The University Experience

(Jin Started It)

The squeaks and rumbles of the beaten yellow mop bucket whispered echoes down the long empty hallway as Ronald moved, foot by foot, along the tiled floor. Were it daytime, he knew the soft taps of the wooden handle and the muffled clatter of an old industrial mop would have drowned in the constant murmuring chatter of a thousand students, pens on paper, rustling restlessly to escape to the open air. Ronald preferred to work in the chilled silence of darkness, alone but for his tools and his echoes.

Had he really been mopping the university halls for four years? Ever since his money had run out. He grimaced and wondered what he’d be doing at that moment if he’d been able to finish his education. Building bridges, probably--they’d been his passion since he started losing baby teeth, and he had a good head for practical math. As a child, he’d built a bailey bridge out of popsicle sticks and super glue that supported two hundred times its own weight. But that didn’t matter. Only Pine-Sol and the thousands of square feet of university tile mattered. He spat a bitter curse that resounded through the hall like an angry dog’s bark. His parents were too wealthy--by far too wealthy--for him to qualify for financial aid or reasonable loans. Of course there were dubious companies willing to lend him the tens of thousands necessary to complete three more years of schooling, but they were nearly as exorbitant as mafia loan sharks, and probably as dangerous.

His parents. A snarl nestled itself in his throat and his mop slapped violently from wall to wall and slopped murky water from the old yellow bucket. Ronald’s father’s father had made his millions by cornering the rye market in 1930, three years before the passage of the 21st amendment and the repeal of prohibition. Although rye whiskey never regained its former popularity, it still maintained a lucrative portion of the liquor market, and old Ronald Parish II had an iron grip on its main ingredient.

Ronald’s mother’s father had invented the urinal cake.

Both parents were spoiled trust fund kids, grown old enough to have children and a farce of a family. Ronald was convinced that his conception was either an accident, or the result of a whim, like buying a puppy. His childhood was one of opulent neglect. He’d never wanted for a thing, and his allowance as an adolescent was close to a teacher’s salary, but that was all he got from his family. Many new parents say that having a child is completely life changing. Parents begin living for their children. That was never true for Ronald.

By the time he reached college age, he was bitterly aware of his lot in life, and ached for independence. He would be an engineer, and design bridges. But mother wanted a doctor, and father wanted a lawyer. Both wanted a well trained pet, obedient and delightful. He’d told them as much. They said he was shouting. Ronald didn’t remember shouting, but he did remember the way his father said "We’re setting you free," when what he really meant was "We’re cutting you off." Ronald remembered slamming the door.

He coughed a pungent curse down the corridor, and his malice resonated like a cello in a concert hall. The echo that returned was fearful and distorted. It didn’t even sound like his voice.

It wasn’t until a distant door slammed that Ronald realized that it might not be his voice. He propped the mop against the wall and walked toward the sound, stepping lightly, head cocked, listening. Finding the proper door based on hallway echoes would not be easy.

Another cry, this one filled with pain and panic--he was going the right way, but knew by the sound that he wasn’t close. He began to trot as quickly as he could without filling the building with the sound of his own steps. None of the rooms before him were lit. Maybe... The offices! Ronald ran. More than once, he’d considered ambushing a professor in his own office, but never seriously. By the sound of it, tonight someone was very serious.

Ronald fumbled for his cell phone, knowing that the steel and concrete structure rendered this a useless gesture. He was right--no reception. No police. He was getting closer. He could hear a voice rumbling with anger, and a weeping, gurgling agony, and the sickening slap of violence upon flesh. No police. No help.

Maybe.

Without slowing his pace, he pulled the handle of a fire alarm, and it crunched downward and the glass broke like bone beneath the lever. The hallways squawked in outrage, a piercing horn that shook the eardrums. His run was a sprint; silence was no longer necessary or possible.

There! Light oozed from beneath the door that he knew would be locked. He tried anyway before fishing the master key from his pocket. He raked the lock tumblers into position and the barrel snicked in place, but the doorknob would not open. There was probably a chair propped against the handle, like in the movies. He pulled the handle upward--an obvious solution to a problem he’d never actually had to face. It turned only a few degrees in that direction, but the slight give was enough to encourage the panting custodian. With sudden violence, he threw all his weight upon the aluminum handle. On the other side, something popped and tore, and the door came open. Duct tape, it turned out, had held the handle against the door.

More duct tape held a man to his office chair. His broken face and torn lips had dribbled blood and slobber down the front of his periwinkle dress shirt. His head was slumped forward, and he didn’t move. The alarm fell silent.

"Oh my God," Ronald breathed. A cool breeze and the sound of sirens clattered through the blinds of an open window.