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The janitor
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The elementary school in which I received my 1st through 6th grade learning was a long, straight brick building with cement steps, an auditorium with heavy, red velvet drapes, a tiny library guarded by a grumpy, gray-headed spinster and a cafeteria that was in the basement down a flight of creaky wooden steps. For afternoon recess, we would clomp down the stairs, step up on a wooden stool that lifted us to a small square window and choose an ice cream -- either an orange creamsicle, a chocolate fudge cicle, an ice cream sandwich or a Nutty Buddy. Clyde, the school’s janitor, ran the ice cream concession so we would hand him a quarter and receive, in return, the delicious prize.