A Week In The Life Of Bob Bryar: Elementary School Janitor

No one sets out to be a janitor. Or maybe they do, Bob doesn’t know, but he certainly didn’t wake up one day, saying to himself: you know what would be cool? Cleaning up after other people. That’ll be fucking awesome.

It’s two-thirty on a random Monday in September – Bob tends to lose track of time once school starts, but Monday’s in general are hard to get wrong, since he spends most of the weekends trying to forget he even has a job to get back to.

“I feel kinda bad,” Frank says, leaning back against the ugly brick building, fishing out his lighter. They’re around the side by the faculty parking lot. It’s too early for any teachers to sneak out and catch them, and it’s not like any kids are going to wander that far at recess.

Bob doesn’t smoke, but he doesn’t mind the smell, likes to keep Frankie company after he gets the kitchen cleaned up. “For what?”

“That new guy. Ross.” Frank shrugs. “Seemed kind of lost at lunch.”

Bob’s seen Ross three times in the past two weeks. Once when little James Michael Crawford had his ritual, first day of school vomit-fest, once when Tamara Hurley got her head caught in a half-cocked window, and once when Ross had apparently lost track of time, ended up zombie-eyed at his desk when Bob came in to empty his trash.

Each time he’d stared at Bob with these huge, dark eyes, face nearly expressionless. He’s got long fingers and longer limbs and a seriously odd penchant for scarves and gloves. Bob’s overall impression of Ross is that he’s weird. “He’s weird,” Bob says.

“I’m pretty sure he’s terrified of his kids.”

“Fucking fourth graders,” Bob mutters, and Frank quirks a smile at him.

*

Bob doesn’t notice him a first. It’s fucking freaky, the way Ross can totally disappear without actually leaving a room. It was like that when he’d stumbled on him at his desk that night, just sitting there so still Bob could hardly tell if he was even breathing, hands resting over each other on his ink blotter.

But Ross isn’t at his desk this time. Bob’s learned to sweep the room, quick, before stepping inside. Which is why he lets out a strangled little totally manly shriek when he goes for the trashcan by the back sink and finds Ross folded up like a spider in the kids’ rolling coat closet. Holy shit.

He lets out a belated, “Fuck,” when his heart starts beating again.

Ross blinks at him, his big eerie eyes peeking out over his knees. He looks about twelve, and all of a sudden Bob just feels old.

“Uh.” Bob thinks maybe he should say something, except Ross’ expression doesn’t exactly invite conversation. “Sorry,” he ends lamely, because sorry? What the hell does he have to apologize for?

Ross doesn’t say anything, but Bob catches a slight nod, then his head is sliding sideways, cheek on his knees and eyes falling half-closed, like he’s fucking exhausted, and Bob can understand that.

He quietly empties the trash, and he’d really like to leave it at that, he would, except he’s got two light bulbs out, and he’d left Ross’s room for last.

Bob settles for ignoring him, hauls in his ladder, winces at the grating jingle of his keys at his belt. The keys were maybe the best part of his job – he could get into anywhere, and that was pretty cool – but right then they made him feel conspicuous, imagining all of Ross’s attention zeroing in on him at the sound, silently watching his every move.

“Do you, uh.”

Bob freezes, turns slightly.

Ross has his legs stretched, falling out of the closet, hands on his knees, head tilted up towards him. He swallows hard, and Bob watches the line of his throat.

“Do you need any help?” Ross asks, scratching at his neck, bone-thin wrist flashing white as the cuff of his dress shirt falls down his forearm. He’s got an oddly flat voice, despite the obvious question mark.

“No, thanks,” Bob says. He feels those eyes on his back when he reaches for the light cover, and he switches out the bulbs as fast as he can, nearly sliding down the ladder to retrieve the new ones out of their boxes.

When he’s done, Ross is still looking at him, lower lip tucked under his teeth.

