Tom

A noble veteran of custodianship, Tom and his stories had the power to dazzle an unflappable Stoic. Simon Bolivar would have undoubtedly perceived that Tom was 50% Colombian. When I first met him, however, I thought that he was an average white man with a mustache. My assumptions were fostered by the very nature of his last name--"O'Connor". Then I heard him speak perfect Spanish. Gradually, I began to recognize the "Colombian" in him--whatever that means. His eyes and mouth clearly conveyed his Latin American roots. To be sure, Tom could have told me that he was from Venezuela or Brazil and I would have believed him just the same. 

Tom had been a custodian at Cal Poly for at least twenty years. He no longer cleaned the dorms (which he had done for around 15 years), but instead drove a small white pick-up truck around the campus, completing nearly every maintenance task in the dorms known to man. I am serious. Among other things, he did electrical work, fixed broken beds, replaced fluorescent lights, put closet doors back on their tracks, and kept vacuums and carpet shampooers running smoothly. When I got the chance to ride along and work with him, I savored every moment. He showed me the insides of machines and explained how they worked, even their most intricate details. He further stressed how important it was to properly maintain machinery, and how by doing so one could greatly extend the life of a motor-propelled object. I estimated that Tom had saved the university thousands of dollars during his tenure there. Tom was an original Gregor Mendel as well, and he loved to share with me the numerous benefits of plants on campus. One time we stopped at an aloe vera plant, where he subsequently broke off a piece of the plant, split it in half, and ate the gel in the middle. He stated that the plant had a number of vitamins in it, and that when ingested it was good for the body. No doubt he could have survived in the wild.

  Besides being one of the most intelligent individuals I have ever known, Tom had a work ethic that was unparalleled. Similar to Alfredo, Tom worked two jobs. He co-owned his own custodial business. Beginning at two o'clock in the morning, he cleaned businesses and health centers in the area. He finished around six o'clock in the morning, just in time to prepare for his next job. He made his twelve-mile roundtrip commute to Cal Poly by bicycle every day of the work week, regardless of the conditions. 

 Tom never took lunch breaks, and he usually worked overtime--without pay. He did all of this only to be treated like dirt by upper-management. Another custodian once told me that, for several years, Tom was making the exact same amount as other custodians ($28,000 a year). Well, all of the custodians didn't believe that this was right, especially considering that he did more work and had greater skills than they did. So, in 2004 or thereabout, they all protested Tom's meager salary. Well, their objections were heard and Tom now makes a whopping $30,000 a year. Amazingly, he never once complained about these disparities.

  Prior to arriving on California's central coast in the 1980's, Tom worked at a rose farm in Hawaii. It was here that he surfed until the sun went down and socialized with the locals for the rest of the night. He also befriended the inventor of Morey Boogie. He moved from his beloved island only because his wife wanted to be close to her family in California. Now that's dedication. As of a few months ago, Tom had visited every continent but Africa. Before he met his wife, Tom lived in New Zealand for a few years and worked in construction. I know that he briefly lived in a few other countries, but I am not sure which ones. In the midst of all his travels, he struck up a friendship with the adoptive father of the woman who created EBONY magazine. Apparently, her father was a priest at some Episcopalian church. I don't know if that is where Tom met the man. 

Tom loved his wife, and he had two very accomplished daughters. One daughter was a Spanish teacher at an elementary school in SLO, while his other daughter was a model. The latter lived in Paris, but travelled all over the world. Tom told me that she had graced the pages of ELLE and Glamour, among other fashion magazines. I once met Tom and his teacher-daughter at Trader Joe's. She could have been a model too. 

Tom lived in an apartment by one of my friend's houses. Both times I saw him, he was playing with his grandkids. Whenever the weekend came around, I would ask Tom what he was going to do. His answer was always predictable. "In the morning I am going to ride my bike to the beach and surf for a while," he would say. "After that I am going to play with my grandkids." Fortunate kids indeed. 

If I saw Tom in the morning, I usually asked him how he was doing. Like everything else about his regimented life, his reply was always the same: "Doing good, it's another day." That is how Tom dealt with life, one day at a time. No worrying about tomorrow. No complaining about issues that were beyond his control. According to Tom, life was a gift from God to be enjoyed no matter what obstacles a person encountered in life. Tom lived as a humbling testament to this assertion, and I miss him dearly. 

