"Cheap to Keep," a story by Robert Klose

Jesse Thibodeau was thirty-eight. He had been working at the same job for twenty years, having begun when he was a rail-thin boy of eighteen. He came from a large family of seven siblings, of which he was number five. "You're easy to overlook" was what Mr. Krumm, his gym teacher, had written in his yearbook when Jesse graduated from Wytopitlock High School.

It was, Jesse thought, the nicest thing anyone had ever said about him. But he didn't want to underrate what Pam Gibbs, the director of WomenPower, had told him when he had applied for a job as a janitor the day after graduation. After looking him over, she remarked, "You'll do."

And Jesse began to do.

Over time, Jesse realized that what Pam had been looking for was someone who would not only pose no risk to the clients of WomenPower, but who held no opinions which were either demeaning of women or antithetical to the mission of WomenPower — To Promote the Success of Women in Transition. That's what it said on the WomenPower sign outside the squat brick building along Highway 171. That's what it said above the entrance door. And that's what it said on every piece of literature generated by WomenPower.

TO PROMOTE THE SUCCESS OF WOMEN IN TRANSITION.

As it turned out, Mr. Krumm's words were prescient. Jesse's first appearance in the WomenPower building with mop in hand barely raised an eyebrow. Jesse looked like the most inconsequential man on earth. He wore his dirty blond hair rather short, but with bangs that washed down over his eyes, like a small, private curtain. He was slightly hunched, underweight, and had a tendency to shuffle. His only remarkable physical features were his big, almost swollen, hands, the aggressively worked extremities of a Wytopitlock farmboy. And now, twenty years later, he was largely unchanged. Still rail thin, a bit more hunched, his blond hair invaded by strands of silver.

Pam Gibbs paid little attention to Jesse other than signing his modest checks. When she did have something to say to him, it was usually cautionary ("Don't put so much disinfectant in the commodes"). His days were repetitive and routine: Mop and buff the floors. Wash the windows. Clean the bathroom. Empty the trash cans. Stay out of people's ways. Repeat.

Jesse was the stillpoint of a beehive of activity at WomenPower, much of it raucous. The women who availed themselves of the resources of WomenPower were, as Pam Gibbs liked to say, "vulnerable," and as such, emotions ran high. The wailing, at times, rattled the window panes, unfiltered as it was by the thin particle board walls that separated the crisis rooms. Once, a woman who had arrived drunk for her session tore off all her clothes and ran through the building screaming while the counselors tried to rein her in. It was Jesse's job to avert his eyes.

Pam Gibbs was a square, weathered chain-smoker with unkempt, salt-and-pepper hair that she wore up off the shoulder. Originally from Baltimore, she ran WomenPower with military drama and efficiency, to the tune of several prestigious state and local awards; yet she openly complained of being underappreciated. She had a habit of talking to herself, usually when on the run from one crisis to the next. And she was profane. Jesse had once walked in on her while she was tearing at a cigarette pack with her teeth. He heard her growl, "Same shit, different day. Shoulda stayed in Bal'more. Had a real life. Fuck."

So.

But it was true. Wytopitlock was the sticks, not even indexed on some maps of Maine. A person could live in Wytopitlock in perfect obscurity, and when they died, not one atom of universal dust gave the slightest shiver.

But then, one autumn day, there was an event. It arrived in the form of a lime green,1990 Toyota Corolla with rusted fenders. Jesse watched from inside the glass entry door as the car pulled up in front of the WomenPower building. The driver got out — a rather short, sad-faced woman with a gray pageboy haircut, wearing a brown Carhartt work coat, jeans and brown canvas sneakers. She went around to the passenger door and began to plead with a younger woman who seemed to be ignoring her.

Jesse felt a tinge of guilt as he observed the minor drama. He was supposed to limit his interaction with clients to giving directions once they entered the building. However, hunched over his mop, he could not help watching. For a moment he felt that he had seen the older woman somewhere. She finally succeeded in coaxing the younger woman out of the car. She looked to be in her thirties and, Jesse thought, would have been pretty if not for her fixed scowl. She had long blond hair, a nose piercing, and blood red fingernails. Despite the chill, she was dressed in a black vinyl poodle skirt, sheer white blouse and pink sneakers. The two women made their way through the door. Jesse looked away and immediately began to mop.

"Could you tell us where to find Pam Gibbs?" Jesse looked up. It was the older woman talking to him. Her face was round, moistened with sweat, and deeply lined, like a child's wet clay project. But she was smiling sweetly and Jesse felt warmed by her. "D-down there," he said, pointing toward the long hallway. "All the way. At the end."

The younger woman, meanwhile, was rolling her eyes and checking her nails. "C'mon, mother," she said impatiently. "Let's get this over with."

Jesse watched as the two women went down to Pam Gibbs's office. A few minutes later the older woman was at Jesse's back again. "Is there some place I could sit?" she asked. Jesse glanced sidelong at her and jerked his head to clear the bangs from his eyes. "Sure," he said. "These chairs right here." He gestured toward three windsor chairs lined up against a wall.

The woman expressed her thanks and sat down. She folded her hands in her lap and smiled as she looked about, taking in the place. Every wall bore an affirmation poster. YOU CAN TOO DO IT — IF YOU'RE A WOMAN!; THIS OFFICE IS WOMANNED 24 HOURS A DAY; SHE'S NOT AN INFANT — SHE'S A BABY WOMAN!

Jesse kept stealing glances at the woman. Yes, she looked somehow familiar, but from where? Her features were singular, from the deep, symmetrical lines running from her eyes to her jaw, to her pleasant, almost fixed, full-toothed smile. And then, unbidden, Jesse blurted, "I have a Toyota too."

The woman glanced through the front door, as if to confirm that her vehicle was still there. "They do run forever," she said. "I don't care much about the body, so long as it gets me from A to B."

A scream echoed from down the hallway. The woman sat up and leaned forward in her chair. She arched her eyebrows. It became quiet again. She leaned back. "People tell me I should get a new car," she said, smiling again. "But why should I? This one's paid for and it's cheap to keep."

"That's important," said Jesse. "With the price of things these days."

Jesse passed the mop over a few floor tiles and then paused. "Ma'am," he said, "I'm sorry, but you look so familiar. Do I know you?"

Her smile broadened. "Probably from TV," she nodded with eyes half closed. "A long time ago."

"That's it!" exclaimed Jesse. "Your show. It was…"

"Bumpkinville."

Jesse almost melted over his mop handle. It came flooding back to him. His favorite show as a child. "Yeah," he gushed, "you were Marold, and your brother was Harold, and you two guys were carpenters on this farm, but everything you did got screwed up." Jesse caught himself. He tightened his grip on the mop handle. "I-I'm sorry," he said.

The woman laughed. "For what? That was the character I played. A carpenter who screwed things up." Then she put out her hand. "I'm Mary Schnepple." Jesse fixed her hand in mid-flight with his eyes. Then, cautiously, he took it.

"Jesse!" It was Pam Gibbs. Hovering. Fire in her eyes. She was fingering a cigarette she was clearly desperate to light. "What are you doing?"

"Ms. Gibbs," stumbled Jesse. "You'll never guess who this is." Pam Gibbs eyed Mary Schnepple and managed a professional smile. "I'm sorry," she said. "Do I know you? You do look familiar."

"She's from the TV," crowed Jesse. "Think back." Pam Gibbs paused, reflected, then slapped a hand to her face. "Bumpkinville!" she exclaimed. And then she too began to gush. She became weak-kneed and apologetic and made little repeat bows. "Oh, I watched your show all the time," she said. And then, before Mary Schnepple could say a word, Pam put up a hand. "Please wait here," she said. "I want to tell the other women."

Pam Gibbs took off down the hallway. "She's excited," said Jesse. "Nothing famous ever happens around here."

"I've never been to Wytopitlock," said Mary. "It's a bit of a drive from Presque Isle."

"You live way up there? I'll bet you live in a mansion."

"No, not at all," said Mary with a wave. "I have a cabin on two acres, near a running stream. Two bedrooms and a loft. I heat it with a woodstove year-round. It's cheap to keep."

Pam Gibbs reappeared with the three other counselors. One, Annie, a small, birdlike woman, immediately began snapping pictures, assaulting Mary Schnepple with her flash. "Jesse!" barked Pam Gibbs. "Step out of the way. You're getting in the picture." Jesse hopped aside, pivoting on his mop.

The women took turns posing with Mary, who politely cooperated. "You don't mind this, do you?" Pam Gibbs asked her. "We've never had a celebrity here before." And then, desperately, "Nothing ever happens in Wytopitlock. I'm actually from Bal-ti-more." As she said this she primped her hair.

Mary continued to smile. "I don't mind at all," she said. "You're making such a fuss. My acting years were so long ago."

"But you were so good," Annie assured her. "I remember the episode when you and Harold put the closet door in the bedroom of that farmhouse, but when you opened it, you were suddenly outside, because you had cut a hole in the outside wall!"

The gaggle of women roared at that one. Pam Gibbs shooed them back to their offices. Then she turned to Mary Schnepple. "I guess we'll be seeing you from time to time. Your daughter has agreed to join our Aspirations Ho! program."

Mary looked relieved. "Oh, that's great to hear," she said. "Yes, I'll be sure to get her here." Pam Gibbs and Mary Schnepple said their goodbyes. Mary's daughter emerged from her crisis room. She looked ragged. Her hair was disheveled and her mascara had run. "C'mon, mother," she snapped without looking at Mary. "I've gotta stop at a pharmacy on the way home and get some things."

"It was nice meeting you," Mary said to Jesse, taking his hand again. "You have a long drive," said Jesse. "Two hours, I guess." "Not quite," said Mary, nicking her head toward her daughter. "But then, she wants to shop."

One week later, Jesse headed to work in his Toyota pickup with an enthusiasm he had not felt in years. Well, truth to tell, he had never felt it. But now — now! — He had another chance to see — and talk with — a TV star. Mary Schnepple! In Wytopitlock! It was like the heaven at the end of twenty years of mopping the floor of purgatory. It seemed like, suddenly, the universe did have its reasons.

When he got to work, Jesse decided to do the windows of the front doors first. He didn't want to miss Mary Schnepple’s arrival. He worked in a T-shirt and jeans, but he was already sweating, not so much from his exertions as from anxious anticipation.

Jesse sponged the windows down with good, warm, soapy water until he had obscured the outside world. He bent down for his squeegee, got up, swiped the glass, and there she was — Mary! It was like he had conjured her with his squeegee. "Good morning, Jesse," she said as he opened the door for her and stepped aside. Her daughter followed, looking dour and resigned. This time she was wearing skin-tight jeans, a green sequined top, and flip-flops which exhibited toenails painted an electric purple. She didn't acknowledge Jesse, but immediately marched down the hallway to Pam Gibbs.

Mary Schnepple was wearing a red and black plaid flannel lumberjack shirt and beige chinos. "It's already getting warm out there," she said. Then she resumed the same chair she had sat in the previous week. "Don't let me distract you," she said to Jesse. "Make believe I'm not even here." She opened a paper bag and pulled out a doughnut. "Well," she said, "maybe I can distract you just once." She pushed the bag at Jesse. "Would you like one?"

Jesse examined the bag of donuts with a hint of disbelief. "Aw, I'm not supposed to do much more than give directions," he said.

Mary clucked her tongue. "It's a doughnut, Jesse," she said. "Not a marriage proposal." Jesse looked about, like a frightened bird. Then he seized a doughnut and took a hearty bite. "Boston cream," he mouthed. "My favorite."

"All right," said Mary. "Now you can make believe I'm not even here."

"How can I do that?" said Jesse. "I mean, you're the biggest thing to happen to Wytopitlock since, since, well, since I don't know. Nothing ever happens here."

Mary feigned a frown. "I hope you didn't tell anybody else about me." Jesse was quick to wag his head. "No, ma'am," he swore. "I did go to Sweet's Garage, but the boys were out on a towing job."

"Well, that's good," said Mary.

She watched as Jesse went about his work with the squeegee. "How long have you worked here, Jesse?"

He smiled dreamily. "Twenty years. Started right out of high school."

"Any family?"

"Oh, yeah. My folks, six brothers and sisters, an uncle."

"I mean, of your own. Are you married?" Jesse shrugged. "Well, I almost was. I went out for a while, and I thought it was good. Then she got away from me. Linda." He worked on this memory for a few moments and added, "I guess I missed my opportunity."

"Unlucky girl," said Mary. "Letting you get away."

Jesse blushed and wiped off the blade of the squeegee with a rag. "She said she needed to be dominated. I guess I'm not the dominating type."

A scream echoed through the long hallway leading from Pam Gibbs's office. The only word that came through intact was "bitch." And then, silence.

Mary smiled in silly embarrassment. "My daughter is not the easiest person to get along with. She blames me for not being rich and famous. Television was fun, but nothing lasts forever. The money certainly didn't. But that was okay. I didn't expect it to. I know who I am, but my daughter thinks I should be somebody else."

Jesse took a step toward Mary, squeegee in hand. "But you are somebody," he said. "I saw every episode of Bumpkinville, and now that I've met you, I'm gonna order the DVD collection."

"You're sweet," said Mary. "But tell me more about yourself. Do you have any hobbies? Any pets?"

Jesse warmed to this topic. "Oh, I got a dog," he said. "A shepherd. Bump. That's his name. "'Cause he's blind in one eye and keeps bumpin' into things." Then he reciprocated. "How about you? You got a dog?"

"Cats," said Mary. "Two of them. They're less demanding than dogs, I think. Cheaper to keep."

"Yeah," reflected Jesse. "I guess that’s true." Mary picked up a WomenPower brochure and began to fan herself. The building seemed overheated. "You like your work here, Jesse?"

Jesse shrugged. "Pretty much," he said. "Nobody bothers me."

"You ever think of doing something else?"

Jesse nodded. "A few years back I got offered a job on a lobster boat. I thought that might be interesting. Good money, too. But I took too long to get back to the old cap'n. I guess I missed my chance."

Mary sighed. "Thirty-eight is still pretty young," she said. "A lot of doors are still open."

A door flew open down the hall and Mary Schnepple's daughter came storming out. "Let's go, mother!" she barked. "This is a waste of time." She marched out of the building, her flip flops slapping the freshly mopped floor, and planted herself in the Toyota.

Mary looked suddenly pained and world-weary. She glanced up at Jesse. "My daughter is thirty-eight too," she said absently. "She had a lot of opportunities. Good schools, good friends, plenty of love, and a lot of, well, stuff. Maybe too much stuff. It's funny. When it's somebody else's child, I'm full of good advice. But when it's your own, well…"

Pam Gibbs appeared in the waiting area, looking exasperated. She gestured to Jesse to make himself scarce. He picked up his bucket and shambled down the hallway as Pam and Mary huddled in adjoining chairs. Fifteen minutes later he peeked and saw Mary sitting alone, her hands folded in her lap, staring up at a poster of a woman carrying a hod of bricks — YOU’RE STRONGER THAN YOU THINK!

He craned his neck and looked through the clean glass of the front door at the Toyota. Mary's daughter seemed to be having a fit. She was tearing at her hair and beating the dashboard with her fists.

"She's going to tear the car apart if I don't go out there." Mary said this without taking her eyes from the poster. "Pam Gibbs said that she needs more than counseling. A residential program. She’s self-destructive." Mary gave a quiet laugh, but her eyes were sparkling with tears.

Jesse felt his blood surge. "You know," he said, "I'm not supposed to say anything to the clients, just give directions. But I just got to say that when Bump acts up, I chase him into the woods. Let him work it off out there."

Mary, still smiling, rolled her head toward Jesse. "Do you think I should chase Debbie into the woods?"

Jesse scratched the back of his neck, struggling to find something to say. Then he blinked. Hard. The Toyota door was open and the car was empty. "She's gone," he said.

Mary slowly got up. She pushed the door open and went outside, followed by Jesse and his mop. Debbie, her daughter, was marching due south, screaming, pumping her fists at the world as she went. Giving it the finger.

Mary took a deep breath. She fished the car keys out of her pocket. Without a word, she got into the Toyota and started it up. The engine wheezed and stuttered. A thick puff of black smoke farted from the tailpipe.

Jesse stood by the car, still clutching his mop. He watched as Mary sat stock still in the idling vehicle, her hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. Then she turned toward him. "Get in," she said.

Jesse opened his hand. The mop fell over and the handle chocked onto the hard pavement. Without looking back, he went around to the passenger side and got into the car. Mary asked him, "You need to stop at the pharmacy? You need to shop? You hungry?"

Jesse smiled and focused on the road ahead. "No, ma'am. There ain't nothing I need."

“Then I guess you’ll be cheap to keep.”

They made it to Presque Isle in a little under one hour and thirty minutes. Just the two of them. A record.

 

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