The Janitor & the Goddess: Love & Legacies Lost, Part I

Photo by Victor Maschek

This story (mostly) takes place in one of America’s ugliest examples of “progress” and design. If this example of progress and design were a pair of boots, it’d be this pair of boots. If it were a bath bomb, it’d be this bath bomb. If it were cutlery, it’d be this cutlery.

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The original Pennsylvania Station head house and train shed reigned in acclaim, an homage to the Baths of Caracalla. Buffoons intent on implementing their version of progress ravaged those architectural icons, renting the station’s air space for the construction of a circular latrine that sewage systems outshine to this day. I remember when humans needed no delineation of air as space because they lacked the means to own it. We owned everything. The skies. The arenas. The future which we built with magic, power, and the minds of men who needed us to tell them what to think.

Though traces of the head house and the train shed remain, they fail to remedy the Penn Station of today, festering underneath the world’s brownest Garden while buildings crowd the skies around it like steel weeds obliterating the blue. These space fillers make me sad that creation exists. I never conceived of a project that lacks such luster, so I find it odd that I - - - the revered Roman virgin goddess of art, knowledge, trade, wisdom, justice, medicine, and strategy that secured battles for those who worshipped me with the most fervor - - - inspired anyone to demolish architectural wonder only to create structures that span the lower depths and skyline of Midtown Manhattan with all the grace of concrete herpes.

Neither the innovators who created the once temple-like exterior of this station, nor the buffoons who tore it down and crowded the train platforms with steel beams to support the outhouse in the sky, sought my guidance. I deserve no acclaim or blame. All of this happened thousands of years after I burst forth from Father’s forehead as a full-grown woman in a full suit of armor. Father tried to prevent my birth by swallowing Mother. Imagine, a man eats you to prevent the birth of your child. That’s why I never partook of carnal relations.

That, and the sweat. And the sounds. And the men.

So, yes …. Father loathed me but eventually, I ruled at his side. The masses adored us because they needed us. But things change, even for gods and goddesses. Romans began to cultivate the knowledge I gave them without acknowledgement. I became a memory then a myth. I assumed Father understood because he suffered the same fate. But Gods are tricky. We forge alliances for eons to protect ourselves only to take revenge when opportunity strikes. Father proclaimed that a thousand rebirths of Rome did nothing to dissipate his eagerness to humiliate the daughter he never wanted. He annihilated my powers and freedom with a strike of lightning on the opening day of the dome that sealed my doom.

"Minerva, inspirer of the architectural calamity henceforth known to me as the Square Garden of Madison and Malady, dwell here you shall."

Since my downfall, I watch people scurrying like rats through this low-ceilinged abomination. Once a woman traversing time and space with an owl, now I dwell in hell while people scroll their new god and passageway pigeons dive-bomb them. I endure the same scenes over and over because I absolutely refuse to enter Madison Square Garden for a change of scenery because its creation set all of this in motion and also because I hate the Knicks.

Really, who doesn’t?

Not even the Moynihan Train Hall offers any respite. What a gut-wrencher. When I regain my powers, I will find the people who bear responsibility for this most recent civic misfortune and leave them on a mountain top for wild beasts to gorge on their entrails. The lack of vision astounds. The lack of seating does, too. Even the gruel on the other side of Hadrian's Wall understood the necessity of sitting down.

One day I will rest my weary body in Father’s seat. I entered the world prepared for battle. He seems to have forgotten that. Soon the whole world shall fear my strategy, even if they do not remember it.

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***

The 1910 Penn Station made catching a train an event worthy of sipping champagne and tipping oysters, even when traveling to a funeral. The current station makes people dread their journey anywhere, even if traveling to God on a train of gold. Drinking warm water and eating a tuna fish sandwich without any other ingredients exemplifies the experience.

Yet Marcus T. Varro, a janitor of forty-seven years old with $27.56 in his checking account, made do with warm water and never complained about eating a plain tuna fish sandwich. He always ate his near the ghosts that gathered around the LIRR vintage iron screen of beveled-glass windows adorned by a pattern of leaves. Remnants of the original design made Marcus happy to spend his days cleaning the structure.

Remnants like the iron screen. The brass and wrought iron staircases. Bits of glass flooring. And Minerva. Marcus didn’t know if remnant was the right word to describe Minerva. In fact, Marcus didn’t know the word remnant but I’m going to break the fourth wall to tell you to pretend he did because the word works well here. Marcus spent each shift watching and listening to Minerva spew incredible rants. He couldn’t break away when she began. He finally asked a ghost named Nancy why Minerva seemed so sad. Nancy answered with a sneer.

“Fuck if I care, right? But she’s a goddess, not a ghost. She’s a fucking asshole, too. I asked her to visit me and Sid down in Gimbels Passageway, and she said she’d rather watch me get stabbed again. Goddesses are nothing but trouble and they can all suck a big one,” Nancy said.

