Thirty Years In

It had been years since anyone was allowed to smoke in their tiny break room, but it had been even longer since anyone from administration had ventured down to their little corner of the world. One would have to walk in the main entrance, past the gymnasium and the glass trophy dust caked with a thick layer of dust. Girl’s Basketball State Champions, 1981, Boy’s Baseball State Champions 1989, 1993 were inscribed upon some of the forgotten plaques. Down the stairs, through the hallway adorned with faded yellow bricks, take a right through the cafeteria. After the cafeteria, you would pass the teacher’s lounge on your left, followed by another set of stairs. This long hallway with the same yellow bricks brought you past the Spanish, French, and History classrooms. At the end of that hallway on your right was a door that was marked BOILER. If you opened this door, it was usually dark and smelled of oil and grease. The deafening sound of the boiler and other whirring machines kept out any would-be visitors. If you dared to enter, it was wise to hug the wall, especially if you had a stomach that hung out more than the average person. If you didn’t, a spinning fan belt that moved so fast it looked like it wasn’t even moving at all, was liable to catch and burn you. More than one pair of scraped knuckles could attest to that. Once you passed the spinning machinery, a small door at the bottom of two stairs was marked with the word OFFICE. It was wise to knock on this door before entering, a pockmarked dartboard lay on the opposite side. One time, back in ‘92 or ‘93, Jared Browning opened the door without knocking because Melanie Steele vomited all over the Biology room after dissecting frogs and they needed to cover it in sawdust. Poor Jared walked in to catch a dart right to his cheek. The dart hung and bobbed from his cheek in unison with his screams. The dart was headed for a triple fourteen, lucky for Jared. A triple five or a triple twenty and he probably would have lost an eye. Ever since that day, on the back of a faded order invoice that was yellowing and curled at the edges, scribbled in permanent marker read PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING. 

The one who threw the dart all those years ago, and faced threats of a lawsuit from Mr. Browning, sat at the same round table that had been down there since the eighties. His name is Gene Stokes and it was his last day of work before he sailed off into the sea of retirement. It had been close to two decades since they were told it violated health codes to light up down there, but that didn’t stop the occasional cigar once in a while. And on his last day of his thirtieth year, nothing was going to stop Gene and the boys from lighting up the Cubans that they all pitched in on. (They were actually Chilean, but they didn’t have the heart to tell Gene. It seemed even more exciting to him that they were possibly illegal). 

After thirty years of salting the sidewalks after a blizzard, throwing sawdust on vomit, adjusting the temperature up in Mrs. Page’s room because she was never comfortable, waxing the floors and countless other tasks, Gene Stokes felt that his cigar was well deserved. The four of them sat around the table and puffed away as the smoke billowed and hung on the ceiling. Marty Clemens had worked with Gene for about twenty-five of those thirty years, both of them born and raised in this small town an hour outside of Pittsburgh. Grant Birkbeck worked the second shift, he came in when the bell rang and the kids left. Grant had to give up the school shift after countless complaints from teachers and students regarding him smelling like a distillery. After more than one writeup, the union got involved and it was decided he could keep his job, but all parties decided it was best if he wasn’t around the kids. Now he showed up at 3:00 with plenty of time to sleep off last night’s bender smelling however he damn well pleased. Then there was Daniel Bosman, nineteen years old and a recent graduate of the very high school that now employed him. The Giant Eagle let him go after a few short months, an old woman chastised Daniel for packing her bags too heavy and packing things on top of her eggs. He was sharp in many ways, but that little voice that most people have in the back of their head that prevents them from telling people to go fuck themselves was absent in Daniel. Managers spoke to him, put him on pushing shopping carts outside for a while, but a stray cart that dinged some lawyer’s Mercedes when he was in a rush proved to be the nail in his coffin as a grocer. Gene Stokes was friendly with Daniel’s dad, and got him a job in no time, much to the dismay of Marty. 

“Daniel Bosman? The Daniel Bosman that rode the short bus for four years? The same Bosman that was in a ninth grade Algebra class his Senior year? Sorry Gene, but that kid ain’t playing with a full deck if you know what I mean,” Marty had exclaimed when he heard of the new hire.

“And how about you, Marty? Could you pass an Algebra class? Could you pass any class?”

“I sure as shit could.”

“Ya? What do you call the longest side of a right triangle?”

His question was met with silence.

“That’s what I thought. Worry about yourself. I’ll worry about the kid.”

The four of them sat and smoked, sharing stories. Grant, who wasn’t even supposed to be there yet, pulled out a bottle of vodka from a file cabinet. He grabbed four coffee mugs next to the sink, some of them clean, some of them not and poured a taste for all of them. 

