Not Andersen Prunty

The janitor is exalted to a kind of king status.

He’s reached his fifties and the owner, who’s nearing seventy, knows the janitor is going through something. He doesn’t intervene because he doesn’t like altercations.

The janitor, after working there for thirty years, takes a shit in front of the door while everyone watches—some of them up close, some from their cars, some from the windows, some from the closed-circuit television.

“I ain’t comin’ back in until someone else cleans this up!” the janitor shouts.

The owner tells the new girl she has to go clean it up because he knows if he fires the janitor on the spot, he’ll either get beaten up or yelled at. Plus he’ll have to find someone on the internet—quick—who can come and solve his problem. He doesn’t like asking the new girl this, it just seems like the easiest, most immediate and copacetic action.

She says, “Fuck no,” and quits, leaping over the pile of human shit to get away from the building.

The owner asks the next-newest guy and he also says, “I quit,” but then says he isn’t walking over shit to get out. It’s unleapable. It’s a pretty sizeable mess and he’s a little obese. He admires the new girl’s athleticism and determination.

Finally, the owner wises up and asks the guy who’s there sixty hours a week but adds “I don’t want to stretch you too thin” because he knows he’s really on edge.

The guy raises his eyebrows and says he needs a raise. The owner gives him a hundred percent raise. He’ll be rich in six months, living like he does now.

The janitor goes back to doing what he always did, except now he shits in front of the door once a day. It keeps him regular. It’s also less messy, to make it easier for the other guy to handle.

The other guy cleans up the pile of shit every day, but the rest of his job performance suffers a little.

The owner stops paying any attention whatsoever.

They all know this has to happen, but none of them wants to make it too difficult.