The Bright Orange Reflective Vest

A story very loosely based on Daniel Twelve

By Bob Freye

 
The crowd hushed. They were coming to the big moment. Principal Randolf held up a small square of cloth colored in the bright orange of the Willard Scott High School Tigercats, and an excited chatter broke out among the audience.

“This is a piece of the jersey,” Principal Randolf called out, “that was worn by our own star center, Kory McNary, when he hit for 54 points in a game.“ The rumble from the crowd picked up in anticipation of the punch line. “That was the most points scored by any player,” here it comes, “in the history of Tigercat basketball!”

The whole auditorium screamed their approval. Principal Randolf had more to say, but there was no point. The crowd owned this moment. They stomped and howled for several minutes before Superintendent Wellstock could get their attention.

She stood at the microphone, calmly repeating the words she had always used with her class when she was a teacher. “Alright—“ she would say, when her children were out of control. Just that, “Alright.” And then she would wait for them to settle a little before saying it again, “Alright.” Eventually they would come back to earth, and she would be in control again.

This was a bigger crowd, but she had a microphone, which gave her an advantage. So she stood on stage, saying, “Alright,” and waiting for the auditorium to settle.

Principal Randolf stood back now, having given up his hopes of finishing his speech. Anyway, the speech wasn’t all that important. This moment was all about pride in the school, about honoring the accomplishments that had come to define the Tigercat experience.

“Alright—“ Superintendent Wellstock repeated in a voice that was clearly audible over the dying sounds of celebration. “We have come to the big moment, when we close the lid on our time capsule and seal it in the vault that was installed in the new gym.”

Applause from the crowd, and a few leftover screams. And as the reaction died down, a voice from the front row called for everyone’s attention.

“Wait! Wait!” Audrey wasn’t the type of person who would interrupt a meeting. Her teachers considered her shy, maybe even too conscientious. She never spoke out of turn and was always yielding her place to one of the other students, usually to someone far less promising than herself. It was a shame, really.

But here she was, hushing the crowd, calling for attention. And even before anyone could give her permission to speak—or tell her to be quiet—she stood up and pleaded, “Don’t close the lid!”

Superintendent Wellstock looked down in shock at the smallish student with the surprisingly loud voice. Principal Randolf stepped forward, suddenly afraid of ruining what had been a picture of controlled jubilation. He knew what Audrey wanted.

“I have a few things that should go into the time capsule,” Audrey announced. “These were submitted earlier to the committee, but for some reason they were left out, and we think that they should be added.” She held up several pieces of paper. “These are the pictures of the FFA and Future Teachers groups here at Willard Scott High, and pictures from the volunteer groups that served at the nursing homes.”

The crowd couldn’t decide how this all fit in with the general mood of celebration. Some thought it was a break in the action, like a commercial on TV. So they turned their minds off for a moment and thought about other things. Others were more vocal about their disinterest. They started to murmur, which in an auditorium can become very loud, very quickly.

“Alright—“ The Superintendent said into the microphone, which caused the crowd to settle, just a bit.

Principal Randolf stepped to the microphone and spoke directly to Audrey’s suggestion.

“There was a committee who looked at all these ideas,” he said firmly, “and we made our choices based on what we felt would be best recognized after fifty years, when the time capsule is opened. I think that we chose items that accurately portray the Tigercat spirit the way we want to be remembered in the future.”

“All you have is sports stuff,” Audrey challenged, “and the band.”

“Our band has won awards nationwide,” Randolf said.

Audrey interrupted, “But you don’t even have the choir! And what about art and science and math? What about the kids who will be teachers someday, or farmers, or just nice people?”

It wasn’t funny, exactly, but everyone laughed. A good, jolly, rolling, shake-your-sides laugh. Audrey looked around like she had no clue what was so funny. They would tell her later. Just nice people? In a time capsule? That was completely out of place at that moment.   

“I’m not going to apologize for the events and people that we chose for our time capsule,” Randolf said. “We have a band that marched in the Rose Bowl Parade, three years out of five. We have a football team that won two conference championships, and we have the top high school basketball player in the state.”

“We have Kory McNary!” someone shouted from the crowd, and the auditorium erupted in noise. Somewhere near the middle of the crowd, Kory sat, enjoying the accolades that were all for him. His dad sat next to him, remembering when he had been the top scorer on another Tigercat team, years before. All of his records were falling now, to his son. And the loss left him feeling more and more empty.

Superintendent Wellstock reclaimed the microphone just long enough to say, “Alright—“

Then as the crowd settled, she let Principal Randolf take charge. This student was his problem, so he could deal with her.

“I’m sorry, Audrey,” Randolf said, “the committee has made their choices. It’s too late now to make changes.” She was about to say something else, but he hurried over to the large plastic box and invited Superintendent Wellstock to help him close the lid and slap on the padlock.

The crowd stood and applauded, which gave Audrey the perfect opportunity to slip out of the room, feeling very much like a beaten dog.