“Nice to see you get some use out of that thing,” Marty quipped. 

“Shouldn’t it be in the drawer T-Z?” Gene joked.

Grant tilted his head back and emptied the mug, and filled another for himself.

“Well, it was under S for spirits,” the three of them laughed while Daniel asked what was so funny.

Gene had taken the mug from Daniel and swapped it with an ice cold Coke from their refrigerator. They swapped tales and Gene told them how they would be rowing up shit’s creek without a paddle once he was gone. Marty was in the middle of telling the story to Grant and Daniel, the one about the snowstorm back in ‘97. They really should have canceled school that day, but with the last day pushed back to almost July with snow days, the district called for a two-hour delay. The other custodians had called out that day, and Gene Stokes was left to his own devices to plow the parking lot, salt and sand it, along with all the sidewalks surrounding the building. Perhaps feeling the pressure of being on a solo mission, Gene was out there at three in the morning trying his damndest to make the building safe for the teachers and students. Well, as Marty told it, Gene plopped the plow down and drove full steam ahead, clearing some teacher parking spots outside the cafeteria. He must have hit a big ole’ patch of ice because his truck plowed the spots alright, but the truck didn’t stop. It plowed through the spots, the courtyard, and straight through the glass windows of the cafe. The school was so damn cold that day they had to end up closing school anyways. Amidst laughter, and Marty retelling details of the incident and its aftermath, the phone rang. 

The three of them, with Daniel looking along, all slammed down ten dollars on the table.

“Mrs. Reinhardt. Paper towels,” said Gene.

“Mrs. Page. Room is too cold,” remarked Marty.

“Principal Norris. Some girl left her monthly all over a stall,” chimed Grant. 

Gene finally picked up the phone, and nodded while only saying a couple mhm’s. 

“Well boys, guess which Art teacher ran out of paper towels?”

“You bastard!” Marty yelled, slamming down his coffee mug. “You paid her to say that you lying son of a bitch.”

“You know, there was this one time…” Grant began, eliciting groans from around the table.

“Here we go,” said Gene.

“No, no, I’m serious. I was moppin’ the Art room one day after school, real late. No one else in the damn building. She was wearing this tiny skirt, and she was giving me this look…”

“The only look she was probably giving you is why the hell is this creep staring at me?”

“Bullshit. I had a shot, probably still do.”

The four of them laughed as Gene grabbed a few rolls of paper towels from the cabinet and the cash from the table. Just as Gene was about to make the journey to the Art room, the loudspeaker dinged. 

“This is Principal Norris. We are now in Lockdown. I repeat, we are now in Lockdown. Please proceed with Lockdown procedures.”

“Was a drill scheduled for today?” Daniel asked nervously. 

“No. Just talked to Lieutenant Madigan last night at the bar. Wasn’t one scheduled for another month or so.”

“So…so, this is the real deal?” Daniel asked again, now fidgeting with his hands and rocking in his chair.

“Nobody said shit, Daniel. Now you just relax, son. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Gene, where the fuck are you going? We’re in Lockdown,” Marty asked. 

“No one is fucking with my school. Not on my last day,” Gene announced.

“Lock the door behind you, will ya?” Grant asked as he poured himself another shot. 

Gene suddenly wished he had the revolver or his hunting rifle that he kept in a safe at home, but administration frowned upon that sort of thing. The screwdriver on his belt would have to do. Walking past each classroom, Gene Stokes gave the doorknob a jiggle to ensure they were locked. If anyone was looking to do anyone any harm today, they would have to go through him. He jogged up the stairs beyond the Spanish and History classes, peeking into the Teacher’s Lounge. Quiet. First lunch was due to start soon, so luckily the cafeteria was empty. The ladies had rolled down and locked the window where the kids dump their dirty trays. Good job, ladies, he thought. Gene took a deep whiff and sighed, mmm, Salisbury Steak today he thought to himself. 

