The Color of the Collar
By James Walker
Carpe diem? How could it be?
For he longed to upgrade his life from that of janitor, a vocation without prestige.
And the women he sought would never betroth someone donned in the habiliments of drudgery. It was unheard of.
They would want someone more stately, of the white collar caste, someone well-spoken, dapper and debonair, not one with mop in hand.
Such women would want the best.
Those of the intelligentsia had always been a fascination of his.
Their carriage, their mannerism and dutifulness all conspire to give them glamour, a mystique which lift them above the commonality.
Qualities which beckoned him.
The federal building had a bevy of women; a motley crew, but Janet a mulatto, and Marie, a swarthy Jamaican was his favorites.
The former statuesque, the latter petite.
Both beautiful and successful.
His every workday was a dreamy one, spent in overwhelming adoration and reverie, amid a pleasant ambience, with a scent redolent of a sweet bouquet, more aromatic than a rose and more sweet than a tangerine.
Being in the same building with so many sightly ladies brought him joy; he felt privileged to be there.
Though sad to relate, the rancid odor of the janitorial room was a constant reminder of his low position, of the filth he must eliminate daily. Getting the ladies to notice him seemed so remote.
“Hi Jay!” came a mellifluous voice.
“Oh hi!” he said, while turning to see who had spoken. “Janet how are you?”
“I’m fine. Jay, we had a big spill in the conference room. Could you take care of it please?”
“Yeah.” He thought for a moment that his luck had changed. With downcast eyes, he with mop, walked in the direction of the conference room.
“Thanks,” said Janet as he did so.
Jay said nothing more. It was just another day of the same there at the federal building.
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