And Chitz For All
By Raphael Stigliano
Those little frills that peel off the side of paper when you tear it out of a notebook? That’s chitz. One year, janitors at my middle school got so sick of cleaning up everyone’s chitz that they complained to the principal. The next day spiral-bound notebooks were outlawed, and our fates were sealed.
The ban didn’t do any good. The chitz kept turning up. In hallways, in classrooms, in bathrooms. Little fiddly scraps of paper scooted over tile like tumbleweeds, leaving trails of even fiddlier scraps too tiny to pinch between your fingers. The janitors pulled their hair and swept the floor but an hour later, chitz again. Where was it coming from? Nobody, not even the teachers, used spiral-bound notebooks.
The janitors declared war. They hired more custodial staff and armed them with vacuum cleaners. They occupied every classroom, taking shifts to keep the battleground under constant observation. But the second they turned their backs, more chitz blew in like dead leaves in dry wind.
So, the janitors tried a different tack. They gathered up chitz and brought samples back to their closets for a full forensic treatment. Paper quality, fingerprints, DNA swabs – they CSI’d those chitz, traced it to a specific type of notebook, and dispatched agents to every office supply store in the district.
“Hundreds of people shop here every day,” said the cashiers. “You must know this is absurd. Why don’t you just clean it up? Isn’t that your job?”
I know, now, what it means to be a janitor. To see my name embroidered upon the breast of a navy boiler suit. To watch my reflection in tile floors grow clearer with every swipe of the mop. Days contain lifetimes when your purpose is reduced to cleaning up other peoples’ messes. Can you really blame them—us—just once for saying no?
For lo, the janitors persevered. They would not back down until they had receipts. And then they had names.
The announcement crackled over the intercom right after the pledge of allegiance. We sweated in our metal chairs. The list went on for minutes. When it was done, fifty-six students were marched to the administrative office. On the floor outside we sat crisscross-applesauce, waiting to be called in. Chitz dotted the floor between our shaking knees.
My turn came close to the end. I had been in the office just once before, to pick up my student I.D. after missing the first day of school. That day, the fluorescents gave off a new, clean glow. Now a single bare bulb cast everything in weird angles and horror-flick gloom.
The principal looked tired. Loose hairs betrayed her army-tight bun. A mountain of crushed cigarette butts buried the ashtray on her desk. Behind her, a row of janitors stood with their arms folded. One of them caught my eye.
On a damp Wednesday in sixth grade, I threw up all over the biology lab during group worm dissection. My partners Heather and Dennis shrieked and fled, while those outside the splash zone hooted and flicked worm guts in my direction. From the safety of his desk, Mr. Hamilton just sighed. Only Janey Jaxton stepped forward to offer me a roll of paper towels. I took it and blotted puke from my uniform until a kindly janitor rode in with bleach, a bucket, and a smile.
That same smile glimmered from one of the faces lining the principal’s office. Perhaps I was not so alone.
“Sam, Sam, Sam,” the principal said in a voice like a paper shredder. “It’s been a long morning. You want to do this the easy way. Why did you buy the notebook?”
I didn’t know anything about any notebook. The principal reached into an overstuffed drawer and slid a receipt across the desk.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me about making this easy. We’ve seen the footage. We cross-referenced the last four digits with your mother’s Mastercard. Why did she buy you the notebook?”
My mom could have bought anyone that notebook. The trail was there but the proof was not.
The principal laughed. “You think I need proof? All I need is a confession. It doesn’t matter how we get it. Do you want to do this the hard way?”
I didn’t. Even after fifty shell-shocked students had exited the office before me, I was determined to hold resolute. A silent pact had formed in the hallway: nobody speaks; nobody plays along. They couldn’t give us all detention.
But nobody made eye contact on their way out of the office.
The principal sat back in her chair, creaking leather and tired bones. “The hard way it is.”
She lit a fresh cigarette as one of the janitors dialed. When the line connected, her gravelly voice melted to honey. “Hi Mrs. Burke. How are you? I’m here with your son.” She twiddled the cigarette between her fingers. Ash drifted to the rug. As one, the janitors watched it fall. “Well to be honest with you, Sam’s giving me a bit of trouble.”
Before I could protest a hand clamped over my lips. Rough fingers stank of lemon and disinfectant. The janitor must have been behind me from the moment I sat down, waiting for any sign of a fight. I raised my gaze to his. Grey eyes looked back with pity.
“We’ve had some issues around the building. Illegal substances. Contraband. We’re working overtime to root out the source, but we need full cooperation. And Sam just isn’t cooperating.”
I tried to scream. The hand squeezed tighter.
“Of course he is. But it’s the good kids you’ve got to watch the closest. I’m sure we can clear this up. All we need is permission to move ahead with our investigation. Do we have your permission, Mrs. Burke?” In the hazy light, her face diminished to wispy hair and a nicotine grin.
“Thank you. Nice to hear from you as well. I hope we’ll see you at the next PTA meeting. Mrs. Rizzo’s husband promised snickerdoodles… but of course, business first.”
The principal handed the receiver to a janitor, who slammed it back into its cradle. Then she finished her cigarette in one, deep drag. She made a lazy motion with her fingers. More ash drifted to the office floor.
Suddenly the hand disappeared from my mouth. I gasped for air, just as the principal let out her breath. Half a cigarette’s worth of smoke blew directly down my throat. I hit the tile, coughs tearing my chest in two.
“Search his locker. Get him out of my sight.” The principal stabbed out the cigarette on her nameplate and tossed it on the pile. “Next!”