Gene gingerly took a left out of the cafeteria and took a careful glance up the stairs towards the gymnasium and the main entrance. As his worst fears came to fruition, the sounds of screaming teenagers fleeing for their lives in a stampede echoed through the corridor. He reached for his screwdriver, as futile as it may be. The stampede grew into a full-on riot, and the gym doors flew open, followed by dozens of teenagers running as fast as they could. Most broke for the closest egress, the main entrance. Others fled past Gene, all of them ignoring his requests for information. The stampede had ceased, and the rest of the classes were still safely locked down. Gene hugged the wall and sidled up next to the trophy case. No gunshots, no loud noises besides the kids screaming. Opening up this gym door might be the last thing I ever do, he thought. With his heart racing, and sweat pouring into his mustache, he muttered to himself. This is my fucking school. Ripping the doors open, he could feel the tension in the room. Volleyballs and basketballs still rolled along the slick floor like ticking time bombs. A crash from the end of the gymnasium. The weight room, he whispered to himself. Armed with only a Phillips-head, he tiptoed towards the weight room as treadmills and barbells smashed to the floor. Ready to impale the intruder, the screwdriver fell from his clenched fist to the gym floor. Gene Stokes found the intruder alright, and now he was face to face with him. Except the intruder looked like he hadn’t eaten all winter and was looking for his next meal. A chilling breeze came in from the opposite side of the gym. Coach Wilson left the gym door open, it was the first nice day in a while, that’s how the son of a bitch got in. This intruder was roughly six hundred pounds and about nine foot tall when it stood to face him. The roar of the beast in the small, sweaty room was powerful enough to almost knock the weight benches over. The room and its contents shook as it fell back down to four legs, and before he could even register what his eyes were telling his brain, the bear charged him and swiped with one massive claw. Backing up at the same instant likely saved his life, but the claw still tore his shirt and deep into his chest. 

“You son of a bitch!” Gene screamed, somehow managing to find his footing. Running out of the gym, he still had the foresight to prop the gym door open while he left droplets of blood. Good, good, you big bastard. Follow my trail. Gene nearly fell running through the cafeteria, using the tables to keep himself on his feet. There was a pile of rags that the ladies used to clean the tables, they instantly soaked red with the blood oozing from his chest. Whack, whack, whack. Gene slammed on the metal gate with fading strength that the ladies had smartly locked shut. Gene only heard whispers from the other end. 

“Ruthie, Marge, I need you ladies to open this gate.” 

“Gene?”

“Yes, dear,” he was trying his best to calm his voice.

“Principal Norris, well she said only to open for the police.”

“You’re right about that dear. But if you don’t open this gate now, I’m going to bleed out right here and now.”

A fumbling of keys, then the gate opened a few inches to reveal Ruthie’s face gazing out at Gene who was attempting to slow the bleeding.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What happened to you?”

“Ruthie, dear, I need you to listen to me. Grab as many of them Salisbury steaks as you can. Put ‘em out here and lock the gate.”

“Gene…”

“Do it, Ruthie.”

And do it she did, bringing out tray after tray of sloppy Salisbury steaks, creamed corn, and mashed potatoes. The bear listened to Gene, and was following the drops of blood out into the main corridor. It stopped to sniff at the trophy case. One of those trophies read, Gene Stokes 1,000 point club, Boy’s Basketball. 

“Hey you big bastard! You stay away from my trophy!” 

The bear turned and snarled as Gene flung a tray like a frisbee in his general direction. It circled it, devoured its contents in three seconds flat, and bit the tray in half like it was a cracker. Like a trail of breadcrumbs, Gene left trays down the corridor, the stairs, and into the cafeteria. The bear followed, destroying each tray in its path. Its face, still wild with hunger and covered in gravy, was too busy to notice Gene hiding behind the cafeteria door. Once safely within the confines of the cafe, Gene slammed the door shut as his bloody hands fumbled at keys. The lock clunked shut, and just in time as Gene Stokes hit the floor, still clutching the sopping wet rags to his chest. He’s not going anywhere, Gene thought, holding onto his own consciousness by a thread. 

An engine started up in the distance, certainly not the sound of any police car or ambulance. Gene knew that sound well, it was the sound of a rundown Ford Ranger in dire need of a tuneup. It was his truck. The engine revved and sputtered somewhere in the parking lot then floored full speed ahead. One of the last things Gene remembered was the crystal sound of raining glass as his own truck crashed through the same windows that he did way back in 1997. Falling from behind the steering wheel and the pillowy airbag was Daniel Bosman, blood trickling down his face. 

The next thing he remembered was waking up in a hospital bed, his entire torso covered in bandages. Surrounding him was his wife, Grant, and Marty. They finished each other's sentences, telling the whole story back to Gene with the gusto of gossipy teenagers. 

“Then Bosman, that lunatic, he steals your keys from your desk, drives through the fucking cafeteria! Excuse my language, Harriet,” Marty exclaimed nodding towards Gene’s wife. She waved her hand dismissively. 

“Then,” Grant continued, “Bosman backs up your truck, the bear hauls ass out of there right as the Environmental Police showed up. Chased big boy right into the woods.” 

They went on and on, repeating the story over and over, embellishing certain details and omitting others.

“Well,” Gene groaned as he shifted in the bed. “I ain’t cleaning it up. I’m retired.”