His nametag said Early, and in the beginning I had to stop and squint, even re-squint, to make sure I was reading it right. Early? If he was or wasn’t, I can’t be certain but I do know that he was always there when I arrived for my 8:30 class.
As a rule, over the years, security people come and go—here one day, gone the next—and every now and again a new company takes charge, which means, of course, new faces, new soldier-like uniforms with golden epaulettes, a broad blue stripe running down the seam of their trousers, like something out of the Bengal Lancers, walkie-talkies that beep and buzz, not to mention that I must show, yet again, my ID card, as they turn it this way and that, holding it up to the light because you never know, until they will shrug, saying, “Thank you, Sir.”
But back to Early. In the morning, in the bathroom, I watch him go from sink to sink to sink, letting each faucet run first cold then hot, and then, just for good measure, hold his hand in the water, because when it comes to security you can never be too safe. Once satisfied, he steps to the next sink and faucet and so on down the line. That done, he then goes to the five stalls, flushing each toilet.
And yes, I watch as he intently watches each toilet flush properly, frowning into the toilet bowl as the water does its duty before moving on to the next stall. But not so fast, because there is more as he patiently waits, arms folded, hiding his nametag, for each water tank to refill. That done, he then looks to see if there are enough paper towels, to see if the silver hand-blowing machine is in proper blowing order.
“Why are these urinals built so high?” I heard him say one day to someone on his walkie-talkie. “Some very tall men must have installed them. Too high for most men, not to mention boys.”
Taking out a black notebook from his shirt pocket, with ballpoint pen that he clicks to life, he writes. As he heads to the door, he can’t help but scan the ceiling, looking at the lights, and sure enough one florescent light is flickering, and so with notebook still firmly in hand, he writes. Before he leaves, he studies the flickering light one last time before sighing and moving on down the hallway, his walkie-talkie crackling.
After two weeks of this, one morning as he is doing his security check of the 4th floor bathroom, I give him a good morning with handshake and say, “Early, can I ask you one question?”
He smiles and says, “Surely,” not surprised that I knew his name because, after all, what are nametags for.
“Well, you are a security guard, right?”
“This is true.”
“Yes, well, as security guard why do you feel the need to check the plumbing? I mean, don’t we have maintenance for that? It’s not your job, Early, this running water and flushing toilets. Not your job. Security and plumbing are different animals. See what I mean?”
“Animals?” His hands taking a firm grip on his walkie-talkie. “Where? Where are they?”
“Not animals animals. I mean duties. Different duties.”
There is a small pause as he cocks his head to hear his radio crackle. Once the crackle is finished, he smiles, followed by, “Yes sir, you are not wrong but security is security. It is all in the details, don’t you think? In fact, excuse me for saying but that is the problem these days, nobody cares a fig for details.”
“A fig?”
“Yes sir, a fig. Everybody thinks that being precise is wrong, a waste of time, the faster the better. More flaw than fanfare.”
“I like that: more flaw than fanfare. Where did you hear that?”
His hand is once again at his walkie-talkie, fingering the buttons. “My mother is a school teacher. She knows things like this: more flaw than fanfare, thoroughness is a virtue, always be punctual. She is the head teacher for three villages.”
Now he motions to the row of porcelain sinks with one hand, the line of stalls with the other. “And so, here I am, watching over you, this building, this university, even the country, do you see? And yes, you are entirely welcome.”
The very next day, since we are now early-morning friends, Early tells me be owns a degree in psychology. That’s what he said, ‘own.’
“No, I didn’t know that,” I say genuinely surprised. “Your mother must be very proud of you.”
“Do you want to see it? The degree? I have a folded copy of it in my wallet.” And he starts to pull out his wallet.
“No, no, not necessary. I believe you.”
“Yes, but sad to say, who needs a college degree these days?” And he laughs as if it were a joke and I am sure to miss the humor of it but never mind because he will laugh for the both of us. Holding his hands out. “Sir, if truth be told, none of this security requires a college degree, not even a high school diploma.”
“Still, you are putting your college degree to work?” I say jokingly. But when he looks at me I can see there is nothing like fun in his face, more like a grimace.
“Cameras would make it easier, you know.” “Where?”
“Here.”
“In the bathroom?”
He shrugs, “Certainly, we all are the same here, in the bathroom.”
I think about saying something about his mother, the head teacher of three villages, but decide against it. “All part of being precise, is it?”
He waves a hand that could mean yes, no, why not, don’t be silly.
I watch him finish his security check but before leaving he returns to one of the sinks, washes his hands with much soap and lather before pulling out two, three paper towels to dry his hands. Almost out the door now, he leans into his walkie-talkie, declaring, “All clear with 4th floor toilets.”
Somebody somewhere answers him with an official “Roger that” crackle.
“And yet you carry a copy of your college degree, just in case? A college graduate guarding the toilets. Well done.” It is meant to be funny, I final barb of humor before he goes, but it comes out sounding all wrong, strangely angry.
“Somebody’s got to do it, professor.”
“Think so?”
“Absolutely, somebody.”
In a feeble attempt to get the last word in, the last noise, the best I can do is click my tongue. When Early turns to look at me one last time, there is a hint of sorrow in his face as if he expected more, something bigger and better, before he lifts the walkie-talkie to his lips, announcing, “Going to the fifth-floor bathroom now.”
“Roger that.”
As he takes the stairs, I want to apologize but don’t.
Photo by Collin Armstrong on Unsplash.
