The Angry Man

The Angry Man





“Although it ain’t my job to tell a principal how to run his school, I guess someone’s gotta do it. The superintendent don’t give a shit. But I got a good friend on the school board, and a word from me will make him sit up and take notice. Then both you and the super’s gonna wish you didn’t kick my boy outta school.” The strident words of the white, angry male hung over Ben Crane like a crimson cloud. The heavy-set guy, sitting on the other side of the desk, appeared to be working himself into a frenzy. “I ain’t the violent type. But like I told my boy, if someone hits ya, ya give it back twice over.”

“Mr. Wilson, I try to hold all students accountable for their actions. That’s why I suspended both of them. It’s punishment prescribed directly in the school board handbook.” The principal with the receding hairline pushed a thin pamphlet across his desk toward the red-faced man.

“Jeezus Christ, if I wanted somethin’ to read, I’d a bought a magazine at the corner drugstore.” He grabbed the stapled sheets in his beefy hands and ripped them in half, letting the remains flutter to the floor. “It’s obvious you ain’t gonna listen to reason. You’ll be hearin’ from my lawyer.” Brimming with rage, the bearded man rose, flung his chair to the side, and stormed out the office door, slamming it behind.

Ben Crane took in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and leaned back in his office chair, wiping sweat diamonds from his forehead. At the age of forty-three, he’d either been a teacher or an administrator for the past twenty-one years. He liked working with his students. Sure, they could be trying at times. But treating them with the three “F’s”, being “firm, friendly, and fair”, he could almost always get through. But some parents in this blue collar community balanced a giant chip on their shoulder. They seemed so . . . angry. Nowadays he left work exhausted most of the time.

Wondering more and more whether his job was worth the effort, he grabbed his overcoat and looked at his watch. Oh, my God! It’s past six o’clock. No time to go to the gym. He realized his wife Nancy would have dinner on the table before he pulled the car into the driveway.

His mind drifting a thousand miles away, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway of Grover Cleveland High.

“Good evenin’, Mr. Crane.” The principal jumped at the unexpected voice.

When he turned, his eyes met those of an elderly African-American gentleman wearing a blue, long-sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows. The top shirt button was fastened giving him an awkwardly formal appearance. He wore khaki pants, a bit too short, with black shoes and white socks, protruding below the cuffs. The dimly lit hall and his chocolate-colored skin made the whites of his eyes stand out. Tightly curled gray hair covered his head, and he gripped a matching gray rag mop with a red handle in his work-calloused hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that. But I was just standin’ guard in case that guy who was yellin’ his head off tried somethin’.” A shake of his head commented on the parent's behavior.

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Ben paused, a bit puzzled. He had never met this man before.

“Oh, I’m forgettin’ myself. My name is Thomas. The evenin’ janitor, Chet, called in sick, so I’m doin’ a part time shift.” He stuck out a hand toward the principal.

Ben took his hand. “Pleased to meet you . . . Thomas. I’m Ben Crane, the principal of this great institution.” He swept his right hand in a grand, mocking gesture.

“It’s nice to meet you in person. Since I can read, I already knew your name.” Thomas pointed to the name plate over the office door.

The principal grinned, the janitor putting him at ease. “You know, I usually have stronger nerves, but after that conference, I guess I’m just a bit jumpy. Sometimes I wonder whether this job is worth the hassle any more. It used to be you could have a civilized conversation with parents about the choices their kid makes. But these days for every reasonable parent there are two who’d rather knock your block off than do positive parenting.”

“I guess I kinda know what you mean. But you ain’t gonna give up, are you? I’ve heard how much you love these kids. Deep down inside, I’m pretty sure they appreciate what you try to do for ‘em.”

“Thanks, but some days I just don’t know.” He shrugged, showing his uncertainty.

“Well, in my last job I met a person who had some situations a whole lot worse than yours. If you got a moment, I’d like to tell you about her.” Thomas’ brow furrowed with worry lines, showing concern over Ben’s depression. “It might even make you feel better.”

Ben glanced at his watch again. By the time I get home, dinner will be cold. I need some time to decompress. Besides, Nancy is getting used to my unpredictable hours. He reached around the corner and flipped the light switch in his office. “What the heck. Come on in, Thomas, and have a seat. If you’ve got a story that will make me feel better, I can afford the time.”

The janitor moved the chair the parent shoved across the room back to its assigned place and sat down. “The last place I worked was Calloway Care Center, the old county nursin’ home, just before they shut it down. That’s where I met a pretty, young physical therapist workin’ her first job straight outta college. She got married and had a child at a young age. A pretty, blond-hair gal with bright, blue eyes, she was the religious sort, but wasn’t the know-it-all type. She understood she didn’t have all the answers.

