The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

The art of teaching—if there still was such a concept nowadays—reminded me of a canvas to which the paint never thoroughly cured. Each new semester promised erratic patterns of behavior in spite of the political rhetoric inundating the public on a ceaseless basis. Every sensible teacher recognized that no two days were quite alike in an American high school. This knowledge, however, didn’t discourage us from attempting to delineate every minute of instructional time, as if we had the prescience of Nostradamus. In the last five years at the classroom’s helm, I had yet to religiously follow a daily lesson’s outline. As it was with most seasoned educators, I rated the incalculable knack of improvisation as our most consistent and reliable resource.

  Over the past few months, I had undergone a transformation of sorts. I suddenly valued the semblance of routine, and almost anticipated the reactions from others with a sense of relief. As I walked the corridors this morning with my leather bag in tow, a fluorescent light flickering above my classroom’s door signaled my attention. I wondered how long it would take before a custodian was summoned to replace the dying bulb. At this hour, I inevitably spotted the same fellow sweeping a broom lackadaisically through the senior hallway. Over the past month or so he had acquired an uncanny instinct of showing up just as I approached the entrance to Room C202.

  At first, I scrambled out of view to avoid any distractions accumulated through morning banter, but this custodian remained resilient. He was a convivial guy by nature, and seemed adept at alleviating his boredom by whistling classical tunes as he tended to his dull chores. One melody in particular gave me pause. After a few weeks of repetition, I finally placed the song in context. It was the identical tune that I had memorized and hummed as a young teenager while scouting the trails of Lake Endelman. About two weeks ago, I made a mistake of commenting fondly on his rendition of Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. I expected the custodian’s gratitude, but his insistence to shadow me until I entered my classroom on each day thereafter became too overwhelming. Perhaps my affability had created another minor predicament, but I didn’t wish to blatantly ostracize the man. I assumed he was new on the job and hadn’t yet bonded with those working closely beside him. Strangely, I didn’t even notice another custodian in the building besides this fellow.

  This situation might’ve remained benign for me had it not been for some other peculiarities. Oddly, and for reasons I hadn’t yet pinpointed, the custodian’s penchant for whistling wasn’t the only thing about him that reminded me of my youth. His overalls had an unusual odor, not necessarily unpleasant more so than anomalous. At present, I couldn’t quite determine where I first encountered this industrial scent. I almost thought to ask him about its origin on one occasion, but common courtesy caused me to stifle my inquiry.

  I assumed the custodian had no wife or family to occupy his rambling anecdotes, or at least he never bothered to mention them to me. Initially, I remained impassive to his approach, only briefly acknowledging his presence whenever it became obligatory. This subtle tactic often helped me avoid altercations. I hadn’t even used any of our prior dialogues to obtain his name. Yet he had apparently gone to some trouble ascertaining the details of my life. At any rate, he seemed to know exactly what time I arrived at the school every morning.

  Today wasn’t a prime moment for me to entertain the custodian’s blathering antics. Besides, I was almost embarrassed to confess that the tone of his voice didn’t set right in my mind. Contrary to his incessant whistling, which I had grown to tolerate, the words projecting from this gangrel started to irritate me. I couldn’t stipulate a precise cause for my agitation, for he wasn’t too nasally or raspy. Yet whenever he spoke at length, I found the fine hair spiking on my arms and neck, similar to when I thought of a shard of metal being scraped across an old chalkboard. Perhaps I was being too harsh with such a comparison, but I hadn’t yet divulged my feelings towards him. My indecision to disclose this point provided him an opportunity to further assault my eardrums.

  At some point, and without any invitation, the custodian elected to refer to me only by my surname. Since I had no aim to deepen our friendship beyond its shallow level, I chose to overlook his irreverence. The man’s salutation normally bounced off a wall of steel lockers stationed on both sides of the corridor; on this occasion his boisterousness nearly shook the door’s key out of my hand.

