This world is full of sneaky, thieving bastards. I was sifting through a teacher's file cabinet when a little girl approached me, in tears, asking if I'd seen her jacket, that she'd set it down somewhere and was afraid it had been stolen. She gave me a description of it but I told her that no, I had not seen a light-blue satin military coat with a tiger sewn on the back; I assured her I'd keep an eye open though. Still crying, the girl walked out of the classroom and I resumed my search for the Spanish teacher's phone number. I was gonna call Senorita Hot Pants to see if she'd be interested in dating the sexiest man alive; i.e. me.
Though I managed to find some info on a few students who thought it necessary to spray paint "DIE HOMO" on my Accord, I struck out when it came to Senorita Hot Pants; that little kitten knew how to play hard to get, that's for sure. I was stopped by a security guard on my way downstairs. She asked the same question the little girl had pitched so I gave the same response, adding, "Why the hell would anyone steal a jacket in the first place?" Her answer?
"It's a cool jacket."
Fair enough, but things didn't add up. I followed that with another question, "Where's this girl's locker?" Once I knew that, I'd know which custodian to approach for questioning.
Sure enough, it was the second floor, western corridor; Stephan's area.
Make no mistake folks I'm a gentleman, and the recurring sight of that girl, without her jacket, crying, all but crushed me, burnt me up inside, and sent me into a blind fury. Before speaking with Stephan I had to go outside and collect my thoughts via a silent cry.
The clouds mirrored my emotions as lead sinkers of water splashed my shoulders and back; knees pushed to my chest I created a suitable hole to bury my tears in for the twenty minutes spent in that cold rain. As I stood, wiping my face, the thought occurred that just crying would solve nothing. No. If I wanted to help that little girl (and I damn well did) then I had to be proactive. I had to be like Matt Cordell and get to the bottom of things. My head raised toward those crying clouds I said, "I don't know who you are Jacket Thief but I'll find out soon enough. And when I do by God you better have protection, 'cause you messed with the wrong motherfucker. For every tear that girl sheds you'll pay back with tears of your own . . . tears of blood."
Thank God my custodial uniform is baggy and no one can spot the flask I hide in my pocket; what I needed most was a drink and, producing it, took a long, healthy sip of bourbon. Its warmth coursed down my throat and chest loosening me up, relieving my aching joints, drowning out the pain in my heart. "It's go time" I said, and marched down to the break room.

There sat Stephan, his back to me, at the table, no doubt reading some lame book on how best to apply make-up. Me, being the custodial cobra I am, snuck up silently, stealthily, so as not to disturb him. Then, just two paces away, made my presence known. My right hand clutched the back of his neck while my left slammed on the table creating quite the commotion. I could tell he was intimidated, which was exactly what I wanted; I got in his face and began my spiel, "All right Roberta Frost I got questions and you better have answers. There's a little girl, whose locker's in your area, crying her eyes out right now. Know why? Someone stole her jacket. I know how you and Cletus occasionally indulge in a kickback or two; an MP3 player here, a turkey sandwich there; it all adds up Stephan. Now, we can do things the easy way and have you cough up some answers or we can do things my way, which might result in you coughing up a lung. So. What's it gonna be?"
Stephan's eyes darted back and forth, telling me he was busy working out a few lies. Squeezing his neck harder I growled, "Spit it out."
"I don't know nothing, ya hear me? NOTHING!"
"Nothing, huh? How's this for nothing?" I released my grip on his neck, took both hands, shoved them into his armpits, threw my weight onto him, and pinned Stephan to the ground. My knees on his chest, I leaned in and whispered, "Last chance. Speak now . . . or forever rest in peace."
After an over exaggerated gulp Stephan let out a measly, "You don't have the balls."
Ha.
My fingers, still dug deep in the pits of his arms, began moving with the speed and dexterity of a trucker unzipping his fly after twelve cups of coffee in half as many hours behind the wheel.
Holding him down became difficult at this point, Stephan was bucking, writhing, like an epileptic bronco; nevertheless I held tight. Screaming, squealing, laughing, crying, as I tickled him into submission, I knew it wouldn't be long before Stephan's will broke. And then it happened; with a cry that was half gasp, half outburst, Stephan caved in, "I GIVE UP!"
In no mood for tricks, I kept tickling until he yelled again. I stopped, asked if he was ready to talk, and, after promising he would I said, "OK" and gave him a final slap across the face.
"What do you know?"
Still gasping, Stephan sputtered a few indecipherable words; I gave him a minute to regain his breath. He spoke, "The other day I was upstairs mopping after school when I saw this kid; blonde, short, glasses. He was kinda wandering around, looking like he was waiting for me to leave or something. I don't know. It's all so blurry now . . ." his voice trailed off.
"Well clear it up" I said, my hand raised and ready to slap.
"He...he...opened a locker, grabbed something, I'm not sure what, and ran off before I could approach him." Stephan paused. Then, "And that's it. That's all I know."
Not the treasure trove of knowledge I'd hoped to find but a lead is a lead; listening with my head turned away I nodded, confirming to Stephan my belief in his tale. A quick glance at the clock told me it was high time I made it home, on my way out I saw Stephan's cigarettes and lighter on the table. Figuring it would only heighten my badassness, I grabbed one and lit it right there saying, "Thanks. For the story, and the smoke. Bitch." Stephan made me promise not to tell anyone how he pissed himself. I did.
That's when I remembered the smoke detectors. It was hard not to since they were now clanging away at full volume, screaming in my ears. Throwing the cigarette at Stephan's feet I ran outside where I realized something else; if you're a non-smoker, tobacco makes you sick. Doubled over, I threw up chunks of undigested meat and hacked myself into exhaustion. I would have cleared my throat out more thoroughly if it weren't for the firetruck sirens growing louder and louder; hobbling to the Accord I made a clean getaway without any problems. Of course, Stephan could admit to the authorities it was I who set off the alarms, but I knew he wouldn't. I mean, if he didn't want everyone knowing about that puddle of piss in his pants he wouldn't.

