Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Footsteps echo from down the hall, keys clanging against someone's hip. The janitor, I assume, because I can hear wheels rolling under the burden of what I can assume is a day's collection of student garbage strewn through the halls. Doors creak open and close, rumbling and rolling ensues, I can hear the mumblings of other club members in the room next door, as the culprit of these sounds ask if they have recycling. Mumbling again, more creaking rolling and groaning. Patricia, the energetic janitor who can usually be seen moving to the sounds of her iPod in front of the Thomas Hunter women's bathroom on the second floor, calls out a greeting. More mumbling. More rolling. More creaking. A knock on the door, four quick raps against the old wooden frame, alerts him to our room. I don't turn around, it was just a courtesy knock. I hear rustling, he's pulling the garbage bag from our recycling bin, and then there's the sound more rolling. After a few minutes, all full of the even more burdened garbage can, he's gone. All that's left is the sound of some students in the hall, doors creaking open and closed as students leave for the night, and the typing on my Macbook Pro.