  “Good morning to you, Cobbs,” the custodian shouted with the gusto of an inebriated buffoon. I turned my head just far enough to observe his slapdash advance. He moved like a mannequin manufactured entirely of wire and clay, gyrating his rubbery arms and legs as if engaged in a poorly choreographed dance to his whistled tune. As always, he used an oversized broom more like a walking cane than a tool to sweep the floors. But I had no complaints in terms of the hallway’s cleanliness. They always appeared spotless and buffed to a polished shine. Logic led me to conclude that he obviously doubled over his own work just to have an excuse to badger me.

  I suspected that ignoring his initial greeting wouldn’t have sufficiently signaled my displeasure. After all, the custodian rarely picked up on subtle signs of rejection, and I hadn’t yet summoned the temerity to state my opinion overtly. My modest bid at civility, however, didn’t prevent him from spewing forth rubbish like a malfunctioning garbage truck.

  “I’d say you’re lookin’ a tad pale this morning,” he remarked. “Not getting enough sleep, huh?”

  Leave it to the custodian to point out my obvious haggardness. At least I couldn’t chastise him for his lack of honesty. Apparently, I didn’t disguise my weariness well. My avoidance to elaborate on the custodian’s observance, of course, didn’t prevent him from proceeding with his discourse.

  “You know, my old man used to get those same kind of bags under his eyes when he was around your age. He reminded me of a big panda.”

  Presumably, my lack of good sleep wasn’t fooling anyone, but I equated the custodian’s indiscretion to reminding an overweight man about his protruding waistline. If I wanted to scrutinize the custodian’s gangly appearance, I might’ve pointed out that his eyes didn’t look much more rested than my own. However, I withheld my comment in hopes that he’d recognize my ingratitude. Unfortunately, nothing was working to my advantage today.

  “You might think this is stupid,” he continued with a chuckle, “but I once read somewhere that you can fade those dark circles with two slices of cucumber. You just slap them on top of your eyelids for fifteen minutes or so. It might be worth trying.”

  Despite the custodian’s efforts to diminish the affects of fatigue from my eyes, I remained unresponsive to his advice. I still clung to a fleeting chance that my silence served as a deterrent to his communicative nature. But it seemed that my unwanted guest wouldn’t be dissuaded from his mission so casually. I therefore needed to resort to a less inconspicuous strategy if I expected him to leave me alone anytime before the start of first period.

  “To be honest,” I said, “I’ve been feeling a bit ill lately. In fact, I might be coming down with something.” Normally, such a pledge kept even the most relentless pests at bay, but this custodian was as stubborn as a legless mule. I then proceeded with a second attempt to dismiss myself from his company. “I really have to get some grading done this morning. I don’t mean to cut you short.”

  The stiff-necked custodian remained unfazed by my rebuff. With typical defiance, he leaned on the broom’s handle like a crutch and leered at me with moss-colored eyes.

  “No need to explain yourself to me,” he huffed. “I know how busy you teachers can get. Heck, it sometimes amazes me how you dash out of the building as fast as you do at the end of each day. But I bet you’re doing a lot of paperwork at home, huh?”

  I nodded compliantly at the custodian’s sardonic comeback. He obviously spent just as much time watching me depart the building every day as he did synchronizing his duties with my arrival. I’m certain the custodian had enough dirt stuffed under his broom’s bristles to sully each member of th
e faculty if put to the task. I, for one, couldn’t pretend that beating the buses out of the parking lot didn’t fit covertly into my agenda on occasion. If nothing else, the custodian managed to manipulate this conversation in his favor.

  “Hey, don’t let me hold you up, Cobbs. I’d have to be a plain ignoramus to think that you didn’t have anything better to do than stand around and hobnob with the school’s janitor.”

  In spite of his self-deprecating tone, the custodian possessed a stealthy wit that burrowed under my skin like a famished tick.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m not trying to be rude here. I just got a ton of stuff going on right now, and I need to be alone to sort things out. We can talk another time, if that’s okay with you. But I appreciate your tip about the cucumbers.”