It was hard to sleep that night, what with all the work I still had to do, but I managed a few hours. No worries though, a little bit of lost sleep is nothing a cup of strong coffee can't fix.

I hopped out of bed half an hour before my alarm went off, one thing was sure; I was ready to find this kid and make him squeal. No one bothered me about the smoke detector ordeal, as expected, and I made my way upstairs to wait for the suspect. It wasn't long. Walking up the stairs, a skyscraper stack of books in his arms, wearing a green cardigan and the tightest pair of high-water khakis ever known to man was my short blonde suspect, complete with Coke bottle glasses. That was the perp, no doubt about it. All I had to do was give him a few feet of leeway before following, and then I could strike. He must have sensed me because I saw his back straighten, all tense with guilt. Reaching his locker, I dove in for the kill before he even had a chance to lift the padlock. My right fist thumped the metal door. Startled, he jumped backwards. Now, face to face, I clasped both my hands together (as if to serve a volleyball) and pushed his books up from underneath. A flurry of loose leaf papers, homework ditto's and old tests scattered in the air before floating to the floor. Textbooks dropped, squashing a brown paper bag containing authentic geek food; an egg salad sandwich, baby carrots, and vanilla pudding.
I had him cornered. Pushed against the wall, I grabbed hold by the front of his cardigan and lifted him two feet up.
"Now you listen and you listen good, ya snot-nosed punk. I'm gonna ask you one thing. One thing only. WHERE'S THE JACKET? Spill the beans prick. Want everyone to know about your Barbie doll collection? I can make that happen. Don't have one? I can make that happen too. Imagine, it's first period, you open your locker. You need a math book. Instead a bunch of dolls come piling out. Next thing you know, everyone's calling you Nancy, and complimenting you on your fine taste in skirts. How's that sound, punk?"
Talk about a walk in the park. This kid wasn't about to give me half the trouble Stephan had. Even through those glasses, thick like pea soup fog, I could see the tears welling up, yet I wouldn't pity him; those were guilt tears he was crying.
"Save it for the judge Brace-face. Tell me what you did with the jacket."
"Nothing!"
"Ha! Heard that before. Try again!"
"I didn't do anything! I swear!!!"
"Oh yeah? What were you doing snoopin' around here the other day after school? Cold kickin it wit your posse? Isn't that how big time gangsta twirps like you talk these days? (dramatic pause) ANSWERS. NOW."
Then came an interruption.
"Hey! what are you doing to my brother?"
How did I know that voice? One glimpse of her face and I knew. The girl who lost her jacket came running toward us, demanding I put her brother down; my face burning red from embarrassment and anger. Embarrassed I'd nailed the wrong kid. Angry Stephan had given me one, huge, fat, stinking, red herring. The girl told me how she had her little brother check her locker one last time while she asked around about the jacket. Apologizing profusely I helped clean the mess I'd made.
I'm a custodian. I would've had to sooner or later anyway.
Then I went downstairs to have a talk with Stephan.
No one was in the break room which, come to think of it, wasn't all that bad. I could use a little quiet time to piece all this information, or lack thereof, together. The footsteps approaching from behind were soft and evenly paced. A hand placed itself on my left shoulder, then a voice, "So it looks as if we've got ourselves a super sleuth, doesn't it?"
Instant recognition. No need to turn around. "Cletus" I scowled.
"Bingo. And I'm here to tell you to stop searching for the jacket. If you value your job, if you know what's good for you, then you'll stop searching for that little girl's jacket and start doing what you're supposed to, and that's maintaining this building. Understand?"
"I understand. I understand all right. I keep my mouth shut, keep my job, and you continue stealing from these innocent children. You disgust me."
The grip on my shoulder tensed, "Rich. Listen to me. As your supervisor, as your friend, I'm telling you, not asking, to stop the search. This goes deeper than you think. So, for the last time I'm telling you. Stay out of it."
My eyes clenched shut, my teeth gnashed, I made no effort to respond.
"Hey. You look like shit. Why don't you take the rest of the day off, head home, and hop in the shower? Wally'll cover your area, and we'll forget this whole thing ever happened. OK?"
I nodded.
"OK. See you in twenty-four" and the footsteps were retreating, but before they faded away, I asked Cletus, "Why?"
"Why?"
"Yeah, why's it gotta be like this?"
"Dunno. Wish I had the answers, kid. It's just the way it's always been I guess" and he was gone. Five minutes passed and I was too.

