“Yo, James! Having your regular?” Mike from the band called as walked across the bar. “We’re taking a short break.” Mike and his brother Rich play and sing at the Drollery, most Monday nights. “Finally found out what inspired the Janitor for his writing,” Mike said
“One of his teachers or his mom?” James asked.
“No,” Mike said and took a sip of wine. “Well, no not really. I mean not his mom. And, not one of his teachers. But I guess it was kind of lots of teachers. Not directly though,” Mike said and took another sip.
“You’re not making sense.”
“There he is. I’ll let him tell you himself. Mike, get over here,” Mike from the band yelled at Mike The Janitor.
“What’s up? The Janitor asked.
“Tell James what you told me about where you get your inspiration.”
Mike the Janitor gave a soft chuckle and scratched his head. “Same place I got my penmanship from.”
“I don’t get it,” James said.
“Neither do I,” the other Mike added. “That’s not what you told me before.”
“Okay,” Mike said. “I’ve been asked about a thousand times where I get my inspiration. At first I had to really think about my answer. Finally I figured it out. I’m inspired to write because I was expelled, grounded, banned from the playground or sent to detention when I was in kindergarten, first grade, second grade, third grade, fourth grade, sixth grade, high school and college. I spent a lot of time alone, so I started daydreaming or doodling. I started telling about those times and people asked me to write then down.”
James and Mike from the band, exchanged puzzled looks.
“Second grade is an example,” Mike said and told me the story.
“I went to elementary school in White Bear Lake, where I grew up. White Bear was a small town back then. The school was over by the lake and practically down town. I lived at 410 tenth street and walked to school so you can see how close together small everything was. The school was just one level and built like a big square doughnut Classes in the outside of the square and an open central court. Things were different back then. In the hallway that framed the court tall windows were open on that summer day. The windowsills were only about waist high. Remember, I was in second grade. The bottom half of the double hung windows was the part that was open. Students were in class so the hall was empty. It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining and a light breeze carried scents of flowers and fresh cut grass inside. Silently, I stood, with my eyes shut, enjoying the sun on my face. My tranquility was abruptly disrupted by a little girl from my class.”
“Why are you out here?” She asked. The tone of her voice didn’t sound particularly pleasant. She didn’t wait for an answer. She snatched the baseball cap off my head and sailed it like a Frisby, out the window. With her hands on her hips and fists clenched, she stepped in front of me and said, “There! What do you think of that?”
So, I shoved her out the window, looked down at her on the grass and answered, “I don’t know. What do YOU think of THAT?”
Now she wasn’t hurt but there was some yelling and crying. It cost me a week in the office, two weeks confined to the back yard at home, and lunched my cursive writing training. You see before my stroke, I had wonderful hand writing. That day started my learning and practice when I had to fill a whole chalkboard with, “I will not throw girls out the window.”