 

Alfredo

Always donning a black or navy Nike ball cap, Alfredo was the most humorous of all the custodians I had the chance to work with. He was as slender as the Pall Mall's he smoked at every break, and his leathery Filipino skin served as a testament to his beloved habit. He liked to be alone, but the scent of his cigarette wafting from behind walls or around corners always gave away his location. Whenever I found him, we would exchange insults at each other and then depart or have a short serious conversation. Alfredo frequently spoke in Spanish, and he took great pleasure in calling me a liar (mentiroso) or lazy (flojo). How does one respond to such an attack? 

The lifestyle that Alfredo lived left me humbled and appreciative. From what I gathered, he had two children and a wife. After his custodial job, which lasted from 7:30 a.m. until 4:00 p.m., he worked at a local onion field from 5:00 p.m. until 11 or 12 at night! Yes, he had to work under the lights. Nevertheless, Alfredo claimed that he liked to work. "The work is not too hard," he would stress. "There is nothing better to do." I suppose he had a point. Better to make money than spend it on some fleeting form of entertainment. Better to spend time working than waste it on a gluttonous feast of food and television.  

I have the impression that his wife worked similar hours, though I never found out where. I am still perplexed as to how his children coped with such a limited presence of their father and mother. Who knows, maybe they were old enough to be in college; or maybe they too were realizing the American dream through an endless bout of toil. 

Valezca

One of the sweetest and most sincere individuals I have ever met, Valezca came to Cal Poly from Guatemala. I will never forget her perfectly round and youthful face, which was highlighted by her constant smiling and unique laugh.  She had the cutest dimples, and they animated her face every time she cracked a smile or laughed her deep chuckle. These features went along perfectly with her 5' 1" medium-sized frame.

Valezca loved the Lord, and frequently read her pink Bible at break time. The Bible was written in Spanish, and I learned that it was a gift from a close friend--which made it all the more special to her. Valezca had two children, a son and a daughter, and both were pre-teens. She always told me that she wanted to raise them up in Christ, but that it was a hard task to accomplish since they were surrounded by so much secularism at school and on television. During the summer, she usually sent her two children to Guatemala to visit their grandparents and other relatives. She told me that they would always come back to the States with a newfound appreciation for what they had, and that their incessant pleas for the latest and greatest material possessions would subside for a few weeks. 

Valezca worked hard, and she was a clear leader. She was very close to the other women who worked with her, and most of them looked up to her. She played the role of custodian/counselor well, and several lives were undoubtedly affected in a positive way by her caring and calm demeanor. She cared about me, and was deeply interested in my life; I know this because she remembered nearly everything that she asked about me. When it was my birthday, she orchestrated a plan to buy me a gigantic birthday cake at a well-known bakery in San Luis Obispo (I might add that nearly all of the custodians pitched in to buy me the cake despite their $28,000 per year paychecks). 

I miss visiting with Valezca and having her laugh at my ill attempts to converse with her in Spanish. She told me that I should go to Guatemala and stay with her family for a while; and believe me, if someone bought me a plane ticket, I would be there quicker than she could dimple.

Blue-Collar Nostalgia

While a student at Cal Poly, I held a part-time campus job as a custodian. I mainly worked inside the dorms. Management usually spared student workers from the grizzliest tasks--such as cleaning the bathrooms on Monday--requiring us instead to perform typical chores like vacuuming and mopping stairs. The dirty work was left to the full-time workers. I always felt horrible when these individuals had to clean vomit and human excrement off of a floor or sink because some immature freshman decided to drink too much alcohol and become senile in an over-zealous attempt to beat a senior at beirut or some other novel drinking game at Chad's frat party.  

I had the incredible fortune of becoming acquainted with several of these full-time custodians. In the coming week, I am going to share my experiences with some of them. As my outlook on life was deeply affected by these individuals, I look forward to reminiscing on my time spent with them. Stay tuned...

Fall Is Upon Us

A glorious mist of fog greeted my awakening eyes for the second day in a row. I am hoping that this is Fall's way of ushering out Summer. Who knows. I have been wrong about this before. Better not get my hopes up. Around this time last year I thought that my achilles tendon had been healed. Little did I know that the angry monster in my foot was using the down-time to plot his worst attack yet.