I work at a library. I wish I was a librarian, doing interesting things like shelving books and reading them while surrounded by the intricate smell of aging tomes and new, light paper. But that's probably not how that all works. I'm not a librarian anyway, I'm part of the custodial crew. To sound less glorified, I'm a janitor; to sound even less glorified than that (which is already so not swimming in exaltation), I clean things. Like glass (this library is practically made of it). And I vacuum and dust and detail (pretty much dusting and glass) and empty sad, old wastepaper baskets. Actually, they're only sad because it is summer at the moment and there aren't any students to fill them up with trash. But never mind.
I cleaned a lot of glass today. The panes remind me of art sometimes, when the sun shines through them just right, because they look like van Gogh smudged them with his paintbrush. Plus, paint might be just as hard to clean off. I think some aspiring talent sneaks in to practice his finger-painting. Oh well, I guess it is job security. As long as there is glass to clean, there will be me, waving my paper towels across the handprints.
And then I discovered that I have a patron saint, and now I feel. . . just the same, actually, only a little more excited than before, because who knows what miracle might go off while I'm vacuuming? St. Theobald, patron saint of janitors. Attributed to him is this command: "Thou shalt not pass through glass doors by pressing upon the glass to open or close, thereupon to defile the door with thine handprints."Yes, I wrote and attributed that, but I think it is the sort of thing most janitors (those who clean glass, at least) would agree with.
Don't touch the glass, and you will receive your reward.