  I believed my plea sounded authentic, at least to pacify him long enough for me to scuttle into my classroom. But the custodian proved as inflexible as a trowel in a bucket of hardened cement. He still leaned wearily against the broom’s handle, fidgeting at the zipper on his tidy overalls. Then a glint of light illuminated his right eyeball; his left one remained dull and unfocused as a smile framed his hairless face. It suddenly occurred to me that the fellow had a stigmatism in one eye, not unlike the condition I experienced since childhood.

  “Before I forget,” he chimed. “Someone was down here by your room looking for you yesterday after school.”

  He purposely delayed his response to pique my curiosity. I finally had to submit to asking a question to obtain the information. “Who was looking for me?”

  “An elderly woman. I think the kids call her Ol’ Fossil. Anyhow, she seemed pretty eager to speak to you, but the buses had already started to pull away, so I figured you were long gone already.”

  Ol’ Fossil, as the custodian proclaimed, was indeed Ravendale High School’s senior faculty member. Of course, her real name, Edna Fassal, was rarely uttered by anyone under the age of eighteen. The stonehearted students would’ve never passed up an opportunity to ruthlessly pun an old woman’s name. Unfortunately, most of them were only clever when it came at the expense of someone else’s feelings. No one on staff had the courage to ask Mrs. Fassal exactly how long she worked in the district, but by all estimations it was close to as many years as I was alive.

  I couldn’t discount the credibility of the custodian’s claim, however, because Mrs. Fassal had become a widow over the past summer. Since her husband’s death, she routinely sought my expertise on matters that she had most likely either abandoned or forgotten. I believed she mentioned giving birth to a prodigal child at one point, but their estrangement seemed certain. Others who witnessed my attentiveness equated her bond to me as a sort of surrogate son. Truthfully, I never gave the matter much credence, excusing my habits as nothing more kindly than helping an elderly person cross a busy intersection. Essentially I kept her functional in the latest computer software, and convinced her to switch from chalk to dry-erase markers when whiteboards were introduced to our classrooms about seven years ago.

  “Did she say what she wanted?” I asked the custodian, perhaps sounding a bit subservient under the circumstances.

  The custodian stood upright momentarily, straightening his spine with a patronizing pose. “She didn’t say too much,” he replied. “But if you ask me, she looked kind of frazzled.”

  Because of Mrs. Fassal’s advanced age, which I surmised as a shade fewer than seventy years, she often succumbed to emotional meltdowns over trivial affairs. I don’t know when I’d stop serving as the unofficial savior of her struggles, but I didn’t possess the temperament to turn her away as easily as I would have the custodian.

  “I’ll try to make it upstairs to her room before first period,” I thought aloud. “If you run into her before I get there, tell her I’m on my way.”

  “Sure thing, Cobbs,” the custodian whispered. The sudden modification in his pitch of voice confused me. “I wouldn’t wait too long,” he continued in the same tone. “She’s not doing too well since her hubby turned toes up. Rumor has it that she spent her whole life with the same fellow. Talk about limiting your options.”

  The custodian’s attempt at humor didn’t encourage me to forward even a faux chuckle. “Sometimes the oldest teachers impart the best lessons,” I rebuked the jaded janitor. “It’s not easy staying married for a half a century in today’s society. I give her credit for doing what most people will never achieve.”

  “Don’t get all mushy on me, Cobbs,” the custodian retorted. “I was only trying to rile you up a tad before you become totally tedious to your students.”

  I elected to ignore this statement, but I wondered if any jest accompanied the custodian’s observation. Had I really become as lackluster as I felt? If the guy pushing a broom through the corridors noticed my malaise, how was it possible to conceal this melancholy from my students? Perhaps they were just too considerate or unsure to mention such shortcomings in my company. I’m sure I could’ve baited the custodian for further clarification on this sentiment as well, but sometimes it’s wisest not to fish in troubled waters. Of course, just because I had finished conversing didn’t mean the custodian exhausted his lungs in turn.