“In some ways, she was a lot like you. Matty ruled her physical therapy gym like folks tell me you run this school – with an iron, but velvet-covered glove. She did her job and didn’t let her patients get away with much. But there was a real soft side to her. A side that worried about folks a lot. Kinda the way you’re strict with students, but show you care at the same time.

“She came each day and did her best for her patients. Even though, they had lotsa problems, they all seemed to appreciate the way she tried to help. Until she met Mr. Taylor, that is.” With a focused look, Thomas settled into his story, trying to put all the details in order.





‘He was the most mean-nasty, ornery-disgusting person I ever knew.’ That’s what Matty said about Mr. Taylor. Matty worked at Callaway Care for about four years, and she was stuck workin’ with him some of that time. Nobody liked him. I mean NOBODY! That goes for other residents, the staff, and even Mr. Shaw, the head administrator, the most toleratin’ man I ever did meet.

I know what you’re goin’ to ask. Why didn’t people like him? That’s simple. He didn’t like nobody else, includin’ hisself. And to prove it, he treated everyone like dirt. I guess he felt he was dealt such a poor hand in life he didn’t owe nobody nothin’. A blue cloud of cuss words followed him all over Edgefield. Now, if you left him alone, he looked just fine – just a frowny-faced little old man, his cheeks saggin’ down to his jaws. He spent most his time in a wheelchair. But if anyone tried to get him to do anythin’ he didn’t want to do, like go to therapy, go to bed before he wanted, or, worst yet, try to get him to join in a group activity like a sing-a-long, he’d spout such a geyser of profanity it’d hang in the air like a steam trail even after he was done. I mean he called people every name in the book and then started on a new book. You could see why he didn’t have no friends.

Matty got stuck with him after he had a bunch of small strokes that affected his ability to move hisself around in his wheelchair. One of Matty’s jobs was doin’ range of motion exercises so he could use his wheelchair on his own again. Wow! Everythin’ was set for one of the most interestin’ clash of wills a person ever did see.

Now, Matty, like I said, was real religious. And she wasn’t shy about talkin’ God and Jesus to her patients. So, when she was assigned Mr. Taylor, she just considered him another challenge. On the other hand, Mr. Taylor just thought of her as another one of his tormentors. If you was a staff member, anyone who worked at the Center, then you become just another reason for everythin’ bad that happened in his life and another target for his swear words. Now, I want you to know he never talked much about his life. I couldn’t tell you where he was born or even how he came to the nursin’ home. And he wouldn’t volunteer no information neither. He was one of the bitterest men that ever was put on the face of this earth.

The first day Mrs. Whitmore, the head nurse, wheeled him into Matty’s gym he was cussin’ a blue streak. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to get better. He just wanted to be left alone.

“Now, now, Mr. Taylor, is that any way to talk in the presence of someone who wants to help you get better?” That was Matty’s first try at conversation with him.

“Who the hell you think you are? Florence Nightingale? If I wanted to get better, I wouldn’t come here. I’d go out for a drink! That’s what I’d do! At least I’d feel better.”

Matty took a step back. She wasn’t use to this type of up front attack. She thought awhile and then tried a different direction. “Now, Mr. Taylor, I just want you to know that the doctor’s orders say that you’re assigned to me for forty-five minutes a day, four days a week. You can shoot off your filthy mouth as much as you want. But I’m bigger and stronger than you, and I’m going to do my best to make you feel better whether you like it or not.” She certainly was stronger than him, and, even at five foot-four inches, she looked bigger standin’ over his wheelchair.

“You just want to torture me like every other prison guard in this goddamned place. You can just go to hell,” Mr. Taylor answered. She didn’t seem to faze him one bit.

“Now, if you knew what hell was like, I bet you wouldn’t say that.”

“I do know what hell is like. Every day I wake up in this goddamned place, and if that ain’t hell, I don’t know what is. And I’ll tell you to go to hell as much as I want.”

Matty turned to Mrs. Whitmore who had been standin’ back takin’ in this battle of wills and whispered so Mr. Taylor couldn’t hear, “It’s too bad the stroke didn’t damage his speech.” Then she picked up Mr. Taylor, transferred him swearin’ away over to the mat, tied him with restraints, and proceeded to do range of motion exercises with him. The whole time Mr. Taylor was screamin’ his head off like he was dyin’. And Matty was sayin’ things like, “I know this may hurt, but in the long run it’ll make you feel better.”