Bob manages a polite, “Good night.” He thinks the blatant staring is rude, but he’s not going to call him on it.

Ross smiles.

Bob’s kind of stunned, and it was so fleeting there was a slight possibility he’d imagined the curve of his mouth, the twitch of fullness at his cheeks, but he’s pretty sure it was there and gone again, faster than a breath.

*

Tuesday starts out bad – and Bob knows it’s a Tuesday because Frank jumps on his bed and yells, “Wake up, it’s Tuesday!” since Tuesday is pizza day and Frank gets more annoying on days when he has less shit to do at work. But Tuesday starts out bad mainly because Bob’s car won’t start and they have to take the Frankenmobile.

The problem with the Frankenmobile is that it’s painted an obnoxious shade of pink and has a giant grinning Frankenstein’s monster on it holding multicolored popsicles – it could have been worse; Frank vetoed the zombies - and it’s basically impossible to shut off the music when the engine’s running. Bob kind of wants to kill himself by the time they pull into the faculty lot.

Greta gives them a look when they pass by reception, and Frank apologizes by tossing her one of the creamsicles he has stashed away for Gerard, but it’s early. The kids aren’t there yet, so at least the music hadn’t hyped them up for ice cream – that had only happened once, and they’d promised Greta, promised, that it’d never happen again.

Bob drops Frank off at the cafeteria – literally drops him off, since Frank’s hanging off his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist – and heads towards the janitor’s closet by the gym, changing into his work coveralls and clicking on his mini TV, settling down to wait for Frank and his first cup of coffee.

*

By lunch, there’s been two accidents in Kerry’s kindergarten room, projectile vomit in Artist Alley, and, “Ominous clanking, dude, I think there’s a bird back there,” from Joe, which turns out to actually be a bird, which means Bob’s got twenty-five screaming six-year-olds running around his legs as he tries to net a fucking kamikaze sparrow.

Frank’s laughing himself silly in the hallway. He’s doubled over when Bob comes out, huffing, pissed but triumphant.

Three doors down, Ross pokes his head out, his creepy huge eyes staring Bob down, Jesus.

“Is everything.” Ross cuts himself off, darts his gaze from Frank – who’s seriously dying, hands over his face, folded up on the ground – to Bob and Bob’s box-o-bird.

It’s scuffling inside the cardboard, and Bob’s a softhearted idiot sometimes, so he really hopes the fucking thing doesn’t hurt itself before he can set it free.

“Bird,” Bob says, and Ross nods, like that’s all the explanation he needs.

“Can I—?” Ross takes a step outside his room, then shakes his head, folds his arms over his chest. “Sorry.”

Bob has no idea what Ross is apologizing for. He just nods, though, whatever.

Frank’s stopped laughing finally, and drags himself upright, flashing Ross a smile before tugging on Bob’s arm.

“Come on, let’s get this guy outside,” Frank says, then hisses, “What’s with you and Ross?” as they walk away.

Bob shrugs. “Nothing.”

*

“I’m so in love,” Pete says. “I’m—hey, Bob, did you forget to tell me you had a creepy stalker?”

“What?”

“Or, okay, not creepy. Not creepy in the sense that he’s really fucking pretty, wow, but the staring is sort of strange.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Frank says.

Pete’s a bus driver slash school aid. Pete’s been aggressively wooing one of his kid’s dads since the beginning of the school year. Pete is totally a fucking stalker.

Ross isn’t a stalker, he’s just really weird.

“I’m wearing Mr. Stump down, Frankie,” Pete says, then yells, “Watch your feet, Colt,” across the yard, where Colt Colligan almost kicked Betty Lyon’s face in from the swings. “Jesus Christ, who the hell names their kid Colt? Did I tell you that Patrick smiled at me today? Seriously, like, fucking beamed when I picked up Lucy, it was awesome.”

