I have been waiting for an inattentive custodian to forego their sacred guardianship of the Custodial Closet for weeks. Finally, fate smiles! 

I have a sentimental attachment to the Secret Order of the Custodian. I was one. I worked in a Hewlett Packard Factory in Fort Collins, Colorado, when I was getting my undergrad. During that time I became aware of the magical access afforded the Custodian owing to their low status and presumed ignorance. 

We, the Custodians, were permitted entrance to such sacrosanct spaces as the Clean Room where circuit boards and chips were manufactured by space men in HazMat suits, the mysterious Mezzanine with it's bewitching name so suggestive of diabolical rituals, and the brooding basement in which gallons of horrific chemicals like hydroflouric acid were stored as casually as one keeps Mr. Clean under the bathroom sink. 

No one asked for our credentials; no one ran background checks or vetted us for foreign or otherwise nefarious alliances. We were Custodians, too common for infernal vocations. Most had none, certainly, but the opportunity, so deliciously dangled by the obliviously effete corporate classes--it reeked of the intoxicating odor of decay that might draw the susceptible soul to dark aspirations. 

Next time you see a Custodian, stop and wonder at what his secrets, her motives. What does he know? What has she seen? What lurks behind the green uniform and innocuous squirt bottle? He's been in your office. But you, indolent intellectual, have never been in her closet...