That whole first week went pretty much the same way. Whitmore dropped off Mr. Taylor each day at the same time. And Mr. Taylor threw a fit, callin’ Matty every name he could think of till his forty-five minutes was up and he could finally get away from her clutches. Every minute he was in physical therapy, Matty talked to him in a soothin’, calm way. The truth is that both wished the other would somehow up and disappear.

The followin’ Monday things started off the same way with Matty puttin’ a cussin’ Mr. Taylor through range of motion exercises. Suddenly in the middle of this session Mr. Taylor stopped swearin’, stopped fightin’, looked Matty straight in the eye, and asked in a confused sorta way, “Don’t you ever get tired torturing me?”

“Why, Mr. Taylor, I would never think of torturing you. Torture is against the Geneva Convention and the ethics of my profession. I’m simply trying to help you to get better. It’s my job. Besides,” she said, hopin’ to gain the upper hand permanently, “I’ve got the patience of Job.”

He looked at Matty, screwed up his face, and asked, “Who’s this Job guy?”

“You mean you don’t know the story of Job?”

“No, I never have heard any story about no Job, but since you’re so mean and so goddamned smart, I bet you’re going to tell me about him.”

“Well, it’s not because I’m mean or smart. But, yes, I am going to tell you the story. It actually might take your mind off your problems by realizing there are some who’ve had it worse than you.” And she thought, It’ll certainly make the time go faster for me. Then she began tellin’ the story. “There was a man by the name of Job who was a good and righteous man who had faith in the Lord. He was rich. He had many sheep and cattle. He had seven strong sons and three lovely daughters. He lived in a big house and was respected by everybody who knew him.

“One day Satan came to God and said the only reason Job obeyed God was because God allowed Job to have a good life. That if all the good things were taken away from him, he’d curse the Lord to his face. Well, God told Satan to go ahead and test Job. He could do anything he wanted to those things that Job owned, but he wasn’t to lay a hand on Job himself. So Satan caused all sorts of things to happen to Job. Some men attacked and killed his oxen and his servants. Lightning from the sky struck his sheep and killed all of them. And his sons and daughters were eating and drinking at his oldest son’s house when a tornado caused the house to collapse, and it crushed all of them.

“Job was very upset when he heard the news. He shaved his head, tore his clothes, fell down on the ground, and worshipped God. ‘Naked I came into the world and naked shall I leave it; the Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed is the name of the Lord.’ But he didn’t blame God for what had happened. He worshiped him all the more.

“I’d blame God,” Mr. Taylor said in a matter-of-fact sorta way. “Anybody in their right mind would."

“But not Job,” Matty answered. “And there’s more.” Then she continued. “Because Satan failed to make Job renounce God, he got permission to torture him physically. God told him that he could cause pain and suffering to his body, but he wasn’t allowed to kill him. So Satan caused Job to have sores all over his body so that he was in pain constantly. Even his wife wanted him to curse God so Job could die and be put out of his misery. But Job refused. Then his three closest friends came to him and, seeing how miserable he was, tried to get him to do the same. He still refused.”

“I think he was a crazy S.O.B. He had every right to curse God. Jeeezus! People have cursed God for a hell of a lot less.”

“That’s true. But he didn’t. And in the end, because he didn’t, God came to him and apologized. He told him he was sorry about the kids. Then God healed him and gave him more than he ever had – a bigger house, more friends, more riches, and a long life.”

“I still think that Job fellow was a fool.” And Mr. Taylor added, “And I think you’re a fool for putting up with me.”

It took all Matty’s control to not look surprised. But that was the beginnin’ of a change in him. He didn’t fuss when she put him back in his wheelchair that day, and he didn’t fuss when Whitmore took him back to his room. Matty seemed to sense she’d started to make some progress with Mr. Taylor.

Things continued along that way for a while with Matty talkin’ to Mr. Taylor and him askin’ questions. He still cussed, but he didn’t yell and carry on about the treatment Matty was givin’ him.

One day he turned real strange and silent, real distant-like, while he was gettin’ his treatment. So Matty asked him, “Did the cat steal your tongue today, or are you just mad at me?”

“If I was mad at you, you’d know it for sure, and I don’t know nothing about no cat.” Then he paused and looked her in the eye. “You know a lot about the Bible. I know that for a fact. But do you know what happens when you die?”

The question startled Matty. “Now, you’re not thinking that you’re going to die, are you?” She tried to brush off his question with a joke.

But Mr. Taylor kept on, and his brow began to wrinkle all the more. “No, I really want to know what happens after you die? Do they just put you in the ground and let you rot. Or is there something else?”