  “This is just between you, me, and a fence post,” he started again. Oddly, this time he discarded the whispery syllables in favor of his obnoxiously vociferous tone. “I wouldn’t worry about ditching this place a little early everyday.”

  “I don’t think it’s that frequent,” I countered. “But I wasn’t really worried about it anyway.”

  “That’s the fighting spirit, Cobbs. Keep up the brave face. Heck, they’re not paying me to keep tabs on you defectors anyhow.”

  “Is that what we’re referred to nowadays?”

  “Look,” the custodian resumed with a wry grin, “call it intuition on my part, but I’m fetching to bet that you’re not the only certified employee around here who has a few secrets tucked away, you know what I mean?”

  “Actually, I don’t,” I declared. “I’m not one to get caught up in all the rumors flitting around this place. I just try to keep out of the way whenever possible.”

  “Well, normally I’d say that’s a safe option, but with the current climate in education being what it undeniably is, you can’t solely rely on privacy as a best defense in the trenches anymore.”

  “I’ve managed to duck under the radar so far.”

  “Lucky you. But when they start gunning for you, Cobbs—and it’s just a matter of time before they do—you’re going to need some ammunition to return fire.”

  Perhaps the custodian spewed forth some warped wisdom on occasion, but he didn’t tempt me to confess my contractual breaches with this interaction. I couldn’t have stopped him from talking now even if I had a steel clamp to fasten his lips closed. The man’s mind buzzed like a fly trying to poke through a screen.

  “Just listen to my logic for a minute,” he insisted. “I don’t know if you’ve been paying much attention to our building’s evacuation code, but according to the fire marshal of this county, we’re required to administer two practice drills each month for the entire school.”

  I assumed the custodian wanted to substantiate a point, so I nodded my head cordially while opening my classroom’s door. I now felt strangely obligated to listen to his latest version of Ravendale High School’s veiled conspiracies.

  “Do you remember how many drills we had last month, Cobbs?”

  “I can’t say that I do.”

  “Not counting that tripped alarm on the 10th by a kid with pimpled skin, we had four other mock drills. That’s two more than what we’re required by state law.”

  It wasn’t my intention to sound flippant, but the custodian’s fastidiousness about scheduled and unscheduled drills seemed outside his job description, and not nearly as compelling as he hoped I’d view it.

  “I don’t see where you’re going with this,” I said. “Apparently, those in charge must think we need more practice exiting the building.”


  The custodian chortled like a precocious child and said, “I figured you as a fairly smart fellow, Cobbs. Can’t you come up with anything juicier than that?”

  “Maybe I haven’t given it enough thought.”

  “Then you’ll fit in around here with the flock of sheep nicely. But, since I always looked at you as a trendsetter rather than a follower, I’m going to ask you to think about the shepherd who’s making the big choices in this place.”

  “Are you talking about the principal?”

  “Bingo without the chips,” answered the custodian.

  “Maybe he needs a new calendar.”

  “Or a new secretary, which you’re probably aware he has already acquired.”

  The custodian mouthed curled into a watermelon-wedged smile, now revealing a column of teeth that were diligently more polished than I expected. Before proceeding, he seemed content to permit my curiosity to stew a bit longer. My eyes must have simmered like a broth left on a hot stovetop too long. Even I couldn’t pretend that the potentiality of scandalous behavior on the part of Dr. Morgan Lemus didn’t merit a few extra minutes of my time.

  “What are you trying to say?” I finally inquired.

  “On Thursdays, between periods three and five, we have a drill for the first two weeks of the month. The third and fourth evacuations usually occur during the fourth week, typically on Wednesdays after the lunch periods. If you set your watch by that schedule you’ll know that I’m not mistaken. I also find it interesting that Lemus doesn’t leave his own office during the drills.”

