The Sweeper

     From 1920 to 1935, the subway station at 18^th Street and 4^th Avenue was under the custodianship of a janitor by the name of August Washington.  August was responsible for the upkeep and maintenance of the station.  Everything from polishing the wood paneling, adjusting the clocks, and sweeping the floors fell under his jurisdiction.

     His daily routine started with sweeping out all the vagrants that had wondered in for shelter overnight.  “Excuse me sir, but you’ll have to move on now,” he would say, always polite.  Then he would sweep up all the paper and trash that had blown up from the tunnel.  His morning routine would end right before the first gush of passengers arrived.

     And every time, the litter would be right back again.  It ranged from newspapers, to apple cores.  From broken bottles to vomit.  And every time, he would clean it up without a care in the world, but was never happy about the vomit.

     But every day he found a cigarette stomped out and ground into the same spot on the concrete floor where it lined up with the door to the train.  The tobacco ash swept up just fine, but over the course of fifteen years, a black stain grew.

     Another point of constant frustration was the gum spot over the stairs leading into the station from the street.  The kids from the local neighborhood had taken to sticking their chewing gum on the ceiling above the final stair.  He had never seen them do it, but he knew it was just some kids.  He couldn’t get to it to clean, so over the years it had piled up into a large gray lump.

     On the morning of July 31^st, 1935, August, now fifty-four years old and close to retiring, was going about his daily routine.  While finishing up his morning sweep, he saw a couple kids giving another kid a boost, sticking gum on that spot.  August rushed over, but they ran off when they saw him approaching.  He looked up to inspect the sticky mass, but could not tell if it had gotten any bigger.

     A smoking man came down the stairs, and passed by him.  He looked familiar, one of the regulars, but this time August watched the man walk over to stand near the black stain.  A light wind kicked up as a train came into the station, its brakes squeaking.  The smoking man dropped his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out.  His foot pivoted as he smashed the cigarette into the black stain.  The door to the train opened and the man stepped inside.

     August called out, “Please don’t smash it out like that.  It stains the floor.”  The man either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the plea.  The station emptying, August took his broom and brushed the discarded cigarette over the edge, onto the tracks below.

     From behind August, a vagrant man made his way stumbling down the stairs.  The final stair was a final tumble, and the man crumpled into a pile.  A croaking sound from the man preceded a burp, which lead to him retching on the ground.

     In disgust, August turned his attention back to the black stain.  He swept at it over and over to no avail.

     The next day, August went about his routine, but he made sure to end it by being at the bottom of the stairs to watch for those children.  They came, all of them chewing gum, but when they saw him waiting, they turned and went back up the stairs.  August smiled in satisfaction.  He would make this part of his daily routine from here forward.  August took a look back up to the mass of gum.  His smile disappeared when he thought the gum pile seemed bigger than the day before.

     The foot steps of a lone passenger echoed down the stairs.  August watched as the familiar smoking man walked passed him and over to the black stain on the ground.

     “Excuse me sir,” August said to him.  “Would you mind not smashing out your cigarette quite so hard?  It stains the floor.”

     “Are you talking to me,” the man turned and asked as he took a final drag of smoke.

     “Yes sir, if you please.”

     The man dropped his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out, grinding it into the concrete.  The man blew out his last breath of smoke into August’s face then turned back to the tunnel.  The sound of an approaching train began to echo through the station.

     August took his broom, put it on the man’s back and pushed him over the side.  The train swept into the station, blowing papers and other debris.  After the train left the station again, August looked down to see the cigarette was still on the stain in front of him.  He lowered his broom and swept the cigarette over the side.

Meadow Park

     Blue reached out to touch the chain of the empty swing.  His trip to the smoldering remains of Meadow Park sparked a burst of memories from the depths of his heart.  They came with pain and joy as a tension grew in his throat and moisture edged his eyes.

     Blue had met her here.  When he saw her for the first time, he knew he would find her in his heart and thoughts until the end of everything.

     The way the sun broke through the canopy of trees in small patches, crossing over and reflecting in her brown eyes.  Her smile with that one slightly crooked tooth made him feel stupid and clumsy, and when he first met her gaze, time stopped.  His ears didn’t seem to work anymore, his palms sweat, and he thought his heart might not be beating.

     Blue grabbed the warm chain of the swing so he wouldn’t fall over.  His mouth smiled back while his eyelids closed on tears.

     He saw her reach up and loop a strand of long brown hair over her ear.  She spun her green summer dress in a half circle, coming out to stand in a patch of sunlight.

     Despite his protests, she always wore summer dresses on their Sunday morning picnics.

     “You must be freezing,” Blue said one January morning.  Looking back to him, she shook her head.  “Here, take my jacket.”  Her eyes brightened as he hung the coat over her shoulders.

     “It smells like you, Blue.”  And to her, that was a good thing.

     Blue walked over to a burnt-out tree trunk on the edge of the clearing, where the fire was started.  It had been dry from the summer and burned fast, spreading outward in a ring.  He sat down at the base, between the roots, facing the metal swing set.  The ground was black and warm.

     She sat down in front of him leaning against his chest.

     He bent his head forward to take in the sweet smell of her hair, but he only took in the smell of smoke and burnt wood.

     She fell asleep there, under the tree, in his arms.

     He called her Meadow, but her real name was Molly.  She named him Blue, but he never asked why.

     “Push me on the swing, Blue.”

     Blue noticed that her laugh seemed to make the park smile when she was on the swing.  The giggling was contagious.  She jumped off the swing and ran over to him, reaching out.

     He reached out to meet her hand, but his fingers fell on air.  He snapped out of his reverie.  Meadow Park was scorched from existence in a fire that had sprung up early that morning.  The area around the former grove still burned.  Gray ash drifted on a breeze.  He knew he shouldn’t still be there with the firemen about, trying to contain the surrounding blaze, but nothing could keep him away.  Now nearly thirty years old, he’d been coming here every Sunday morning for the last seven years, even after last year’s accident.

     The idea of climbing the tree had been brought up before, but he always shot it down.  “Please, Blue.  I just want to climb up to that branch there and take a picture so we can both see our spot the same way God must see it.”

     Blue knew God didn’t want him to see it.  When the camera fell out of her hands as she climbed down the tree, the film popped out on impact with the ground and was exposed.

     He was held by the sight of Meadow reaching out to grab the camera with her right hand as her left was switching to a lower branch.  He jumped to catch her, but the fall was not far.  Her body fell inches from his outstretched hands.  Her head impacted on a small rock.  The crack in her skull would cause severe bleeding.  He would not be able to hold in her life.  The ambulance would be too late.

     Now the sun didn’t break through the canopy of trees in patches.  And the trunk he leaned against still smoldered in areas.  He pulled out the matchbook he had used to start the fire that burned the park.  He lit the remaining matches, tossing them on the ground around him, leaving only one unlit.  One by one, they each went out.  There was nothing left around him to burn.

     He lit the last match and held it under the cuff of his jacket.  The fibers twisted and melted, but wouldn’t catch flame.  The match burned out against the tip of his finger, making him flinch in pain.

     From deep within his body, a sob escaped.  His chest trembled.  The grief welled up and poured out.  His cries deafened his own ears.

     But they passed.

     Blue looked around, but saw nothing.  Not a creature, not a memory.  This new emptiness made him uncomfortable.  He moved into the center of what was once their clearing hoping to stir up a vision.

     Nothing came.

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