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I am a janitor in Prague's subway system. There is something revolting happening beneath the city.
Even after three years of service I still sometimes find myself troubled by the seeds of horror which the Prague metro system plants in the human spirit, but when I do find myself anxious about what could be hiding in those still shadows, I practice a simple form of mental hygiene.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I imagine myself standing in my janitor overalls in the center of my soul. All of my fears about the subway tunnels, be they fevered visions of tentacles reaching out from the darkness or echoes of primal grunts coming from the gullet of the underground, they all become droplets of grime I have to clean. I distill all my fears, all my anxieties, all thoughts which I do not want into dirty footsteps on the floor of my soul and then – I put down my mop and move it back and forth…
Back and forth…
Back and forth…
And sooner than you could say ‘soap’ the station is clean, the morning commuters are shuffling down the escalators and I get to reemerge into the Prague sun with a newfound energy and a sense of a job well done. Instead of suffering with the dark dreams that the Prague subway system weaves into reality I would spend each night gliding along those dirty tiles in a meditative mop based trance. With a bit of focus and some breath work I thought I had managed to tame any amount of discomfort that the mysteries of the metro might cause me. For three calm years my system has worked, but last week it all started to fall apart.
Mr. Vohralík was a good boss, one of those people who are so quick with a joke and so full of cheer that one starts to wonder whether they aren’t a highly functional alcoholic. Yet when he called me into his office to talk about my new work placement there was nothing but sorrow in his eyes. Smíchovské Nádraží, the ugly step-sister of Prague’s main railway depot, was the station I was assigned to clean for the next month. I didn’t think much of it, just another stop on the yellow line that saw a fair amount of foot-traffic and was in the need of a nightly mop down. It wasn’t until later that I found out that Smíchovské Nádraží had a dedicated janitor. It wasn’t until later that I found out that the janitor went missing.
“The station is to be cleaned like a regular station, but there is one exception that has to be made,” Mr. Vohralík said, his voice descending into the fine line between speech and a conspiratory whisper, “at the north side of the station there is a steel door. Do not clean anything beyond it. Do not enter it. The further you stay away the better. What lies behind that barrier needs to remain unseen.”
Mr. Vohralík was not joking around; whatever was behind that door was something that I was better off not knowing about. I promised him I wouldn’t peek behind the forbidden barrier and only focus on the cleaning. The rule was simple enough, I thought that if I could block out the fear that the subway tunnels awoke in me then keeping my curiosity about the door would be a piece of urinal cake. If only it were that easy.
The question of the door didn’t start properly tugging at my attention until the end of the first night. For a while I even forgot that there was a mysterious door to begin with, I just moved through Smíchovské Nádraží with a sense of cosmic calm, enjoying the citrust-scented tranquility that my job provided. But when I reached the patch of dirty tile in front of the forbidden door my zen state faded away like soap bubbles in stale water. The door was unlike any other door at the station. It was stronger, newer, shinier. I needed to know what was on the other side.
But I reminded myself that a true janitor doesn’t require knowledge of anything but himself. I reminded myself that people often get lost in speculation and worries and memories of the past. I reminded myself that none of those things mattered. I closed my eyes and grabbed my mop. The floor of my soul was covered with the muddy questions about the nature of the door; but those were questions I was not destined to get answer to, those were questions that needed to be wiped away. I took a deep breath and moved my mop back and forth…
Back and forth…
Back and forth…
The possibilities of what could be hiding behind the steel door still chipped away at my concentration, but by the time the first subway rumbled in, the station was clean and I was free to go home. First nights were always the hardest, I convinced myself. Going forward I would be able to remind myself that I had resisted the pull of the unknown once and that would give me the strength to do it again. I thought that the lure of the forbidden would become a manageable part of my workday, that things would get better from that point onward. I was wrong. The first night at Smíchovské Nádraží was a sea of tranquility compared to what was to come.
To my disappointment, the temptation was still there on the following night. It took significant mental energy and more deep breaths that I care to admit, but I managed to clean the floor outside of that elusive steel passageway without looking up. With the patch of tiling that neighbored my obsession out of the way I moved over to the other side of the station, hoping that being further away from the door would soothe my mind. It didn’t. Within half an hour my mop had made a direct line through the station back to the steel temptation. Yet as I arrived at the forbidden door, something gave me pause.
In the freshly cleaned tiles, the same tiles that I had desperately scrubbed away while trying to ignore the burning curiosity in the pit of my stomach, was a set of muddy footprints. They led directly to the door.
