He gets to work. He throws his oversized Target bag, overflowing with an array of cleaning items, at the edge of the seat. With the movement of the train, it nearly falls, but he catches it in time. He swiftly pulls out a bottle, beginning to spray the liquid. The aroma of the spray, sweet and lemon-like, fills the car.
His hands go to town, wiping the silver poles with his microfiber cloth. Polishing the blue seats. Wiping dust off the from zayed law offices, theater of the mind, and BackMarket ads.
Several passengers stare. A few crack smiles.
The man continues. Spray. Wipe. Squeak.
***
“Excuse me sir. Welcome to the CTA headquarters. Please take a seat. It has come to our attention that you have been obsessively cleaning the inside of our train cars.”
“Who told you that?” Jeffrey asks.
“We have footage.”
There is a moment of silence.
“It’s not breaking any rules.”
“You are correct…”
“No smoking. No eating or littering. No loud music or audio. No soliciting or gambling. Nowhere does it say no…”
“No cleaning, yes, we know.”
“Ok.” He stares, dumbfounded. “So why am I here?”
“You cannot clean the trains.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Jeffrey's eyes get wide; he is genuinely puzzled.
“I’m cleaning the trains. If anything, you should be thanking me. Putting me on payroll at $43,000 a year!”
Bob lets out a laugh. Their cleaners don’t make anywhere near $43 grand. The audacity.
They stare at each other. Neither willing to budge.
Bob breaks the silence.
“If you find your way back to our trains…”
“Are you threatening me?!”
“Like I said…”
Jeffrey gets up, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the situation. He exits the building into a glaringly bright Chicago afternoon and heads straight for the train.
***
Alert. Alert. Attention. New CTA train policy. No smoking. No eating or littering. No loud music or audio. No soliciting or gambling. NO CLEANING.”
***
“You’re back.” Bob’s frustration is visible…
“Yes.”
“Have you seen our new policy?”
Silence.
Three police officers make their way into the crowded government office.
“Who are they?!” Jeffrey looks around, hands grabbing the handles of the chair he’s sitting in.
“Police.”
Stares.
“So you’re going to arrest me?” Jeffrey says incredulously.
“It’s policy.”
“You won’t stop me, you know that? You can’t stop me from cleaning. It’s in my blood.” Jeffrey places an emphasis on blood, the words bleeding out of his mouth.
“Sir, we will have to arrest you if you can’t comply…”
“Then arrest me.”
As if they were waiting for his command, the cops move in and place handcuffs around Jeffrey’s wrists, tying the hands, the hands he uses to spray, to wipe, to clean, tight.
“We’re taking you to Cook County jail. You can phone a relative to let them know where you are.”
Jeffrey has none.
***
It’s 6am.
Jeffrey sees the broom first. Its hair is speckled with dirt from the floor of the jail. He sees the hands next, old, calloused, but strong. Strong from wiping walls and cleaning crevices and sweeping floors. She comes into site, carrying cleaning supplies on her shoulder.
“Excuse me. Hi. I’ve made a bit of a mess here.”
She peers in, looking for the mess, yet unable to see past his body.
“Would you mind handing me that rag and a bit of spray?”
She pauses. Stares at him. Has never in her 16 years of wiping this jail clean, been asked by someone to get their hands on her cleaning supplies.
She thinks about it. What’s the worst that could happen? She could really use a break. A few moments off her feet.
“I’ll just need it back in a few.”
“Of course.” He smiles.
She hands him the rag. The spray.
He gets to work. Spray. Wipe. Squeak.