Perhaps I did need a shower but I didn't want one. Instead, what I wanted (needed) was a drink. Still in my bright orange jumpsuit I headed to the nearest bar and ordered a beer.

Must have been happy hour, or something similar, when it dawned on me how long I'd been there. The bar, so desolate before, now brimmed over with people; all kinds too, from young frat boys to rich yuppies to weekend warriors and even a few old drunks. I was approached several times by people asking if I was an escaped convict, and depending on my mood at the moment, sometimes said yes, other times no. One of the old drunks struck a conversation with me about how in 2018, "the white man will no longer exist." Only an idiot, I thought, would think something like that. What a dumbass. Didn't he know how wrong his statement was? Didn't he know the correct projected year was 2012? Moron.
Even if the old drunk hadn't a clue as to what he was talking about, I didn't care; I needed something to take my mind off my confrontation with Cletus, and bombed though I was, the alcohol wasn't cutting it. His words kept repeating in my brain, "this goes deeper than you think, this goes deeper than you think, this goes deeper than you think" frustrating me more than those goddamn adhesive strips distributors place across the tops of CD's to prevent shoplifting. All out of leads and running low on patience and perseverance, I tipped my brown bottle of Old Mill and tasted its corn flake goodness. What did Cletus mean? How deep was this ring of terrorist thieves?
"Ain't that right, Mac?"
The old man was still jabbering away at me. I looked at him, about to ask if he'd repeat his question when a flashy material caught my eye. Focussing was a strange talent I now had to reacquire; squinting, I could barely make out the source of that flash. Then it reappeared. Light slashed across someone's back as they passed below a low hanging barlight. THE JACKET!
Blue, satin, tiger patch; it was all there! Forgetting my current state of mind I fell to the floor attempting to jump out the stool I'd sat in so many hours. Pins and needles massaged my throbbing legs but I was determined to catch whoever it was with that jacket. Once on my feet, a new problem presented itself; how do I get through all these jerk-offs? Then it hit me.
Shouting, "I'm gonna puke!!" I managed my way across a sea of Keystone guzzling pricks, ending up arm's length from that tiger patch. One step, two steps, three steps, gotcha!
I had him by the arm. I spun him around. I froze at what I saw.
"YOU?"
The security guard! She was the thief!
"You?" I repeated, "Why? Why would you steal from that little girl?"
Sucking on a Virginia Slim, she inhaled, paused, exhaled a carcinogenic cloud, and, smiling, replied, "It's a cool jacket." She winked.
"You'll burn for this you cold-hearted bitch."
"Keep talking tough little boy and I just might manhandle your crotch."
Now, you have to admit, that's a pretty ambiguous statement however, the wink wasn't. Anytime someone winks at you it's like they're handing out a businesscard that says, 'wanna hump?' so I adjusted my package accordingly, and sauntered over for a smooch.
She flicked her cigarette in my eyes, grabbed my man fruits and squeezed the living hell out of 'em while her other hand collided with my nose. By collided I mean she punched me repeatedly for five minutes or so until boredom set in. After that she spit in my face and walked away. My friend the old drunk had seen the whole scene, and now with the coast clear helped me to my feet and out to the car where I slept.
The next morning I woke with cramped legs, stinging cold in the backseat. Cletus was a bit upset upon hearing I'd be absent from work a second day, but there seemed to be a hint of understanding in his voice when I told him I no longer wanted anything to do with the jacket.
Then it was back to bed, followed by hours of Bugs Bunny cartoons.

Watching all that television numbed my nerves. I accepted defeat. Though it would've been nice to return to that girl her jacket, I knew hero was a role I'd never again play. I made up my mind not to give the experience any more thought.
That's why today at work, when I heard a young boy asking about his lost CD player, I shook my head and kept mopping.