the heavy metal janitor journals (part 4)
job-graffiti removal @ public washroom by the river
temperature -15 c
We didn’t have any proper graffiti remover with us. Our boss was to cheap to equip his serfs with such luxuries…
Bad Cat scratched his chin methodically as he milled through a pile of toxic industrial cleaning product inventory. All filed under “C” for carcinogenic. He picked up an old leaking container of floor stripper. Splashing an unhealthy amount of the evil fluid upon two filthy rags. Spilling the radioactive slime on the ground. Burning a satanic neon green hole in the once virgin white snow.
A steaming wet rag was handed to me. I met the rag with both disgust, and curiosity. We ventured towards the washroom. I could feel as though something very sinister was happening, or about to happen. Bad Cats’ grin was at high tide. I couldn’t help but think the word “sinner” when ever I was around him, or rather it. Compared to that creature I was a Saint.
Six minutes of frantic wall scrubbing had passed, revealing little evidence of success. Bad Cat thinkfully thought for a moment. When Bad Cat was deep in his “thinkery” it was as though all other parts of his body would slow down, to give his feline brain an extra jolt of abject schemery juice. Even his eyes would switch from a bright green to a light grey. It reminded me of sleep mode on a computer. If you listened closely, one could hear, a faint purr….
“We need something stronger!” he declared. Eyes returning to their natural green glowing stare. Back to the van we went. Bad Cat picked up a jerry can of lawn mower gas. Bad Cats’ evil little cat eyes gleamed with excitement. If you had a computer print out of his thoughts it would read in bold letters “Why didn’t I think of this first!?” I opened my mouth as if to say “Do you think this is a good idea?” . Stopping myself, realizing there was no point in asking. He was after all my mentor. Bad Cat quickly handed me the cap to the gas can, “here!” and scampered back to the washroom. Bad Cat stopped at the washroom entrance, paused briefly, looking down at his watch, and announced “We need to make up for lost time!”*
*Please don’t get the wrong idea here. He wasn’t worried about saving money for the company or being efficient. “Lost time” meant that he would have less dog fucking time. Plain and simple. He had each day timed down to the minute. How many short cuts we could take so he could have his little cat naps and coffee breaks. If Bad Cat was proud of anything in his life, anything at all, it was his ability to lie, cheat, and steal his way though the work week.
I happened to be his appointed apprentice….