Edward scanned the various awards in his office. Many plaques and certifications filled his wall. He felt momentarily anxious when he realized he had not received any nominations this year. Had he peaked? Would he now be an after-thought? Or worse, the presenter to future winners of accolades?
Of course, no one gets called a has-been when the words ‘Nobel Laureate’ follow their name. Still, it gave him pause.
It was late. As far as Edward knew, only he and that janitor occupied the Physics Department building. His day was closing and the janitor had a full night ahead of him. Edward didn’t know the janitor’s name. They never spoke and rarely acknowledged each other as he passed him, en route to the exit. They had nothing in common. What would he say to the man?
“Oh, Mr. Janitor, would you please be sure to sweep up the quantum particles collecting under my desk?” Edward didn’t think the man would get the joke and would probably spend an inordinate amount of time searching for them. Oh well. It is good, even a man of such low ability has work to sustain himself.
Edward caught himself again. He really was a snob. His mother warned him about that. But are you a snob when you actually are superior to everyone you meet? It was no contest. Oh, that it were. Stooping always gave him a back ache.
That was the curse of his genius, as Edward saw it. The loneliness that comes of having no one with whom to talk. There were none who could follow his train of thought or even, except in the most superficial manner, anything he had to say. And Edward could not stand small talk.
The tragedy, if that wasn’t too strong a word, was that to Edward, everything was small talk. None would recognize the sublime if it rose like a grand cumulus cloud from behind the mountain. To them, it would be but a sign of rain.
He had no friends. Not really. Co-workers, yes. Peers, yes. But no one he could meet without immediately descending into shop talk, or minutia about the next raft of peer reviewed papers waiting to be published.
When he left tonight, or any night, he planned to drive home, eat something light, sip a tea while scanning his mail and retire. Restaurants bored him. They are noisy and most are badly run.
The rare occasion he was forced to attend a social event, he generally ended up staring at the fire place, fire or not, because no one understood him and he couldn’t stand listening to the incessant babble of half-drunk intellectuals reaching above their IQ. It was too, too tedious. What do other despairing people do?
~
Joaquin had his routine and he rarely strayed from it. Get the big stuff first. Sweep the floors. Empty the waste baskets.
The bathrooms take most of the time. Mainly it’s trash, and a mop handles the rest.
He pushed the wide broom at an angle, up one side of the corridor and down the other. Debris trailed off toward the middle. He pushed the broom up the middle and back. And then collect it all into a waste bin.
Sweep. Dump. Repeat.
The things people throw away amused Joaquin. So much waste. Books! Blank paper! Reams of it. It all went to recycling.
Joaquin wished he understood what it all meant. If he could, he would be the king of idea recycling.
The job was not complicated. Joaquin was good at it. Most nights, he would wrap up around 2am. Then go home to his family. That is what made his life valuable. His Maria. His little Pablo. Their smiles. Their laughter. That was enough for him.
Joaquin looked forward to his weekends at home. Maria’s brothers came by with their families. They would share barbeque. Life was good.
His father taught him everything. Papa always said how things had changed. When he was young, he would spread waxed sawdust on the floor and sweep it up. The sawdust was colored red and green. Surplus bought from the circus. It was simple.
Now, there were restrictions on cleaners. Some things cleaned better. Some not. Disposal was always a concern. Recycling this and that. Separating containers into the right bin. So much to remember.
Everyone was gone except for the professor in the bright office down the hall. He always worked late. Joaquin never saw him speak to anyone. He never said hello. It would be like the Pope saying ‘Howdy!’ Who would expect that?
Does the Pope need friends? He has God.
~
Edward examined the orange in his hand. He enjoyed things of beauty. And he found beauty in something as mundane as an orange.
He peeled it slowly and took in the sharp, sweet aroma the peel emitted. Edward loved how the light shone from the peel surface and then softened off the pulp.
Each wedge clung firmly to its neighbor. Each tiny sack of juice waited to run along his tongue and down his throat. What a complex of flavors! He thought about the subtle mix of qualities brought together by the interplay of sunshine and the tree roots drawing minerals and water into the fruit to combine in so delicious a manner. Was he the only one who appreciated the miracle of a simple orange?
He was happy with simple pleasures. He wished he could share them.
Edward chuckled to himself, remembering hearing that his grad students claimed he ‘explains things to God.’ If only he could find someone who would listen, who could understand.
He savored the orange, wedge by wedge, and dropped the peel into the basket. Time to go.
Edward shut his office door. He was about to lock it but realized the janitor was approaching. He looked at the man pushing his broom.
He suddenly felt odd. The janitor smiled. He said, “It’s okay.” Only Edward heard himself say it.
Edward blinked. He was holding the broom and smiling at the professor, who had just shut his office door. He repeated, “It’s okay. I have a key.”
The professor looked at him strangely and nodded. Then he walked down the hall. ‘What a strange man,’ Edward thought.
When the professor had gone, Edward shook his head. He asked himself, “What just happened? Was I dreaming?”
He distinctly remembered imagining he was the professor. Edward crossed himself and thanked God he was blessed with his life and no other.
“I dreamed I was a professor!” Edward laughed heartily and returned to work. He said, “Wait til I tell Maria.”
~
Joaquin awoke from a troubled sleep.
“My God! What was that?” He looked around his simple room. His desk held neat, separate stacks of student’s term papers and dissertations awaiting his remarks. Bookshelves lined his walls. A small picture of his parents and his boyhood self. He was home.
He let out a deep sigh as he realized what he dreamed. But he was not a janitor. He was still an honored man, a professor at the height of his intellectual powers. He was himself, a Nobel Laureate. Always the smartest man in the room.
Joaquin sat on the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor. His slippers lay where he left them. He paused a moment allowing his head to clear.
He laughed at the thought he would ever be satisfied cleaning toilets and puzzling about into which recycling bin he should deposit a plastic bottle.
Then Joaquin looked at his hands. He vividly remembered his childhood in Spain. His parents held a party for him and the most wonderful barbecue was served. Everyone was there. He remembered the smoke. The smell of sizzling meat. It was so real.
He said, “Ahh, barbecue. How I miss it.”
Storyography - Where Memory and Language Wrestle with Reality 