I dipped my mop in my bucket and prepared to wipe up the mysterious grime, but before my arms could push the mop across the footsteps they revolted. I found myself touching the handle of the door. Without thinking I pressed down. For two nights the promise of entering the door had haunted me, but I never checked if it was unlocked. It wasn’t. Even if I wanted to enter the forbidden passage I couldn’t. It was locked.
I took a deep breath and tried not to be angry with myself. My lapse of self-control was in the past, and the only thing that mattered for a clean mind was the present. I cleared my head of all thoughts, put down my mop and moved it back and forth…
Back and forth…
Back and forth…
The usual rays of the morning sun were nowhere to be found when I emerged from the station. Dark clouds had gathered above Prague, a thick frigid rain was cleansing the streets. As I shivered in the cold, waiting for my bus home, the question of the footsteps kept my jaw clenched. I needed to know.
There was no tranquility the next night. I found my mind wandering constantly, the amount of cleaning that would take me an hour on a good day dragged out into half of my shift. The thoughts came with aggressive regularity; every time I found my mind on the edge of the quietude that had become my steady companion for the past three years, the questions would emerge. What was behind that door? Who had dirtied the tiles of the station with their footsteps? Why was I not allowed to investigate?
It was as if someone was running through my soul with a wastebasket full of shredded secret documents. I was a janitor, I was meant to clean them away and do my job, but I was also human. I wanted to sort through all the garbage and construct an image that was not meant for my eyes. After what felt like an eternity of waging a war with myself I finally caved in. I decided on a compromise. The patch of tile outside of the door deserved an extra wash and while I was there I could indulge in a bit of investigation. Entering the door was forbidden, but Mr. Vohralík never said anything about listening to what was on the other side.
When I arrived with my mop and bucket there was another set of footsteps leading to the door. I didn’t even bother cleaning them up. Leaving my soapy bucket behind I tiptoed over to the door and pressed my ear against it. I desperately hoped that getting a hint of what could be on the other side would satiate me, that I could return back to my calm job with a morsel of information safely in the pocket of my suspenders, but that hope was misguided. The cold surface of the door revealed nothing.
I stood there for longer than I would care to admit. I even started mopping a bit. One hand keeping my ear company against the door and the other limply pushing the mop around to justify my obsession; I would have made for quite the amusing sight. Just as my sense of self respect started to gnaw at me, something else stopped my eavesdropping.
Footsteps. Nearby footsteps. By the time I looked up I could see him. A young man in blue overalls was making his way towards the door. There was a blank expression on his face, as if he was a man who fell asleep in uniform and was roaming the streets in a sleep-walking trance.
“Oh, hello! Just uhhh…” In a fit of confusion I pointed to my mop, “Just the janitor trying to figure out if anything behind that door needs cleaning.”
The man in the overalls didn’t acknowledge me. Wordlessly, he walked past me, opened the door and entered the dark unknown beyond. All that he left behind was a set of footsteps wet from the rain outside.
I wish that I could say I remembered Mr. Vohralík’s solemn face, or that I thought about cleaning up the trail that the quiet stranger had left behind, but I didn’t. Without a second thought I shoved my mop into the closing door and entered that dark hallway.
It took my eyes a couple seconds to adjust to the dimness of the corridor, but his footsteps were easy to follow. I held on to my mop tight, if the man asked me what I was doing behind the forbidden door I planned on feigning ignorance and playing the role of the innocent janitor who was just looking for things to clean. But the man never turned around. He never questioned me following him. He simply made his way down the hallway. The comforting scent of my cleaning supplies was gone, now a smell of burnt food lingered in the air.
A freight elevator stood at the end of the hallway. Its floor looked like it wasn’t washed for a month, if ever. “Really dirty floor, good thing I’m a janitor,” I said, hoping to strike up a conversation. The man ignored me and ordered the elevator to move. With a rusty groan we descended below Smíchovské Nádraží.
I thought of my bucket sitting outside of the forbidden door, alone, a piece of evidence of my rule breaking. As the freight elevator descended I promised myself I would return to it as soon as I could. I also promised myself I would mine as much information from the strange stranger to ensure I wouldn’t abandon my bucket again.
“So, if a humble janitor may ask, where is this elevator going?” The man didn’t respond. He remained at the elevator controls, as if I didn’t exist at all.