“That’s great, Pete,” Bob says. He’s trying hard not to let on how fucking bothered he is by Ross, and how he thinks Pete’s right about how pretty he is, ‘cause he’s like a fucking fragile doll or something, and Bob’s not even sure how he’s real.

“No, seriously. Seriously, that dude’s a teacher?” Pete asks, jerking his head towards Ross again. Lil’ Peanut Beckett is tugging on his jacket, and Ross looks completely lost, like LP’s some sort of puppy-alien hybrid who either wants to eat his face off or hug him to death. Granted, she’s a handful.

“Fourth grade,” Frank says. “They walk all over him, man—hey, hey, Josh J, dude.” Frank high-fives the kid, one of Joe’s first-graders, and that’s, like, the fucking signal for all the littler guys to attack.

Frank climbs up Bob’s back in mock fear, and Bob ends up giving him another piggyback ride inside. Frank’s fucking lucky he likes him.

*

Wednesday sort of blends together with Thursday, because Bob wakes up with a sore throat and cough, but he comes to work anyway. Frank force feeds him meds, and it’s like he’s swimming through molasses until Thursday afternoon, and he’s not exactly sure what went on the past two days. If Frank’s written anything on his face again – last Halloween he had fucking DORK printed on his forehead when he’d caught a damn stomach bug from one of the munchkins – he’ll fucking kill him. He doesn’t have the energy to check in the mirror just yet, though.

He’s outside with a hot mug of honey tea, watching Frank smoke, and he can almost breathe without wheezing.

“You going to Gee’s tomorrow?” Frank asks, nudging his arm.

It’s the last Friday of the month. They always go to Gee’s on the last Friday of the month. Bob gives Frank his best suspicious I-will-fuck-you-up look. It never actually works on Frank, but that never stops Bob from using it. Practice makes perfect. “What did you do?”

“So it turns out?” Frank says, stubbing out his cigarette on the brick. “Ray’s hired this kid who’s apparently Ross’s roommate, and they might show up.”

Bob’s not sure why anyone but them would want to go to Gerard and Ray’s apartment for their Friday night monster movie marathon. He’s not sure why Ray would ever purposefully invite someone not them to a Friday night monster movie marathon that will mainly consist of Gee and Frank giggling on the couch like girls, Ray falling asleep on the floor and Bob falling asleep in the armchair, only he’s learned to sleep with his eyes open so Mikey doesn’t draw on his face the way he always draws on Ray’s – his friends really shouldn’t be allowed to own permanent markers. It’s a pretty stupid waste of a Friday, if you ask Bob, but they’ve been doing it for years, ever since Gerard got clean, and he’s not going to be the first one to drop out.

“Why?” Bob asks.

Frank laughs. “Brendon.”

Bob rolls his eyes. Brendon is Ray’s little shadow, lives in the apartment across the hall from them, and makes seriously kick-ass cookies. He’s sort of unbelievably annoying, too, but they’ve all somehow gotten attached to him anyway.

“Brendon?”

“Brendon,” Frank says, “is in love.”

“With Ross’s roommate,” Bob hazards a guess, and Frank nods, laughs again.

“It’s fucking cute, Bob,” Frank says, grinning, and Bob thinks, whatever.

His life kind of sucks.

*

Bob feels more like himself on Friday, so of course that’s when Ross sets his room on fire. Well, to be fair, it’s really Colt Colligan who sets the room on fire, and it isn’t even the whole room, just like a five inch square of carpet, but the whole school is evacuated, only no one can find Lucy Stump and Delphinia Marshall.

Pete panics for about five minutes before snapping his fingers. “Oh, hey, I know where they are,” he says, and stalks back into the building before the firefighters give them the go ahead.

Bob rolls his eyes and jogs after him.

Pete doesn’t stop ‘til he reaches Miss Maja’s Magic Music Hour room, and they find Lucy and Del huddled together in the bongo closet.

