Earlier that day, I had picked up
a manikin from my weaving store. We no
longer needed him at the store, but I hadn’t decided what to do with the
“dummy.” I had grown fond of him over
the years and had named him Angus. He
looked like a ferocious warrior in his regimental jacket and Prince Charles
Edward Stewart kilt. Selling him seemed
like a betrayal after all we’d been through together, but there was no place to
store him at home. And he certainly
didn’t belong in an uptown law office.
There was some space in the janitor’s cleaning supplies closet, so with
deepest apologies, I wedged Angus in the dirty room in front of the upright vacuum
cleaner. I didn’t want him to frighten
the janitor, so I put a warning sign on the outside of the closet door. It stated, “Manikin in closet.” I had considered putting up a sign that said,
“Dummy in closet,” but I feared the janitor might take it the wrong way.
As the day wore on, I forgot
about Angus. Because of constant
interruptions, I had not finished a brief due at the Court of Appeals. The deadline for filing was the next
day. Frustrated, I had no choice but to
stay late to complete the brief.
I worked my way through law
school as a janitor/maid for a home and a couple of office buildings in Chapel
Hill and Carrboro. Back then, banks did
not consider young, female law students to be a good credit risk, so there were
no student loans available. I really
grew to hate the job. I didn’t mind
emptying the trash or the vacuuming or dusting.
But at the end of the day, cigarette butts and ashes emit a nasty stench
that would stick to me no matter how
carefully I cleaned the ashtrays. Dirty
bathrooms acquire equally offensive odors and stains that assault both the eyes
and nose. Cleansers reek of chlorine and
always managed to get on my clothes.
Those years taught me to have great sympathy for the cleaning crew.
My law office janitor was an
elderly scarecrow of a man with toothpick arms and legs. A graying stubble
always shadowed his face. His overalls
covered dirty, ragged shirts and his well-worn boots were splattered with
splotches of paint. I never knew much
about him, but he always seemed hyper-active and a bit jumpy. He never smiled, but knowing the joys of his
profession, I didn’t take his grumpiness personally.
As my office was in downtown
Chapel Hill, I didn’t feel very safe working alone after dark. Wanting to finish the brief and get home as
soon as possible, I was totally focused on my work when the janitor
arrived. Concentrating on my brief, I didn’t
hear him come in the office, walk down the hall, or open the door to the
cleaning supplies closet. But I
certainly heard the blood-curdling scream that followed when he ran into
Angus.
My first thought was that a deranged
criminal was gutting someone with a serrated butcher knife. Total panic set in as I imagined the bloody
scene that must be taking place just down the hall. I desperately wanted to call for help, but
couldn’t think of the phone number for 911.
To add to my confusion, the scream was quickly followed by a long stream
of high pitched cussing. It was then
that I recognized the voice of the janitor.
Fearing that he must be having some sort of a seizure, I rushed out to
help.
He trembled with anger as he
stood screaming at me. His death grip on
the closet door was probably the only thing that kept him from collapsing. I was afraid of getting too close as he was
clearly in a rage. A collection of dangerous brooms and mops were at his right
hand.
As he continued to curse at me, I
figured out that he had not expected to find a huge, menacing Scotsman facing
him when he opened the closet door. When
the yelling finally quieted somewhat, I asked him why he had not read the sign
on the door? It clearly stated, “Manikin
in closet.” In reply, the janitor asked,
“What the **** is a ** *** manikin?” Thankfully, I caught myself before answering,
“It’s a dummy.” I just pointed at Angus
and said, “That’s a manikin.”
I stumbled back into my office
and looked at the brief. I was still
shaking from the encounter with Angus and the janitor and I knew that I
probably couldn’t finish anything that night.
But, I decided to read the brief once more before going home. It was then that I noticed all the
“henceforth’s”, “whereas’s,” “heretofore’s” and “thereto’s” scattered across
the pages.
I had learned an important lesson
that night. When trying to communicate,
it’s important to choose words that your reader can understand. I took a few minutes to delete all the
legalese I could find in the brief. I
certainly didn’t want to confuse the Court of Appeals. Perhaps the brief would even be good enough
that I could take another “win” with me as I went into the “hereinafter.” And, I really needed to find Angus a home.
