Mr. Smith

A Story by Mike

Flash fiction

Mr. Smith

My workday began in the midafternoon at Mountain View Elementary School. I'd arrive thirty minutes before my shift started and spend time sitting at a chessboard across from Mr. Smith, the school's head custodian and my direct supervisor.

The chess games were ritualistic, a war between two men who disliked each other. His distaste for me was well concealed in all but his eyes.

Mr. Smith was confident of his ingenuity and happy to dispense advice that seemed full of warning.

Stay clear of that person. Watch your step around this one.

He had his ear to the ground by God, knew the score and played at having your best interests in mind.

What did I see in his probative glances, his well-practiced charm, his expressions of empathy? Perhaps a need to settle a score without needing reasons. Yes, that was it exactly.

***

As a gesture of good faith, Mr. Smith told me I needn't worry about Barb Poston. She was a teacher in the first-grade wing--one of the good ones.

She was well off. So well off, she’d lent Mr. Smith two thousand dollars three years before and had not fussed about being paid back when he told her he’d fallen on more hard times.

Mr. Smith assured me that Ms. Poston was a classy woman, and all was forgiven even though Mr. Smith had not attempted to return a red cent of the money.

I wondered at his self-satisfied expression in telling this story and why he might imagine I cared to hear more of it.

Apart from our differences, I had little to complain about. I did my job, and Mr. Smith did his job. My attendance record was exemplary; I'd missed one night in three years.

When I arrived at work one afternoon, I found Mr. Smith sitting dejectedly at his desk, tears in his eyes. Naturally, I asked him what the matter was.

"Be on your guard," he said. "Somebody stole money from Barb Poston's purse yesterday. You and I are the only ones with keys to her room."

"They're saying it was one of us?" I asked.

Mr. Smith said, "I'm just telling you to be on your guard."

He shrugged. A pneumatic valve hissed in the adjoining boiler room.

"Poston claims her door was locked, and she was in a staff meeting."

"And she left her purse in her classroom?" I asked.

"So, she says. Be on your guard. They want me at the police station tomorrow for questioning."

"Hey," I said, holding my hands up. "I wasn't in the building yesterday."

Mr. Smith shrugged again. "Don't ask me. I don't know what's going on around here."

I punched my card at the time clock and started down the first-grade wing, pulling a rolling trash cart behind me.

Barb Poston's room was first on my list. Her door was closed and locked, so I keyed in and went about my duties.

There was glitter on the floor. Children had left construction paper on their desktops with cotton ball clouds, crayoned-in campfires, and other details of the old west.

I emptied Barb's trash cans and headed for the door.

Barb came through first. She was middle-aged and attractive in her tailored outfit and had frost highlights in her short-cropped hair. Her perfectly straight teeth accounted for her dazzling smile. The makeup was discreet, with light brown eyeshadow to contrast the dark brown of her eyes, mute red lipstick, and a glow on her prominent cheekbones.

"Hello, Maxwell," she said.

"Hello," I said. "How are you?"

"You shouldn't ask; I just got out of a parent conference. One of my girls, whose desk is in the back row, hid behind it this morning and used scissors to cut off a good deal of her hair. And now…well… let's say it looks awful, and her mother wanted an explanation."

"I don't doubt it."

She touched my shoulder, saying, "Max, I wanted you to know we appreciated what you do around here. I want to say something else. The missing monies were UNICEF donations that parents made. I know you had nothing to do with the theft. I bought lunch at the cafeteria yesterday. Mr. Smith was on duty, standing by the cashier. When I opened my purse, he saw the donations."

“I’m sorry this happened,” I said.