Marcus found it funny that the ghosts considered Minerva trouble because Minerva never caused trouble, yet the ghosts thrived on it. The ghosts stole food and alcohol from the various vendors. They stole cigarettes from passengers. They humped each other as passengers walked through them and humped passengers when they stopped moving. Not even suitcases were safe. Their antics enraged Minerva.

“Ignorance and ego fuels your actions. When I retrieve my powers, I shall send you somewhere that even your Daddy God must ask permission to enter,” Minerva said.

Because of her attitude, the ghosts considered Minerva a pain and a threat, like most technically-not- dead-yet-still-unearthly-beings. But they noticed the way Marcus stared at her, which revealed that Marcus believed in them, but adored Minerva. The ghosts understood that keeping dead friends close and living enemies closer demonstrates the subtle distinction between eulogies and vows. They also understood Minerva might decide to pay attention to Marcus because he was the first mortal in thousands of years willing to worship her. If that happened, she could ask him to search the outside world for ways to restore her power. The ghosts decided that Marcus needed another woman to distract him and that woman should be Vivian Gordon.

“You know, they didn’t call me Vivian Vise Gordan for nothing. This snatch took down Tammany Hall. It snatched Jimmy Walker off his high n’ mighty seat at City Hall. Fuck them all, not that I actually want to do that again. Especially not Judge Crater. But sure … I’m willing to spend some time with Marcus to take down that overbearing crow, as long as he keeps those tuna fish sandwiches coming,” Vivian said, adjusting her stockings as she rocked atop a suitcase, remembering her last earthly meal of sauerkraut and raisins served with egg whites, celery, onions, and a sip of this n’ that.

“Throw in something crunchy to break up the tuna fish mush. And get a nice man to introduce me, someone with some class instead of status.”

The ghosts debated which of them should introduce Marcus to a ghostly blackmailer, hooker, and loan shark who wanted to appear classy yet smelled like a mix of sauerkraut, onions, bathtub hooch, and Chanel N° 5. They chose Teddy, who hated the idea of it but never shirked duty. “I do wish you’d call me Colonel Roosevelt,” he said before gliding mid-air through the station to find the man who acted like a lovesick boy.

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***

“Modern humans resist hygiene with such vigor,” Colonel Roosevelt thought as man after man left the bathroom without washing their hands. They only partially used the full service plumbing that modern life afforded them, preferring to spread their muck so widely that management hung signs in the bathroom asking them to wash their hands. Imagine, a grown man needing a sign reminding him to wash bowel smears from his hands. Modern people confounded him. Their love of sloppy comfort infuriated him. It’s as if the men of this time never heard of Brooks Brothers and the women wanted to look like they crawled from a place that banned style. Their standards underwhelmed.

Despite the humping and thievery, Colonel Roosevelt maintained his standards with the same discipline he did while alive. Recommending a man spend time with a prostitute who loaned money to mobsters and blackmailed anyone she could paralyzed his self-regard. After all, he’d written his thesis on women’s rights. It violated his life’s work. But Vivian told him to get with the program because it was her body and her afterlife.

“I want those sandwiches, Teddy,” she said.

Colonel Roosevelt watched Marcus scrub a sink and figured meeting on the common ground of proper hygiene and work served as a good conversation opener.

“Order and cleanliness set expectations for society. It encourages industriousness and fairness. In my day, we could’ve used your skills to clean the horse manure from these new money streets,” he said. Marcus was used to the ghosts butting in, so he nodded, wondering if new money was worth more than old money. He made a mental note to ask about this during his next job review.

“You receive fair pay for your work?”

“They pay the usual.”

“Work is important, but the usual kills progress. Day after day you come here to clean sinks nary a man uses though he fills the toilets to the brim. How disheartening. And I’m sure you’ve spoken to management about creating some kind of alarm that rings when men leave without washing their hands. These reminder signs reveal that despite the technology, your generation suffers the same ignorance as mine.”

“I clean the toilets, too. I never thought about an alarm. I do think extra tissue could come in handy, but we get in trouble with management for wasting paper. I limit myself to one square a day at work because I want a raise.”

Hearing that, Colonel Roosevelt wondered if his work on conservation set humanity on the wrong course. But the janitor never seemed surprised that he was talking to a dead president. Colonel Roosevelt realized his ideas didn’t influence the man at all. The living seemed to think they were the first to think of anything. He had done the same. Colonel Roosevelt frowned until the bottom half of his face disappeared into his moustache. He had no history. No one remembered good or bad deeds so he should no longer worry about their classification. Minerva required constraint.

“A man of your robust nature must find the city confining at times. I always did. Have you ever traveled West to hunt bison? Fought a war in Spain?”