Outside the school, the concrete flower boxes were perfect for sitting and thinking, or for sitting and pouting, depending on how the day had gone. The spring weather was unseasonably warm, and a light breeze pushed a few scraps of paper litter around the front of the school. A perfect day, if you didn’t count the unbearable humiliation of being crushed in front of the entire school for standing up for something that no one seemed to want, even though it was unquestionably right and good.   

One of the custodians stood out by the curb, picking up papers as they blew by. He carried a bag over one shoulder, and he wore one of those bright neon reflective vests, like road workers would wear in high traffic areas. There was no traffic at the front of the school, but he had taken the time to put on the orange safety gear. So he was easy to see, there on the sidewalk, as he picked up papers that had been thrown down on the ground by inconsiderate students.

Audrey cataloged his presence in her mind before returning to her bad mood. She wouldn’t have paid him any more attention, if he hadn’t spoken to her.

“It was a good idea,” he said, keeping his eyes on a piece of paper that skidded across the sidewalk in his direction.

She looked at him, wondering if he had been talking to her or to the sidewalk. But he spoke again.

“It was a good idea to include the choir. That was only fair, even by their own rules. But to add the students who hoped to be teachers someday, that was brilliant. And the farmers, and the doctors, and the future parents who would one day raise up new students for this place. Any way you look at it, that was a good idea.”

“They didn’t like it,” Audrey grumbled.

“It isn’t easy to champion something that is unpopular,” the custodian said. “It will take a lot of courage, and you won’t get much positive feedback. But keep trying.”

Audrey shook her head. “I won’t try anything like that, ever again.”

“Yes, you will,” the man said. He waited, poised for the kill, then ducked down and scooped up a scrap of paper that tried to skip past him. He glanced at the paper and then put it carefully in his bag.

“Jennifer likes Charles,” he told Audrey. “But keep it a secret.”

She was going to tell him that she knew about Jen and Chuck, but he didn’t give her a chance.

“He won’t be there, you know,” he said.

“Who?” she asked.

“When they open the box, Kory won’t be there.”

His face was dark and creased. He moved like a young man, like an athlete. But his face was old and weathered. Audrey wondered if there was any menace in his words, but his eyes were gentle. He said it like it was just another fact, like Jen and Chuck. Kory wouldn’t be there.

“Why?”

“Alcohol, mostly. They’ve put so much pressure on him, all the time he was growing up. He won’t be able to handle it. In college, he’ll drink to relax. After college, he’ll drink to forget. He’ll drink and drive, and usually he’ll come home safe. But it only takes one time, and there will be a time when he doesn’t come home at all.”

It was odd, listening to him talk about the future as if it was the past. Did he know something, or was this the rambling of an old man?

That was when he turned to look at her. When he spoke, his voice rumbled, like the sound of a truck engine when it tries to drag a heavy trailer up an incline.

“But don’t tell anyone,” his diesel-engine voice rumbled. “That’s for another time.”

The coveralls weren’t exactly the same as the other custodians wore. The green was richer, deeper, like an old-growth forest seen from a distance, in the evening, with the setting sun behind you, over your shoulder. And the orange wasn’t just reflective. It seemed to glow with its own light, as if powered by a battery pack somewhere. Maybe he carried it on his belt. No, that would be silly.

“When they open the box,” he said, rumbling louder, “they will see what their lives have become. And all of those pictures you couldn’t get them to include, they will all be remembered. In forty-one years, they will open the box, and they will know.”

“Fifty years,” she corrected him. That was stupid, she thought. She was becoming a regular chatterbox. 

“In forty-one years, a storm will destroy the west wall of the new gym, and they will open the box. When it happens, you will remember what I told you.”

She had another question for him. The question was, roughly, what in the world are you talking about? But when she tried to open her mouth, he wasn’t there. He didn’t walk away. He was just gone.

She blinked and shook her head and counted to ten.

He was still gone. But there on the sidewalk sat a crumpled safety vest, bright neon orange. She walked over and stared down at the vest. Neatly folded on top was a scrap of paper. She picked it up, unfolded it, and read:

Jennifer likes Charles, but keep it a secret. On the other hand, when you can stand up for something right, or good, or helpful, you can’t keep that to yourself. When you know that God loves your friends, and your school, you can’t keep that a secret. If you won’t tell, he will find someone else who will.

The scrap of paper went into her pocket. There was still time to get back to the ceremony. She would watch them inter the plastic box, and this time, she would know that it was no big deal. Her friends were more important, and the kids that didn’t have anyone to look out for them, and Jennifer, because she would need someone to talk to. The truth was the big deal, and she knew the truth. So back to the ceremony.

But first, she scooped up the vest and folded it neatly. It couldn’t be left here on the sidewalk. That wouldn’t be right. It should be returned to its place.

The custodian’s office was out of the way, but Audrey would take the time to drop it off. After all, it was the right thing to do.
 

[-] © 2006