Matty thought for a moment. Then she answered him, “Well, according to the Bible, after you die you will either go to heaven or hell. Most people think that if you believe in God and live a good life, you’ll go to heaven. If you’ve done bad things, you’ll end up in hell. But I believe that even if you’ve done bad things, behaving badly during your whole life, if you truly accept the Lord and ask for his forgiveness, you’ll be forgiven. God will save you from hell, and you’ll be allowed to enter the gates of the holy city. In plain words, heaven.”

Mr. Taylor kept his eyes glued to Matty. “Do you think God would ever let me into heaven?”

Matty thought for a moment tryin’ to be real careful with her answer. “I think God would if you truly believed in Jesus Christ and asked him for forgiveness.”

With his eyes still on Matty Mr. Taylor quietly asked, “Do you think even if a person killed someone, God would still let them go inside heaven?”

Matty paused longer this time, realizin’ she had to say just the right words. “Yes. I think so. That is, if that person truly believed in God, felt sorry for what he’d done, and prayed for forgiveness.”

“Oh,” was Mr. Taylor’s response. “Would you tell me more about Jesus?” And Matty started to tell everything she knew about the birth, life, and death of Christ. She tried to tell Mr. Taylor what Christ really meant to Christians and what it meant for her to be a Christian. This conversation went on for days cuz Matty knew a lot. And Mr. Taylor wanted to know everythin’ she knew.

One day at the end of a therapy session Mr. Taylor turned to Matty and asked her how she prayed. She thought for a moment and said, “Well, I usually try to find a quiet place so I can be alone with my thoughts and feelings. Then, I get down on my knees to let God know that I think He’s greater than me. Then I tell Him what I’ve done wrong, ask for forgiveness, and ask Him to help me be a better person from now on.”

“What if you can’t get down on your knees?” asked Mr. Taylor from his wheelchair. “What if you just can’t do it without help?”

“I don’t really think it makes any difference. I think God would understand. God only cares whether you’re sincere or not – whether you really mean what you say and whether you want to be forgiven.”

“I’m beginning to think that any prayer I made to God would be pretty long-winded,” said Mr. Taylor matter-of-fact like. Then Matty gave him a hug, and he pulled back like he’d been slapped. “W-w-hy did you do that?” he asked with a shocked expression.

“Because you’re my friend. And giving hugs is one way friends show they like each other.” Then he relaxed and allowed Matty to finish her hug.

The next day Mr. Taylor asked Matty what heaven was like. Matty had to really think about this question. She’d never been asked to describe heaven before. She finally decided to describe heaven the way it’d been told to her when she was a little girl. She knew it wasn’t a grown person way to think of it, but the old picture was the first one popped into her head when she thought of heaven. And so she started.

“Heaven is like the best things on earth. It’s like a city with beautiful soaring buildings and streets paved with gold, with wonderful, beautiful green parks with flowing water and amazing forests on almost every corner. It’s never too hot or too cold. There are no wars, hunger, or disease. There’s peace in heaven; everyone has enough to eat; and no one gets sick and has to suffer. When we get to heaven our bodies aren’t old anymore. We look young and feel healthy. We’ll meet up again with all those people who were good to us when we were alive, and we’ll meet new people who will love us and be kind to us. There won’t be any more suffering for us, and we’ll finally find peace.” She then stopped, and Mr. Taylor sat there so calm and so relaxed he truly looked at peace - maybe for the first time in his pretty darn miserable life. Matty hugged him goodbye, and Whitmore wheeled him back to his room.

The next day Whitmore came to Matty a little while after she arrived at Edgefield and told her Mr. Taylor had suffered a stroke in the middle of the night. He was in a coma, and the doctor said it was only a matter of time. He probably wouldn’t even regain consciousness.

This hit Matty pretty hard. She had spent a lota time with Mr. Taylor – and a whole lota energy. She’d done what others believed couldn’t be done. For the last couple of weeks he’d hardly even cussed in front of her. He’d begun to open up, not only to her, but to others too. Even some of the other residents noticed the beginnin’s of a change. She kinda dream-walked through her day until Mr. Taylor’s therapy time. Then she walked on down to his room.

There he was lyin’ in bed looking awful calm and breathin’ real even-like. She sat down and started talkin’ to him. She talked about the weather, about what they was havin’ for dinner, about anythin’ and everythin’, and then she described heaven again for Mr. Taylor. She didn’t know whether he was hearin’ her or not, but she also knew many people in comas heard what people was sayin’ on a different level, even though they wasn’t able to answer.