Lucy Stump is this incredibly tiny redheaded second grader. She’s sort of frightening, Bob thinks, in the way that she has this horrendous temper, and bosses her BFFs – fucking god, Bob’s been working there way too long - Del and Minnie DeLeon around, yet she’s so freaking adorable everyone loves her. She’s got wide blue angel eyes and she’s got Pete wrapped around her teeny tiny fingers.

“Mr. Pete,” Lucy shouts, jumping to her feet. “Mr. Pete, we’re hiding from the giant alien men like you said to.”

Bob eyes Pete, crosses his arms over his chest.

“Hey, Luce, that’s awesome, right, but that siren was, um, actually a fire alarm, okay? You totally need to run outside when you hear that.”

“Sos the aliens won’t get us?”

“What the he—ck are you telling these kids, Pete?” Bob asks. Bob really wonders how the hell Pete got to be a bus driver to begin with. He’s ridden on his bus a few times – when even the Frankenmobile couldn’t save them – and been treated to songs in round, tasteless knock-knock jokes, and some factually incorrect limericks about state capitals.

Pete flashes him a shaky smile. “Let’s not tell your dad about this, Lucy,” he says, and then Delphinia bursts into tears and throws herself at Bob’s legs, hiccupping something about not wanting to be eaten by ‘martins’ and Pete blanches when Bob stares him down.

*

At lunch, Bob’s trying to figure out the best way to patch the hole in Ross’s carpet. Colt’s sitting at his desk, hunched over his sandwich, glaring daggers at the floor. Bob’s pretty sure it was an accident – Colt doesn’t strike him as, like, a sociopath or anything – but fire’s a big deal. He pats Colt’s shoulder when he passes, and Colt flashes him a little bit of a smile.

Ross is hovering in the doorway, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Bob has serious doubts he’ll even make it to Christmas.

“There’s extra carpet,” Bob says, because it looks like Ross is gonna go for some more awkward conversation, and Bob’s not up for that. “Easy fix.”

Ross nods. “Thanks. I.” He pauses, fidgets with the ends of his scarf, and Bob sighs.

“His dad’s coming, right?” Bob says. He clasps Ross’s arm. “Mr. Colligan’s fine, man. It’s not your fault, don’t worry about it.”

Ross’s eyes are huge, but he nods again. He leans forward a little, and Bob automatically leans in, too. Ross almost-whispers, “Who the hell names their kid Colt?” and Bob—

Bob blinks. He presses a hand over his eyes, drags his palm down over his mouth, over his chin, and his lips twitch up, because who the hell, right?

“You been talking to Pete?” Bob asks, and Ross goes, “Who?”

*

Ross doesn’t show up for the Friday night monster movie marathon, and Bob. Bob is disappointed, what the fuck?

He eats four slices of pizza and dozes in the armchair, and he’d probably be asleep already except Brendon’s squeezed in there with him with this miserable pout on his face, because Ross’s roommate didn’t show up either.

“Spencer is so pretty, Bob,” Brendon says. “He’s, like, um.”

“Pretty?” Ray’s sprawled out on the floor, but he isn’t sleeping yet either. Brendon won’t shut up about how in love he is with Spencer, who he’s apparently only met twice.

Brendon sighs. “Yeah.”

And then somehow Bob’s mouth says, “Ross is, too,” and he tries to ignore it, but Frank’s burning a fucking hole in the side of his head. “What?” Bob snaps.

Frank giggles. “Bob. Bob Bryar, do you have a crush?”

“No,” Bob grumbles, but Brendon pokes at his stomach and goes, “Oh, oh, Bob, we can totally double date!” and Bob wants to kill himself, or, like, kill Brendon. One of the two.

*

It’s pouring out Saturday. Bob gets coffee from Jon’s Starbucks and jogs across the street to Ray’s shop.

Under Siege is playing on the overhead TV monitor, which means it’s Steven Segal day, and Bob settles in behind the counter after shouting towards the back for Ray.

