By Emory Williamson

Air vents and buzzing fluorescent lights are the only sounds of the Houchens building at 2 in the morning.
Although insignificant during the daytime hours, the sounds dance throughout the off-white colored walls and faded multi color tile floors in the bathroom.
The building of many face lifts over the years – new walls, windows and such – but it retains its funky, 1970s flashback, look. Nice touches to the inside of what many know as “the yellow brick building.”
But it’s early and the building is still at work. The lights are on (at least the emergency ones and red exit lights) and everything still works, but no human graces its presence, except for an occasional employee finishing up with work. For most of the night though, the building is swallowed in silence.
But then, something happens. For a butterfly-in-the-stomach moment, all attention turns to the opening door. Who could it be?
The figure steps in and briskly moves across the floor, stammering and barely picking up their feet. The figure has long, mangled hair, jagged teeth and worn hands with chapped knuckles – oh, it’s just Tom. It must be nearing 4 a.m.
Tom has come in everyday for the past four years to work the morning shift as a maintenance crew member, wearing the same baby blue work uniform tucked sloppily into his faded blue Dickies.
He’s a talker. Not the personal type, but quite the chatterbox concerning university issues and sports. He talks about what he knows and what he loves: U of L, of which he is a die-hard fan and a die-hard critic.
“Did you see that game?” Tom says concerning the past U of L  football contest as he shakes his head with disappointment.
Tom receives no accolades for his work. He just does his job day in and day out – alone – just Tom and Houchens; a 62-year-old man with a few missing teeth and a funny walk and a bunch of yellow bricks, faded floors and walls.
He loves his work, but knows retirement is just around the corner. Four years can’t come soon enough on some nights.
“Some people think this work is easy, but it will kill you,” he says,  removing his jacket revealing a couple packs of cheap Wave cigarettes in his pocket. “It’s really hard work.”
For a few hours he’ll mop floors, empty loads of trash and wipe down bathroom sinks, handrails and glass. He’s a thorough cleaner, often uncovering even the slightest hint of dirt in between the tiled floors. He’ll be here for a while – working the entire building and the post office, varying from his usual duties.
“You wouldn’t believe how dirty this place gets,” he says. “They have a helluva lot of trash.”
Tom prepares his equipment; nearly 100 trash bags, dozens of rags, six anti-disinfectents, a pair of blue cleaning gloves and one trash can.
He says he only sleeps about 2-3 hours a day due to health issues, but his work keeps him going.
“Some people call me the scum of the Earth,” he says. “But I’m just doing my job. This is what I have to do.”
He shuffles over to his equipment and opens a door. It’s 4 a.m. and the mop flops onto the tiled floor. Time to clean.
Houchens welcomes the company.