He forgot the mother-fucking, god-damned paper towels. Which is to be expected. He always forgets the mother-fucking, god-damned paper towels. But I emailed him this morning and asked him if he had mother-fucking paper towels and he wrote me back, and I quote:
“Yeah. All set.”
And then I walk in to five-count ‘em-FIVE paper towels pathetically clinging to the roll. I check the utility closet –nope. Under the sink – nothing.
Is he insane? Is he absolutely out of his mind? When he received my email did he check? Or did he just go with his best guess? “I could have paper towels or I could not. It’s a 50/50 thing here. I could just look. But then where would the fun be? Why kill the adventure before the adventure has begun?”
Or even worse, did he check? Did he actually check and was satisfied that five paper towels would be enough for me? One towel per room? AND – THEY’RE NOT EVEN BOUNTY! The piece of shit once again opted for the 99 cent Marcol which I have told him repeatedly is a complete waste of money and the equivalent of wiping your kitchen counter with a Kleenex tissue. So what did he think? Has he ever wiped up anything before with something else? Has he confused paper towels with bath towels? Does he think they’re magical?
Or is the most unbelievable circumstance the case? The most insulting. The most abhorant. Of course it is. Because it’s always the case. Maybe he checked or maybe he didn’t, but he certainly didn’t give it a second thought. He doesn’t care how many paper towels it takes to clean his apartment. That is something I am supposed to care about. He pays me to care about these things. And I accept his money so I have to care about these things. Sadistic son of a bitch.
It was a Thursday. I remember that because I was at David Paulson’s apartment. He was my Thursday gig. Or one of them. He had one of those apartments which I refer to as the “Danger Zone.” You walk in to a spotlessly clean apartment and spend the next two hours wandering around wondering what you are supposed to be doing there. But there is something your supposed to be doing there and he knows what it is and you don’t. There is some quirky shelf that needs the books alphabetized or the inside of the DVD player needs to be dusted and when he gets home…he will check. It’s a sick twisted game that he plays where he is the puppeteer and you are the $30/hr. puppet.
But today, the sick bastard threw a new loop into the system. 5 paper towels. I wasn’t willing to spend my own money and time going down to the deli to buy a roll on my own. I probably should have but I would have needed Bounty…and what am I, made of money? And he wasn’t going to get that satisfaction from me.
I took a deep breath and devised a plan. Rags. I would use rags. I hate rags and will only use them in dire straits. Don’t get me wrong, I do support saving the environment and cutting down on waste. The problem when it comes to housecleaning, is rags are really bad at picking up pubic hair. They are fine for dusting and can be doable for countertops and microwaves, but in the bathroom…there is no way. You end up on your hands and knees, crawling around on cold tile picking up little hairs one at a time and tossing them in the trash individually. David Paulson is a trimmer and his bathroom floor can easily be mistaken for carpet.
But that was fine. That was great. It was on. Oh, it was fucking on. He thinks he can break me? He thinks just because I don’t own my own one bedroom on 76th and Lex, I am just some peon for him to play his little games with. I am the rat and he is the scientist? I would show him. I would show them all.
4 hours later, I was done with my 2 hour cleaning. I put the $50 check in my front pocket and headed out the door. After rushing past the horny doorman, who always asks if I have any slots left for him, I threw myself onto 72nd and lit a cigarette.
It was 2:00 pm on my 27th birthday.