  The custodian’s dedication to detail astounded me, but he still sounded overly officious. As far as I was concerned, the regimented timetable of a school’s evacuation plan was more practical than spontaneous. It certainly didn’t warrant any dissection from a man who seemed intent on uncovering the seedy gossip lingering within every cranny of this school. As it was with most things in my life, I maintained a practical viewpoint until the evidence became too contrary to ignore.

  “I suppose the principal’s in charge,” I said, half regretting my choice to defend a man who I had grown to disrespect. “Dr. Lemus doesn’t have to answer to anyone in this building.”

  “Fair enough,” the custodian mused, seemingly undeterred. “But what if I was privy to information that Lemus wasn’t the only one who stayed inside during these evacuations?”

  Perhaps it would’ve been a prudent endeavor on my part to simply close the classroom’s door at this juncture. I certainly didn’t hunger for the nourishment of more hearsay. The custodian, however, presumed I hadn’t gorged down an ample portion of smut in weeks.

  “Here’s the deal,” he continued. “If you happened to stroll by the main office in the past four months, you might’ve sneaked a gander at the little pigtailed peach who replaced Mrs. Hinkles.”

  It served me no benefit to be coy amid unmixed company. Most men in the building hadn’t neglected to pace a few extra strides to gawk at the voluptuous substitute hired specifically to work as Dr. Lemus’s personal secretary.

  “Yes…you mean Mrs. Finnegan?”

  “The one and only.”

  The custodian’s malicious grin hinted that he had already unearthed enough dirt on the principal to bury him up to the crooked knots in his garish bowties. Professional courtesy almost tempted me to remove myself from this situation before anything else tainted my opinion of our administrators. Unfortunately, procrastination was almost always usurped by inquisitiveness. I stayed fixated on the custodian’s report as if he had acquired the knack of a hypnotist.

  “Just by good fortune,” he went on, “today happens to be Thursday. You might find it helpful to be near the main office later on this morning, Cobbs. And if you dally for a bit outside the window, you may even be keen-eyed enough to spot Mrs. Finnegan ducking into Lemus’s private den.”

  “That can’t be accurate,” I said.

  “Oh, and there’s another detail,” he said. “Apparently, Mrs. Finnegan has a penchant for miniskirts. But I’m confident they’re not just for her comfort.”

  “You have a vivid imagination,” I chuckled, but the custodian’s stoic expression validated his belief. “You’re being serious, aren’t you? You really think those two are fooling around during the fire drills. He must be almost twice that woman’s age, not to mention married. She’s married as well.”

  The custodian didn’t answer me with words. He simply pivoted his broom in tiny circles on the polished floor in front of his feet. As much as I might’ve wanted this rumor to hold water, this morning was a particularly difficult time to entertain further suspicions about infidelities. I needed to put an end to this discussion before learning more than I sought to know.

  “Hey, I appreciate what you’re saying,” I told the custodian in my most ambassadorial tone. “But I really don’t want to get involved in any of this cheap drivel.”

  “Suit yourself, Cobbs. I’m just trying to give you the ammunition you might need to save your own ass one day. Fire when ready.”

  For now, I felt as if it was my obligation to carry forth with an unguarded attitude. Even if there was any validity to the custodian’s observations, I had my own quandaries to overcome. The custodian suddenly seemed content to shuffle along the corridor with his broom directing him like a divining rod.

  “I’ll be seeing you around,” he said. “And don’t forget about the cucumbers.”

  I briefly considered asking the custodian for his first name, but that would’ve only stalled him longer. My instinct to subdue the formalization of our relationship made better sense. Besides, I don’t think he planned to change the course of his duties despite whatever name I called him by. Once the custodian disappeared in the hallway, I checked my wristwatch. I still had over thirty minutes before the start of first period. This granted me enough time to sort through a pile of essays I had neglected to bring home from the night before.

  Even after entering my classroom, I heard the melody of Rachmaninoff’s rhapsody floating through my mind. And although the custodian was indubitably gone, his clothing’s pungent aroma permeated my surroundings as if he still stood directly beside me.

  Chapter 11

  6:57 A.M.