Ray doesn’t come out. It’s some other guy, some broad-shouldered bearded dude in a Pantera t-shirt, and Bob has no idea who he is. He’s followed by a chatty Ross, though, so he takes a wild leap and thinks this is Spencer, even though he doesn’t seem half as girly as Brendon had implied.

“Hey,” Spencer says, and Bob nods at him, and then Ross shuts up. Like a fucking clam, which is too bad, because Bob’s pretty sure he heard his name somewhere in there.

Bob reaches out a hand, says, “I’m Bob.”

“Spencer.” Spencer arches both his eyebrows, flicks his gaze from a suddenly mute Ross to Bob again, then grins. “You know Ryan, right?”

“Ryan Ross.” Bob grins back at him.

Ross ducks his head, palms the back of his neck. “Hey.”

Bob thinks maybe he’s in trouble.

*

Ray’s shop is pretty popular, especially on rainy days, so it’s not unusual to see some kids or parents during the weekend.

Ross is buried in a book when Lil’ Peanut barrels in – and Bob’s not sure why he’s still there, but it’s not like Bob gets paid to work there, either - but Bob sees him stiffen out of the corner of his eye.

“Billy,” Bob says, and bumps Bill’s fist.

LP runs off screaming for Ray, and Bill slumps down on the counter. “I’m a frazzled mess, Robert,” Bill says. “Please tell me you have the entire first three seasons of the Power Rangers.”

Bob arches an eyebrow.

LP yells from the back of the store, “Thunder Cats, Thunder Cats, Thunder Cats, ho!” and Bill slaps a hand over his face.

“Oh my god, Bob,” Bill says. “I hate my life.”

“Um.”

Bob cocks his head at Ross, watches his fingers fidget with his book.

“Mr. Beckett? I’m.” Ross holds out a hand. “I’m Ryan Ross. LP’s teacher.”

“Dude.” Bill grasps Ross’s hand. “Dude, bless you, okay. LP’s the devil.”

“Dad! Daddy, dad, Mr. Spencer has CANDY! I want some!”

“Long Play Beckett, mind your manners,” Bill yells back, and then LP goes, “PLEASE.”

“She’s, uh, enthusiastic,” Ross says.

Bill points a finger at him. “I like your attitude, Ross. You lie, but I like it. This fucking rain is killing me.”

Ross’s mouth curves up a little, almost a smile, and Bob’s heart fucking stutters.

Shit.

*

Bob stays through lunch, when Frank bounces in with sandwiches for everyone, and then Brendon shows up and it’s just sort of pathetic to watch him moon over Spencer – and Bob’s using words like moon now, so it’s, like, too late to save him. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, says, “I’m just gonna. Get out of here while Brendon still has an intact heart.”

Ross blinks at him. He’s been acting human for most of the day – Bob’s pretty sure that has to do with Spencer – but he’ll still go mute when it’s just the two of them. Bob kind of wants to shake him. Get him to fucking say something to his face.

And then Ross says, “Oh, um. Spencer?”

Bob arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, Ross. I’ll see you Monday, all right?” He waves, then pulls up his hoodie and peers out into the rain. It’s fucking teeming still, and Bob gears up for getting soaked.

“Hey, Bob.”

Bob freezes. He glances over his shoulder at Ross, who’s, like, right fucking behind him, like some sort of cat-footed ninja. “Um.”

“Here. You can.” Ross holds out an umbrella, shrugs a little. “I can share Spencer’s later.”

“Thanks,” Bob says. He grabs for the umbrella, purposefully brushing Ross’s hand. Ross starts a little, and Bob grins. “See you.”

Bob doesn’t realize the umbrella’s got fucking hundreds of beagles all over it ‘til he’s already outside. He just shakes his head, laughs a little under his breath, then darts across the street.

*

On Monday, when Frank brings Bob his first coffee, he nudges another one into his hands and tells him to take it down to Ross.

Bob rolls his eyes, but does it anyway.