The Janitor Nobody Saw
“Look how hard the janitor is scrubbing.”
Derek Coleman’s voice carried across the entire training hall.
It was loud enough to make the students near the heavy bags turn their heads.
Jerome Fisher kept walking.
His eyes remained lowered.
A gray polo shirt clung loosely to his broad shoulders. Black work pants covered his legs, and worn steel-toe shoes squeaked faintly against the polished floor. In his right hand was a mop. In his left was a plastic bucket filled with cloudy disinfectant water.
He had been cleaning for nearly two hours.
The evening advanced class had just finished.
Sweat had soaked the mats.
Several students had left water bottles, towels, and athletic tape scattered around the edges of the training floor. The mirrors were streaked with fingerprints. Someone had tracked mud across the hallway.
Jerome's job was to make the place look as if nobody had ever been there.
Derek Coleman was still standing in the center of the floor.
He wore a pristine white gi.
His black belt was tied tightly around his waist.
He was twenty-nine years old, six feet tall, athletic, confident, and completely convinced that his belt meant more than it actually did.
He had earned his first-degree black belt three years earlier.
Since then, he had become increasingly difficult to tolerate.
Derek loved attention.
He loved demonstrating techniques in front of beginners.
He loved telling people how many tournaments he had won.
He loved posting photographs of himself wearing his gi beneath the academy's championship banners.
And most of all, he loved reminding everyone that he was better than them.
Jerome had never been impressed.
That was something Derek had noticed.
And hated.
“Hey, Jerome.”
Jerome kept walking.
Derek stepped directly into his path.
“You hear me?”
Jerome stopped.
He looked at Derek.
“Yes.”
Derek smiled.
“You smell like bleach.”
A few students laughed.
Jerome said nothing.
Derek leaned closer.
“Honestly, man. It's disgusting.”
More laughter.
Jerome looked past him toward the bucket.
“I need to finish cleaning.”
Derek spread his arms.
“What's the rush?”
“The floor needs to be disinfected before morning.”
Derek chuckled.
“You know what I find funny?”
Jerome waited.
“I've been training here for almost five years.”
He tapped his black belt.
“And I've never seen you train.”
Jerome nodded.
“I don't train here.”
“Exactly.”
Derek looked around.
“Because you clean here.”
Several students exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Most of them knew Jerome.
Or at least they knew his face.
He had been cleaning Griffin's Martial Arts Academy for nearly four years.
He arrived every evening around six.
He left shortly after midnight.
He cleaned the mats, locker rooms, bathrooms, mirrors, windows, front office, and training equipment.
He emptied the trash.
He washed towels.
He replaced supplies.
He repaired little things when nobody else noticed they were broken.
He was the man who made the academy disappear into perfection every morning.
But very few people knew his story.
To most of them, he was simply the janitor.
Derek reached down and grabbed the mop from Jerome's hand.
He held it up like a trophy.
“Maybe you should train.”
Jerome's expression didn't change.
“I don't want to.”
Derek laughed.
“Why?”
“I have work.”
That answer made the room laugh harder.
Derek shook his head.
“You know what?”
He turned toward the students.
“Let's make tonight interesting.”
He threw the mop onto the hardwood.
The handle struck the floor with a sharp crack.
Everyone became quiet.
Derek pointed at Jerome.
“One round.”
Jerome looked down at the mop.
Then back at Derek.
“No.”
Derek smiled.
“Come on.”
“No.”
“It'll be fun.”
“No.”
Derek's smile disappeared.
“Are you scared?”
Jerome's jaw tightened slightly.
“No.”
“Then fight me.”
Jerome shook his head.
“I don't fight people for entertainment.”
Derek laughed.
“That sounds like something a guy who's afraid to fight would say.”
One student lowered his phone.
Another whispered, “Derek, just leave him alone.”
Derek ignored him.
He kicked Jerome's bucket.
The bucket tipped over.
Dirty water spread across the freshly cleaned floor.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Jerome stared at the puddle.
Derek grinned.
“You know how to clean.”
He pointed at the water.
“So clean.”
Jerome's right hand tightened around the mop handle.
His knuckles whitened.
Then he slowly relaxed.
He bent down.
Picked up the bucket.
Set it upright.
Derek watched him.
“That's what I thought.”
Jerome reached for the mop.
Derek stepped closer.
“Unless…”
Jerome stopped.
Derek's voice became louder.
“Unless you're afraid everyone is going to find out you can't fight.”
Jerome looked at him.
For one brief second, something changed in his eyes.
Not anger.
Something deeper.
Something controlled.
Something that made one of the older students standing near the wall instinctively step backward.
Then Jerome lowered his gaze.
“I don't have anything to prove.”