Tuesday, December 01, 2009 9:22 AM
We have an onsite cleaning service in our building and the Mexican gentleman and I have brief conversations in Spanish if I run into him around the building. We have built camaraderie around my wanting to practice my Spanish skills. So in passing, we share our salutations, talk a little about weather, and our weekend plans in Spanish. This same guy checks the restrooms every morning to be sure they have supplies like toilet paper, hand soap, and he also cleans the mirrors. Before entering the restroom, he uses this metal thing to tap on the door to see if there is anyone in the restroom before he comes in. I’m not sure what time he begins this ritual in the morning, but sometime between 7 am and 10 am, it is done. If someone is in the restroom, he waits outside the door until they come out.
Now call it coincidence or what have you, but in recent days, it has been in the morning, sometime between 7:30 and about 9:45 that my body indicates to me that it is time for our “Talk with Jesus”, if you will. Always having reading materials with me (lately my articles for class or something I’m proof reading for someone else), I slide my literature and a pen (for taking notes) into an interoffice envelope and travel to another floor’s lavatory to handle my business. Sometimes I go to the 3rd floor, sometimes to the 5th floor, sometimes I stay on my own floor (but don’t do this often because I don’t want anyone recognizing my shoes… you know what I mean). Now in months pass, there have been several times when I was “talking with Jesus” and heard that tapping on the door. Needless to say, my immediate reaction is “Dang!” followed by a loud and clear, almost melodic “SOMEBODY’S IN HERE…” And depending on whether I had just arrived or was midway through my visit, I dreaded the inevitable face-to-face meeting with this guy, the same guy who I greet with a “Buenos Dias” or a “Buenos tardes” when we greet around the building. And it’s not like you can hurry up or anything like that when you’re “talking to the Lord.” It takes its own sweet time. And with each passing minute, the embarrassment, irritation, and dread builds like a bricklayer stacking mortar-brick-mortar-brick, until all you see is a wall of inevitable, uncomfortable meeting that must be climbed over. I’m sitting there, thinking to myself “Maybe he’ll go on to another floor and come back this time….” wishing to make a stealth escape without him knowing I’m the culprit- again. But to no avail. It doesn’t matter how long my “talk” ends up taking; when I am through, and open the door to the lavatory, there he is, all smiles of course, saying “Hola” and there I am, sheepish and embarrassed saying “Hola” in response, rushing away like a blushing school girl, wanting to be a flea so I’d be so small he wouldn’t see me come out. Just last week I was “caught” on the 3rd floor.
This morning I did it big and went all the way to the 6th floor for my daily “talk”, thinking that I would dodge the Mexican’s silent, patient guard, trying to tap into his strategy for the task. Maybe started on the bottom floor or better yet, maybe he hadn’t started at all and I wouldn’t run into him at all. But no such luck. Once I was settled, on the second page of my literature, there was the tap-tap-tap on the door. “DANG…” I thought. “SOMEBODY’S IN HERE…” I replied to the tapping. The time drug on like a lecture class taught by an attorney and I promise things seemed to slow down like the trains going through Alabaster, as if they weren’t moving at a turtle’s pace already. But finally, literature neatly slid back into the interoffice envelope and sealed, hands washed and properly sanitized, paper towel in hand so I don’t touch the door handle on the way out, I emerged to face him yet again… “Hola” I say first. “Hola” he says in reply, his mouth smiling but his eyes definitely saying “not you again.” You could see the corners of his mouth rise ever so slightly as if he wanted to giggle or laugh at our chance meeting. At least he was gracious enough not to roll his eyes. I think I would have died if he had.
I’m thinking why must we meet like this so often? Is this some form of weekly punishment? Is this a candid camera type thing? Did my coworkers put him up to this, sending him my way soon after I leave my office? WHY are we meeting like this? I wish this would stop. I just want to “talk with Jesus” in peace. Is that too much to ask?
As I typed this, I laughed out loud several times. I hope you did too.
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