This went on for the rest of the week. Even that weekend Matty came and sat with him for an hour each on Saturday and Sunday. Finally, at the end of the followin’ week Matty told Mr. Taylor that she wouldn’t be in to see him that Saturday because her and her family was visitin’ family on their farm in Central Oregon. But that she’d stop by on the way back home on Sunday to see how he was doin’. She squeezed his hand, then left the room.

That Sunday on their way home she told her husband she needed to stop by the nursin’ home for a few minutes to check on a patient. He parked the car and waited with their daughter while she walked up the Care Center steps to check on Mr. Taylor. When she walked in his room, she was stunned to see him sittin’ up on the edge of his bed. “Why, Mr. Taylor, you’re awake!” she said, sittin’ down and grabbin’ him by the hand.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. His hair was messed up, but he was conscious and truly aware of all his surroundin’s – and Matty. “I just wanted to let you know that everything you told me about heaven is true. As your friend,” he paused after emphasizin’ the word ‘friend’, “I just wanted to let you know.” Matty just gave him a big hug and told him that they’d talk more at work tomorrow. She told him goodbye with tears streamin’ down her face.

The next day when she got to work, Mr. Shaw told her Mr. Taylor died about a half hour after she’d left. To Matty it was like Mr. Taylor had waited, like he’d hung on to life just a bit longer to tell her what he’d seen before he passed over. I think it was just his way of sayin’ thanks.





“It must have been tough on Matty to lose someone who’d taken so long to get close to,” Ben Crane finally wondered aloud after a few seconds of silence.

“Oh, I s’pose it was. I had a little talk with her. Maybe it helped cuz she ended up stayin’ with her patients till the day the care center closed.”

“Well, Thomas, I think I get your point. I guess a lot of things sound pretty trite when you say them out loud. Love and commitment may not conquer everything, but they’re the most powerful weapons we’ve got.” He met the janitor’s gaze and nodded for emphasis.

“I just hope you don’t take all that love and commitment somewheres else. This place needs all it can get.” Thomas’ eyes pinned the principal to his seat.

“You’re a wise man, Thomas,” Ben softly replied. “You don’t need to worry about me leaving any time soon. Besides, if I found another job, I’d more than likely have to pay for a shrink. Here, at least, I’ve got you – at least when your subbing.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a grin.

Thomas produced a big belly laugh as he rose and headed for the door. “That’s sure ‘nuff true.” He nodded. “Well, it’s time I got back to work. My part time job took a bit of overtime this evenin’.”

Ben Crane grabbed his coat for the second time and closed the office door softly behind him. “Good night, Thomas . . . . And . . . thank you.”

“Why, you’re very welcome, Mr. Crane. If there’s anythin’ else I can do, just ask.”

The principal stopped by the front door and turned back to Thomas. “You can do me one big favor, my friend. From now on, just call me Ben. You’re not one of my students. Far from it. Tonight I feel like one of yours.” Not waiting for a response, he opened the door and headed home to his cold dinner with a spring in his step.



* * * * *



A cheerful “Hi, Betty” rang through the main office the next morning as the school’s head secretary arrived at work.

“My, my, aren’t you full of vim and vinegar this morning, Ben,” said a smiling, surprised Betty Higgins, peeking in the open door of the principal’s office. “I haven’t seen you this cheerful since . . . since . . . well, for a long time.”

“Well, Betty, I had a rough conference last night. . . . “ Ben Crane paused in thought.

“Since when do rough conferences make you this happy?”

Ben grinned at her comeback. “I guess I’d better explain. After Mr. Wilson’s yelling and slamming the door, I met Thomas, the substitute janitor. He talked with me and told me a tale – kind of like a parable. He convinced me that my life to this point hasn’t been a total waste. Anyway, I woke up this morning feeling great.” Ben looked up and noticed Betty’s confused expression. “What’s the matter, Betty?”

“Ben, this is all very interesting. Chet did call in sick yesterday, but I didn’t hire any substitute janitor. No one was available.”

“Then who in the heck did I talk to last night?”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been under a lot of stress recently,” said Betty, choosing not to answer Ben's question.

“I talked to somebody last night. At least I think I did. Maybe I have been under stress recently. But, I woke up this morning feeling better than I have in a long time.” He shrugged, still not understanding.

“If you think you’re going to be fine, I’ll leave you to look over your schedule.” She handed him an eight by eleven sheet of paper.

“Oh, I’ll be fine.” The secretary closed the office door. But his mind flooded with thoughts. I know I’m not crazy. I pretty sure I talked to a black janitor last night. He said his name was Thomas, and he seemed about the nicest person I’ve ever met. Did I imagine the whole thing? Then he glanced at the closed door.

Leaning against the door frame, once hidden by the open door, stood a janitor’s gray rag mop with a red handle.