We christened it D-Day. First, they searched our lockers. Then they searched our backpacks. With no results, they widened their search. They unearthed condoms, dime bags of weed, shoplifted snacks from the drug store across the street—and zero notebooks. The principal gave the order to move on to the teachers. Desks were ransacked, drawers emptied onto the tile. I’ll never forget passing by the teacher’s lounge as a janitor escorted a group of us to the bathrooms. Ms. Seymour, who supervised Mathletes, sat weeping on the floor, trophies shattered around her. The principal watched everything from doorways and corners, shrouded in cigarette smoke.
At home, my mother was distraught. Was it drugs? Alcohol? There were safer ways to make friends. Why did she shake paper scraps out of my backpack, clothes, and lunchbox when I came home? Why was she getting calls from other parents, asking if Sam was in with the bad crowd? She would never understand.
In the principal’s eyes, we were all the bad crowd.
With all our teachers in interrogations, an army of janitors took over the classrooms. They handed out dustpans and Clorox. If we insisted on trashing our school, then together we would clean it up. We washed graffiti from bathroom walls and chased trails of cigarette butts in the principal’s wake. Others in my contingent complained while we scrubbed soap scum from sink drains, but I didn’t mind.
Never before had I found a home in chess club, debate team, or organized sport, and I swooned to work among teammates. For the first time, I could be a part of something greater than myself. Meanwhile, chitz gathered in dunes and cascaded down stairwells. It was impossible to keep up. Squadrons with snow shovels piled masses of chitz into garbage bags and passed them in assembly lines down to the first floor, where school buses carted them to the docks to dump into the sea. On our breaks, we ate cold turkey sandwiches and applesauce. Lunch ladies stuffed chitz into the ovens. Miles of black smoke pumped into the autumn sky.
A local news van lurked on the corner, trying to catch loose lips during free periods. Minors couldn’t be interviewed without parental consent, but the janitors nodded grimly for the cameras. “Just doing our jobs,” was all they would say.
“Talk to me,” my mother wept. “I see the broadcasts. I’m on the parent forums. It can’t go on like this.” I couldn't describe how it felt, to stand alongside the janitors, Clorox in hand.
The next morning, the principal called assembly.
We waded single-file through waist-high chitz – only a thin trail of tile visible beneath our feet – to reach the auditorium. When the last pair of shoes had passed over, the chitz closed in as though we had left no trail at all.
The auditorium held enough folding chairs for the entire student body. Janitors directed us to sit. More guarded the exits. The principal waited at the podium. Gaunt hollows made caves of her cheeks. Her pantsuit draped her bones.
Like everywhere else, the room was dusted with chitz. But it did not pile in natural snowbanks along the walls. Groups of students with push brooms corralled every scrap into a ten-foot mound behind the podium. How I longed to stand among them.
The principal watched us file in. When we were seated, she tapped the microphone with a crooked finger. Speakers boomed.
“Good morning, students,” she whispered.
We mumbled a response. “I said, good morning, students,” she repeated. The janitors aimed their mops in our direction.
“Good morning!” we shouted back.
“That’s better.” The principal wheezed like desert wind. “Now. We have a troublemaker. Poisoning our air. Tormenting our hardworking custodial staff. Wasting all of our time.”
Chitz drifted from ceiling panels to tangle and squirm at our feet. The push brooms had fallen still. Even amplified, the principal’s voice could be drowned out by the slightest sound.
“Today we gather to see justice. Let this be a beacon of hope, and a warning to the bad seeds still in our midst. Yes: we have caught the culprit!”
We swam with whispers. The principal fumbled with a crumpled box. She shook out the last cigarette. When it was lit, she waved to the janitors with a shaking hand.
“Watch and learn,” she hissed into the microphone.
The auditorium doors burst open in a swirling flurry of white. Two janitors marched in, dragging between them the limp form of a girl.
It was Janey Jaxton, my shining symbol of rebellion, the first to speak up in the face of injustice. And it wasn’t just the vomit episode, either. When I had been booted from the baseball team after missing a game, Janey – cementing herself in my daydreams – campaigned for me like Atticus Finch. She launched sit-ins, inspired boycotts, and silk-screened t-shirts ridiculing the coach. I learned what it meant to love. And yet, when it was all over, she didn’t even recognize me in the halls.
Today she wore chains. An extension cord squeezed her fingers blue. She fell to her knees before the principal.
“Ms. Jaxton fancied herself a rebel.” The principal’s voice was softer than the hum of the speakers projecting it. “Thought she could make fools of us all. No tolerance here for mischief. Let Ms. Jaxton be an example to those of you still up to no good.”
She flicked her fingers. A half-inch cylinder of ash dropped from the cigarette between them. The janitors watched it hit the floor. One of them nearly lunged, mop at the ready, but the others held him back. Wait, their eyes seemed to say.
The principal inched aside. Someone produced another power cord, and they wrapped it around and around until Janey was bound to the podium. I thought about Houdini and imagined her daring escape. But she only swallowed a deep breath and raised her voice. The microphone caught every word.
“You’re not fooling anyone!” she cried. “We studied your stupid history textbooks! Mr. Faley taught us the word martyr! People will always use spiral-bound notebooks. There will always be chitz. You think this will clean up your mess? Who made this mess in the first place? Who—”
The janitors tipped the podium onto its wheels. Janey tipped with it. She kept talking as they rolled her backwards into the pyramid of chitz, but I had clamped both hands over my ears. No sound reached me—not even the quiet rush of my own thoughts.
The principal held out her cigarette lighter. A janitor took it, then plucked a falling thread of chitz from the air. He sparked the lighter and kissed paper to flame. When he dropped the flaming chitz onto the pile, it went up in a flash…
