SARGE AND PRINGLES by Jay
I’ve worked many jobs over the years. For a time back in the late 90’s I used to
work in a janitorial position. It wasn’t
the most illustrious job I ever had, but it was money in my pocket and helped
me pay for graduate school with little responsibility. Of course, there was the everyday drudgery of
cleaning toilets, vacuuming, sweeping, buffing, wiping down windows, and of
course, pulling trash.
I did my rounds at night mechanically with absolutely no
stress. There were hardly any people in the
buildings I cleaned except for other cleaners and an occasional stray
overachiever who just didn’t know when it was time for him to go home. It was usually deathly quiet. Sometimes, I would just stand in a certain
spot and look up at the stars or listen to the distant traffic on the
street. I could hear crickets and the
peaceful sounds other critters made, and the whole atmosphere was perfectly
suited to one who was more or less an introvert such as myself.
Every night, the security guard would come on the grounds
around 11:00 p.m. just as we cleaners were about to leave. He was an overweight man of about 60 years of
age with a drawn, ashen looking face and gray, thinning hair greased back and
combed neatly off his forehead. He had
probably been much heavier when he was younger and healthier, but then he just
looked old, tired, and worn out. He
always wore a thick blue jacket with the white letters SECURITY emblazoned
across his back, and when he came in, he always had a lunch pail and a thermos
of coffee with him.
I never knew his name.
Everyone called him Sarge. I don’t
know why. Maybe he was an ex-police
sergeant or had been in the military in some capacity. I never did find out. Or maybe he just looked like a sarge.
In hindsight, it doesn’t really matter.
Whenever I think of a sarge,
an image of him pops into my mind.
He wasn’t particularly friendly, but neither was he
unfriendly. He was just quiet – a guy
who had seen the world and who just wanted to do his job and mind his own
business.
Every night it was the same.
I’d lock up the building in which Sarge would set up for the night and
cordially greet him. Occasionally, a few
hollow remarks would pass between us such as, “Looks like there might be some
storms” or “It’s a quiet one tonight.”
Usually, it was me who spoke.
Sarge generally seemed too withdrawn into himself to offer any kind of
banal conversation, as if some inner demons were tormenting him. Sometimes, I would just see him in profile,
sitting in his tiny cubicle, staring at nothing in particular or reading a
magazine or a newspaper – anything to pass the long hours he would have to while
away between making his hourly rounds.
Others times, I would see him sitting on his golf cart staring up at the
stars through the trees. What was he
thinking about as his gaze lifted skywards?
Perhaps he was thinking that there had to be something better than the
mundane routine of this dull existence.
Or perhaps he was thinking about the unfathomable mysteries of the universe. Or maybe I was the one thinking these
things. For all I know, Sarge was
thinking of nothing at all. In any
event, what I’ve related above summed up my sole communication with this
individual for over a year, and I knew absolutely nothing more about him on the
last night that I saw him than on the first.
All except one thing.
He liked Pringles.
Yes, if there was one thing in the world that Sarge liked it
was a tall can of Pringles. For every
night when I would go in and take up his garbage, there was a can of pringles
to be seen in the basket. Usually, this
was the only object in there.
Occasionally, there would be other items as well including napkins or
tissues. But usually, it was just a
single, solitary empty can of pringles.
Yes, indeed, Sarge liked his potato chips.
And then one night, I went to lock up the building and there
was another security guard in Sarge’s booth.
He appeared to be an unwelcome intruder.
After all, this was Sarge’s domain.
It was as if this other guard was a blemish who had appeared in the
night, corrupting the peaceful world of Sarge and his long hours of thoughtful,
introspective solace. I casually asked
this invader where Sarge was… Why wasn’t
he at his post? It was as if some
unnatural corruption in the universe had violated the sacred sanctuary of this
quiet individual. I was told with an
intrusive flash that Sarge had died of a massive heart attack after his shift
had ended. His wife had found him
sometime in the morning lying peacefully in his bed.
Though I did not know Sarge, not even his name, I felt
sad. And as I stooped to remove the bag
of trash in the wastebasket, I was met with the familiar sight of the long, red
can of Pringles for the final time. I
stepped outside into the night and gazed up at the stars right where Sarge used
to sit in his golf cart doing the same, pouring a hot cup of steaming coffee
from his thermos and putting it to his lips or munching a Pringle or two.