“I fought a possum in Staten Island once,” Marcus said.

“Women like men of action who ensure their care. Fine clothes. A beautiful home, protected from possums. Enough square meals and square papers. You need a steady sweetheart to progress in any job. A steady life partner keeps you on the right track. I think Vivian Gordon’s the woman for you.”

“But Minerva is —- “

“Minerva is temperamental. Vivian loves spending time with interesting men like yourself. She loves food, and eating it. Why, her last meal on earth included sauerkraut with raisins. I’m sure you could enjoy a wonderful meal while getting better acquainted.”

“I do like food and eating it. Sauerkraut gives me gas, though. I always bring a tuna fish sandwich for my break.”

“Vivian also loves tuna fish sandwiches! You can eat and talk about tuna fish sandwiches all the time,” Colonel Roosevelt said, remembering when he said, “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.” Standing in the bathroom discussing toilet paper, possums, and tuna fish with an idiot, he thought that quote summed up the whole of the universe.

“I do like tuna fish sandwiches, but I don’t know how much I have to say about them. I’d rather eat them,” Marcus said.

“Well, one things for sure: Minerva could never enjoy such simple pleasures so don’t get all sweetbread brains about her. She’s not worth it. Minerva turned someone into a spider. She used to oversee wars. She wants to monopolize everything.”

“I don’t know about sweetbread brains,” Marcus said. “Do you mean you and Minerva…you know?”

“Me and Minerva? Why, I’d rather mate with an ostrich for eternity than converse for one second with that frowning owl. She’s so rotten to the core that her father took away her powers and trapped her here. You should put her out of your mind. You’re always welcome to a suitcase if Vivian doesn’t raise your big stick.”

“Minerva’s my match made in heaven,” Marcus said, imagining himself sitting on a cloud with Minerva while she screamed. Sudden fear jolted him back to reality. “Wait, when I die, can I stay here if Minerva’s still here?”

“God sends people to different places based on the lessons they need. He refuses to respond to anyone until it’s time to move them again. Not even Minerva, whose own father sealed her fate. In the end, no one remembers or cares about us except for nerds and writers. That might be redundant, but you understand. God wants us to understand He has no favorites, not even when it comes to countries. Frankly, learning that stung. And this place is the worst place I’ve ever been. Not sure why He put me here. It boggles the mind with ugliness. Someone should take a big stick to this place, indeed.”

Marcus struggled to keep up. He decided to shift the conversation back to birds.

“I like birds more than bison,” Marcus said, even though he didn’t know what bison looked like.

“Fine beasts of the air,” Colonel Roosevelt said.

“You must know a lot about birds because you said you’d rather have sex with an ostrich than an owl. I don’t think either’s legal, but anyway … When I studied about how to get rid of the pigeons that fly through the station, I found a website on the doo-doo bird. Can’t believe they named a bird that. They ought to call pigeons that, right?”

“Dear man, I think you’ve been cleaning bathrooms too long. You should speak softly and carry a very big stick.”

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***

Ever since speaking with the man in the bathroom, Marcus worried about being separated from Minerva. One day, Marcus overheard one of the janitors say that his girlfriend used a magic wand that sent her to another time and place. Marcus didn’t understand why the other janitors laughed, but a magic wand that strong seemed like something that could break the spell that trapped Minerva in the station. If it did, Marcus could take Minerva to his place on Staten Island, a borough that some would like to send to another dimension, too. He pushed his mop closer to the other janitors to hear better.

“For fuck’s sake, Marcus, use the wringer.”

“Sorry,” Marcus said. “I heard you talking. I know about other dimensions. I know about time travel. But I don’t know about magic wands. Where can I get a magic wand like your girlfriend got?”

“Oh, you know about other dimensions and time travel, but you want to know about magic wands. Well, you can time travel back to the dimension of these nuts to get a magic wand then grow a set in another dimension. Get back to fucking work, Marcus.”

After his shift, Marcus told the people riding the subway and the ferry with him that time travel is real and tuna fish sandwiches work in any dimension. Once home, he Googled “magic wand.” Marcus believed a man in love does whatever is necessary to help the woman he loves. Marcus's mom told him that. Marcus's dad told him that. They said that once a person loves with all of his heart, he can die. Marcus, a menopause baby, thanked God that his parents finally found each other. Born one day apart, they were about to celebrate their 95th birthday and still cuddled each other to sleep. He took out his credit card and paid 35% interest for his magic wand purchase of $54.74 because love demands grand gestures.

I originally posted this piece in a short story contest on Reedsy and called it “The Center of the Universe”. I gave it a massive edit and new title. I’m posting some of the stories I wrote on that site here and will always mark them as such plus link to the original. The Reedsy shorts remain free for everyone

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Link to Part II: