Lunch Trays, FBI Agents, and the Mop That Couldn’t Care Less
I quickly learned as an elementary school principal that custodians weren’t just the backbone of the building—they were the duct tape holding the school’s soul together. A sparkling floor and a custodian the kids adored could turn a dumpster fire of a day into something resembling functional education.
Enter Betty V, our head custodian—a legend in her own mind and, frankly, in ours too. Betty’s daily uniform was a sweatsuit that had long since given up on elasticity, paired with bathroom slippers that looked like they’d survived a war. She moved with the urgency of a dial-up connection, and watching her mop was like witnessing interpretive dance performed by a tranquilized sloth. The only time she broke the sound barrier was en route to the boiler room for a quick Camel cigarette—strictly forbidden, but Betty treated rules like polite suggestions from people she didn’t respect.
The students greeted her like she was a sleeping dragon guarding the janitor’s closet: “Good morning, Miss Betty,” they’d whisper, as if volume might trigger fire. Teachers, meanwhile, had a scroll of complaints that could’ve doubled as a medieval manuscript: blackboards untouched since Nixon, trash cans overflowing with science experiments gone rogue, and desks that looked like crime scenes. I gave Betty pep talks that felt more like hostage negotiations, hoping to elevate her performance from “barely employed” to “mildly present.” Most days, we settled for “not actively making things worse.
Betty once confided that her son was thriving in prison. Thriving. According to her, he had his own corn popper for gourmet jailhouse mac 'n’ cheese, a tiny TV for endless reruns, and daily gym access—“just like a wellness retreat, but with stripes,” she said, deadpan. I nodded, unsure whether to laugh or call a therapist.
To keep things spicy, Betty’s daughter Madonna was hired as the day custodian at our primary school across the street. This meant Betty supervised her daughter, which was like asking a raccoon to manage a squirrel. Ladonna, at least, wore real shoes and brought a flair for cafeteria theatrics. During lunch, she convinced the kids that her broom could read minds and would “choose” a few lucky students to help sweep up the mess under the tables. It was part Hogwarts, part child labor, and somehow wildly effective. The kids treated it like a game show. The parents didn’t complain. And I was too tired—and frankly too impressed—to question it.
Then came the day Betty sprinted—yes, sprinted—into my office, interrupting a meeting with the grace of a wrecking ball. Gasping between Camel-induced wheezes, she shrieked, “The FBI is here, and they’re looking for my daughter, Madonna!” I blinked. “Wait, what?” She replied, “Well, a few years ago, she killed someone!” The teachers in the room looked like they’d just been told recess was canceled forever. I hissed, “Not. A. Word.”
Sure enough, four FBI agents stood in the front office like they were auditioning for a crime drama. I begged the agents not to cuff Madonna in front of the kids. Thankfully, they agreed—though their version of “discreet” involved a cafeteria exit so awkward it could’ve been choreographed by a nervous substitute teacher. I pulled Madonna aside, whispered something vaguely reassuring, and watched her walk out with the FBI like she was heading to a very intense parent-teacher conference. The magic broom didn’t get confiscated, but its reputation definitely took a hit.
Back at the boiler room, I found Betty mid-Camel, looking like a dragon on break. She crushed the cigarette with a slipper that had the structural integrity of a pancake and muttered, “Well, shit. Figured Madonna’s skeletons would tumble out sooner or later. Guess I’d better hustle to the cafeteria—those lunch trays won’t throw themselves away.” And with that, she shuffled off, ready to face another day with all the urgency of a sloth on vacation.
So what does any of this have to do with Empathy on the Rocks? Everything. Because empathy isn’t just about heartfelt hugs and deep listening—it’s also about surviving a school day where your head custodian smokes like a dragon, her daughter gets arrested by the FBI mid-lunch, and you still have to explain to a room full of second graders why the broom lady won’t be choosing cleanup helpers anymore. Empathy, in this case, came with a side of chaos, a dash of nicotine, and a mop that moved slower than my will to live. Stirred, not shaken—just the way we serve it around here.