to gander at some more? Maybe a longer sample?