This morning my job was more annoying than usual, as the last night’s clean-up crew evidently was missing one man and so no one cleaned the same bathroom at 9:30 pm that I had clean at 8am today. It doesn’t take long for 100 men to dirty up a bathroom, especially when in addition to the obvious, it is also used to do laundry, clean food receptacles, and as a rendezvous for smokers and rappers.
I mentioned it to “Woods,” (his last name, not to be confused with the Whites) who is the lead porter and my nominal “boss,” leaving it up to him whether or not to mention to the C.O.’s that the job hadn’t gotten done the night before. My intention wasn’t to get anyone in trouble, as much as to explain to Woods why it would likely take me longer than usual to clean. I minded the prospect of the extra work less than I minded the prospect of him checking up on me while I did it. He used to tell me I “wasn’t doing it right,” until I finally just told him to leave my ass alone, it wasn’t rocket science and my way left for a perfectly clean bathroom. Usually his objections had to do with me taking too long, i.e. being too thorough.
This, amusingly enough, was the same issue a supervisor had with Brad, a gay friend of mine in another dorm, when he cleaned. This is definitely a gay/straight thing. As any woman can tell you, straight men do not know how to clean a bathroom. This is partly because it’s an icky job and partially because they consider attention to detail a disdainful feminine trait, unless of course they are fixing the car or talking about sports, both cases in which no detail is too obscure or trivial.
More than that, with Woods, his reaction reflected the classic dynamic of what happens when you give little men a little power. They feel compelled to wield it, even when directions are obvious and don’t bear repeating, and the tasks in question hardly require micromanagement. I don’t mean little men as in small in stature, although in Woods’ case, that description happens to apply. I mean little as in small-minded and lacking the experience of exercising any but a small degree of authority over others. Woods may also have felt a bit insecure ordering a guy around who used a big word like “inconsistent.” I doubt if Woods made it past the 8th grade.
When I gave the bathroom a particularly good scrub one inspection day, and Redwood Hall won the right to go first to Canteen that week, Woods made an unexpectedly conciliatory gesture by seeming to credit my handiwork. I thought this out of character, to say the least, until he asked me if I would get him a pack of rolling paper (for cigarettes –it’s make-your-own here) from the canteen. I said “sure,” and gladly spent the 40 cents to gift him. Call me a brownnoser, but anything for peace in the workplace.
Still Woods remains somewhat alarmist in his posturing, and responds to the most routine request in a harried or defensive manner, as in: “hold on, hold on, I got to get the spray bottle in the office!” or “ I already gave you your ID card back!” So I wasn’t entirely surprised when, just before 11:00 am clean-up, Woods came charging down the aisle spouting ominously, “Get yo’ blues on, they want you in the office, there’s an oddity!” Getting your blue shirt on is usually not a harbinger of good news, it denotes “official,” but I was more intrigued by his use of the word “oddity.” It conjured up the unlikeliest of tableaux for this place; perhaps an English headmistress with a pince-nez, a Maggie Smith type, intoning to Hercule Poirot: “I’m afraid there’s been an oddity.” What kind of oddity? Had someone removed the spring from the spray bottle for use in a syringe? I asked. Woods just repeated it again. “An oddity, that’s all I know.”
So me and the other morning porters filed into the office, ready to hear details from Ms. Brown, the C.O. on duty. “There’s an ‘audit’ this morning,” she explained, referring quite matter-of- factly to a visit from the state inspectors. “I just want to make sure you’re all dressed right and have your work shoes on if they come while you’re cleaning up.” One of the porters, a chronic thong-wearer, went back to his bunk to change, but I was declared “audit-safe” in my attire.
Poor Woods. I didn’t want to rag on him in earshot. But back at my bunk I couldn’t resist. I regaled Rob and Sonny with my imitation of Thurston Howell III, “Gilligan, there’s been an oddity” You see, I have finally found a way to turn even such a glaring flaw in prison as being a WASP to my advantage. Like everything everywhere, it’s about that sometimes tricky little bit of business not taking yourself too seriously, even if sometimes you have to insist others do. That, like my WASP imitation so appreciated by Rob and Sonny, was taught to me not by Jim Backus, but by my Dad, the original Thurston Howell III wannabe.
You know, had my Dad been alive during this experience, I am sure he would have been an absolute rock. In fact, his memory has been a tremendous and unexpected help to me. Believe me, given our relationship, that statement is rather a cherished one.
MCO 2004
