Page 55 of Daring Enzo

My arms ache. I wonder if I look silly as I mop the hallways of the Preston Community Center. I’ve been working here for almost two months now; yet it still takes all my brain cells and body strength to clean the place. I’ve always seen janitors working here, but I never knew how hard the job was. I go to the gym, but I’m pretty sure I’m using new muscles as I sweep, mop, brush, wipe, and wash toilets. I go home with body aches every day.

It’s better now, of course, but on my first day, I thought I was going to die. I also couldn’t bring myself to clean the toilets. These kids make… horrible poops. I watch the teenagers leaving their classes as the day comes to an end. Their laughter and chatter fill the hallways, in stark contrast to the mental vacuum occupied my mind lately.

The kids crowd the hallway, exchanging cheerful farewells after a day of classes. They mostly ignore me, as they stand in little groups to talk, but some do turn and greet me casually, unaware of the person behind the broom. To them, I'm just another cleaner who sometimes talks to the kids. No one here knows who I am, and that's exactly how I want it. No cars, no luxuries — just me, a regular guy.

I've been trying to be a better person and break away from the life I've always known. Therapy has been a challenge, but it's helping me confront my past and understand my actions. The volunteer work at the community center is a way to step outside of myself and see the world from a different perspective.

It's humbling to be here… to be just another face in the crowd.

Stanley Cooper, the director of the center, is the only one who knows my true identity. He's aware of the wealth I possess because of the donations I've made. It made it easy when I approached him, expressing my desire to volunteer. The community center serves as a haven for troubled teens, offering a glimpse of humanity free from the trappings of my affluent lifestyle. Although it felt awkward at first, I'm getting used to it.

The teenagers here have stories of troubled pasts and uncertain futures. They remind me of myself in many ways. Lost, searching for something more. I'm often lost in thought, my mind frequently drifting to Kelly. Even after our last argument, she remains a constant presence in my thoughts.

The memories of our time together linger, and I reflect on my past behavior and our relationship. I can't shake the feeling I left things unfinished between us. I want to reach out. Maybe see how she’s doing, but I don’t dare. I’m not known for my restraint, so I know very well I won’t stop there.

I really hope I get to see her again.

I’m back to the present as a group moves, carrying their conversation as they migrate down the hallway toward me, needing to pass to get to the door.

"Hey, Mr. Lombardi," Aubrey and Lisa say, offering a casual greeting. They’re the only ones who greet me in this group of wannabe artists wearing berets, boots, and dungarees.

I respond with a wry smile. "Just mopped, guys, so watch your step," I warn, focusing my gaze on Ray and Lexi. It's futile as they disregard my efforts and chuckle at my words, purposely tracking their worn boots over the wet floor and looking over their shoulders to smirk at me.

These kids are testing my patience and making me work on my anger issues.

Aubrey and Lisa carry the matching yellow bags provided by the center and are wearing our yellow headbands. Both avoid the area, even though the damage is already done. “Sorry, Mr. Lombardi,” Aubrey says, apologizing for her friends.

I just nod and wave off the apology. I had expected it, anyway. Besides, it’s my fault. I’m slow as fuck with a mop. Who would have known? I retrace my steps to mop the boot tracks. As I meticulously scrub away at the muddy footprints, Stanley, the director of the center, steps out of his office and offers an apology for the disregard of my cleaning efforts by the teenagers.

"Sorry about them, Enzo. You don't have to clean up, you know?" he says, a friendly chuckle accompanying his words.

He probably saw what went down from his office.

He reacts like this often. Like he’s scared I’d get offended one day and punish them or something. I have no intentions of doing it… and I haven’t even felt like it. I nod, acknowledging his concern, and try to reassure not only him but myself also in my response.

"I know, but I enjoy doing it," I say, my voice tinged with uncertainty.

It is getting easier anyway.

These past couple of months have been an emotional rollercoaster, to say the least. Therapy sessions have pushed me into a whirlwind of self-discovery and facing my inner demons. It's all part of a journey I didn't quite expect but know I desperately needed.

Stanley pauses for a moment, his eyes reflecting gratitude as he speaks sincerely. "Enzo, thank you again for your consistent donations to the youth center. They make a real difference."

He keeps repeating this.

"It's alright, Stanley. You don't need to bring it up every month," I reply with a half-smile, aiming to downplay the significance of my contributions.

The old man chuckles heartily, his warmth filling the room. "You give every month, Enzo. I have to thank you every month," he retorts, a playful glint in his eye. I simply respond with a soft smile, allowing the conversation to taper off in a comfortable silence as he heads back to his office.

Amid a facade of composure, my thoughts remain persistently fixated on Kelly. The echoes of our fight linger vividly in my mind. I know precisely where she went, her home address stored securely in my memory. Despite this knowledge, I hold back. Pursuing her feels invasive, perhaps even creepy. Our fight left things raw, and I'm conscious of respecting her space. Despite my longing, I restrain myself from intruding into her life uninvited.

I miss her, though.

I could have asked her to accompany me to the hospital, but the thought of imposing on her honesty feels wrong. She doesn't want anything to do with me, and forcing myself into her life would only confirm her decision. I'm trying to rebuild myself and chasing after her would derail my progress.

What would she think of me now? Would she be proud of the changes I'm trying to make?

In therapy, we often discuss her, dissecting our tumultuous relationship. It was unhealthy and we both have our share of flaws that need addressing. But pursuing her, especially before completing my healing, could be detrimental.

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