what the janitor found but couldn’t
understand
Joanna Griffin
I shouldn’t have done that, she thought, but
too late now. The elevator hesitated, and the man
slid through the doors like a bar of soap between
wet palms.
“Thanks,” he wheezed, as the elevator
sealed itself. “I’m already running late.”
“No problem,” said the woman, and reached
for the panel of buttons. “What floor?”
The man glanced at the numbers. “Forty
two, same as you. Hey, that rhymed!” he grinned
and his cheeks crinkled around his ears.
The woman smiled her not-really-a-smile-
smile and fell silent. She decided, by observation,
that the young man was a college student, likely
in the area of music studies or liberal arts. His out-
fit screamed millennial, from the spotlessly white
off-brand Vans to the blond ponytail that, when un-
bound, would surely be reminiscent of the hippie
era.
The young man was simultaneously ob-
serving the woman through the corner of his thick
rimmed sunglasses, which were worse-than-useless
in the poorly lit elevator, but served more to fash-
ion than to function. The woman, who was in reality
only a few years senior to the man, wore the illusion
of age in her thin, square glasses and untouched
brown hair. While the young man carried a bohemi-
an backpack and swirled his half-empty Starbucks
cup, the woman clutched only plain clipboard and
yellow file folder.
86
The elevator began to ascend, and the wom-
an tried to avoid unpleasant thoughts regarding
claustrophobia, terrorist attacks, or the potential of
forced conversation with a stranger. The young man,
who would willingly admit to considering none of
these, attempted to be friendly.
“You’re headed to the dermatologist then?”
asked the young man. “Dr. Engleman? I think he’s
the only guy up on that floor.” He nodded his large
forehead to the button panel, and the screen with
flashing numbers. 7 . . . 8 . . . 9 . . .
“Yes,” said the woman, eyes fixed on the
numbers. 10 . . . 11 . . . she wished it would go faster.
I should’ve taken the stairs. But no, there’s only one
camera in here. The stairs have more.
“You in for an appointment, then?” The
young man was illiterate in silence, it seemed.
“No, I’m here to consult with one of the lab
technicians,” she said, shifting the files. He didn’t
need to know they were fake, same as her words.
14 . . . 15 . . . Her waistband itched, but she couldn’t
scratch it without revealing the object tucked inside.
I should’ve brought a purse.
“Why the technician?” he asked.
“It’s for a case,” she said, and hoped the
short lie would be satisfactory.
It wasn’t. “Cool,” said the young man, slurp-
ing at his drink. Iced green tea, from the look of it.
“You a law person then?”
“Law person?” the woman repeated. The