I am not an angry person. Whenever I find myself frustrated I just imagine whatever is irritating me as a particularly dirty staircase; it might take time to restore the stairs to their intrinsic cleanliness, but with enough calm mopping the problem will disappear. Yet as I stood there in that elevator, the strands of my mop caked in grime, I had no patience for staircases.
“You know, it’s really rude to pretend someone doesn’t exist. I’m just a friendly janitor trying to make conversation, the least you could do is acknowledge me,” I said with considerably more anger than I had anticipated.
This time the man did respond, but he didn’t speak. He whimpered. Like a dirty puppy stuck under a bridge, the man whimpered. There were tears in his eyes.
“Sorry for yelling,” I said, feeling bad about my outburst. Before I had a chance to ask him if he was okay the elevator grinded to a halt.
As the doors creaked open the smell of smoke strengthened to an almost unbreathable degree. Distinct memories of sitting on the wrong side of a bonfire lingered in the back of my skull, but they were swiftly crushed under the vision of the underground hellscape.
There were other people wearing blue overalls, men and women, young and old, they all picked away at a long assembly line of rusted metal. Unlike the stranger’s clothes their uniforms were filthy, tattered and in places, caked in dark splotches of red. The workers all looked as if something primal was drained from them, as if they were simply puppets that had any semblance of humanity replaced with an utter dedication to the sorting of metal on the assembly line. Yet as they worked, one trace of human emotion remained. They wept. All the workers in the factory openly wept. Soon I found out why.
I didn’t even register the stranger leaving. As soon as I saw the horrid contraption at the end of the hall my hand was slamming on the elevator to go back up, to leave, to rid me of the harrowing sight of The Machine. When the metal doors screeched to a close I could see the stranger joining the procession of weeping labor. His whimpering cracked into pained wailing and then he was gone.
I did not feel sorry for him; I could not feel sorry for him. My mind was wholly occupied by the searing image of The Machine.
I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath through my shuddering lungs. I imagined I was holding a mop in the hallway of my soul. I swept it across the dirt back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
That maw, that horrible blazing toothed mouth of flame, I knew it was right below me; it’s flames reaching out into the world beyond. Needing, craving, demanding more fuel for the inferno that raged in The Machine’s metal shell.
I tried to remind myself that we are all the janitors of our own mind. That we get to choose the cleanliness of our spirit, that worries are just bits of dirty tile that we can move a mop across back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
All that I could smell was smoke. All that I could hear were the cries of the tortured masses. All that I could imagine was being in that line of lost souls, wearing those filthy blue overalls, weeping.
I kept my eyes closed. Somewhere deep inside I knew that every problem, every obstacle, every bit of mental debris can be dealt with. All it would take was patience; all that it would take was for me to move my mop back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
By the time the freight elevator reached its destination the bristles of my mop had turned a pitch black. I usually care about the state of my equipment, but I didn’t then. All I wanted to do was to get as far away as possible from that infernal sight.
The mop turned my bucket the color of the darkest night. Once I caught my breath, once I had made enough peace with what burns beneath Smíchovské Nádraží to get my legs back under my control, I emptied out the bucket and refilled it with fresh water. It took three more buckets and a good helping of my sanitation supplies to make the mop clean enough to use, but the images that have been seared into my mind still burnt with a stifling intensity.
Mr. Vohralík was right to warn me. What exists beyond that door was never meant to be seen. But now that is has been seen, now that I am aware of the horrible contraption hidden beneath Smíchovské Nádraží, I find myself at a loss of what to do. The best idea I had was to chronicle my story in this sleepless corner of the Internet, to hope that someone could explain why such a horrible machine would exist, but I know that what I have seen is beyond explanation.
The inner world of my soul is a burning garbage fire, every thought that I have is shrouded in the smoke from that horrible contraption. I do not know how to carry on, but I know that I have to. My mind is a prison of white-hot jagged metal, yet I still have a job to do. I have been in the Prague janitorial service for three years and I have never left a station unclean.
I just have to close my eyes and take a deep breath. Some doors are meant to remain locked, some questions are meant to remain unanswered. There’s enough mystery in the world to drive any janitor insane, but even in a universe of chaos a clean mind can still exist. The floors of my soul are covered in black grime and my head spins with the memories of the stifling smoke, but I have control over my spirit. It might take a long time, it might take a lot of effort, but with enough focus and enough effort a clean mind can be achieved. All I need to do is to take my mop and move it back and forth…
Back and forth…
Back and forth…
And hopefully, one day, I will escape the visions of The Machine.
(A shared smouldering universe)
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Label: Southern Lord
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