I’m not against “cleaning” as a word or a theory. And I do like a clean house. What I do not like is when the result of cleaning is not worth the effort. Plus, whenever you clean something, you have to clean it again at some point because it just gets dirty again. It’s relentless. It’s annoying.My shower has acquired some hard metallic-looking build-up and the corners have turned black, so that if I clean the shower, all the build-up and discoloration remains, leaving me with no sense of accomplishment, thereby creating the feeling that I have completely wasted my time. It is because of this sensation that I cannot remember the last time I cleaned my shower.
And it was eight dust-collecting, wine-spilling, food-dropping years of dreading the expense, hassle, and inconvenience of getting the carpet in my L.A. condo cleaned before I finally placed a call to Stanley Steemer. I may be dating myself, although in a good way, when I tell you I did not get the reference to the original Stanley Steamer until my father happened to mention it just a couple of weeks ago during some unrelated conversation that led to the discussion of steam-powered cars.
My off-white carpet (a color that begs for ruination, I do not recommend it) had become a spotty grayish sort of hue. Realizing that I didn’t have to move all the furniture before they arrived, I broke down and called, deciding I would take the time off of work, and try not to stress out about broken, soaked furniture. I would not worry about the incompetence of the cleaning crew or the equipment’s inability to clean my carpet or whether the stains would actually disappear.
The Stanley Steemer appointment-maker told me it would take maybe an hour to an hour and a half. When big Virgil and little Virgil arrived, big Virgil reassessed the situation and decided it would take two hours. They arrived at 12pm. They left at 3:30pm.
First impressions: Big Virgil starts breathing heavy and slows down halfway up the first flight of stairs and says something like “I wasn’t this heavy three months ago, so you’ll have to bear with me.” Now why did he tell me that? Did he suddenly contract some disease that poured on the pounds? How much weight can a man gain in three months? This guy was so big, that whatever he could have added recently wouldn’t have made much difference to his already hefty girth.Big Virgil (his name really was Virgil, but little Virgil is so named because I don’t know what it was and he wasn’t as big as big Virgil; they were a sort of Mutt and Jeff of Virgils, so there you go) asked to use the bathroom twice which frightened me. My fear was self-induced, I admit, but I kept flashing back to a holiday occasion we hosted up in Northern California.
It was Thanksgiving and we had many people in our house and after everyone left, my husband reported a story that I still have trouble believing because even though I was in the house while it occurred, my husband crushed it and flushed it before I could be a witness to it.
Anyway, each time Virgil left the bathroom, the light and fan were on, and the door was closed. Like a scene in a horror film, I slowly approached the bathroom door, the camera showing the door and my arm reaching out to hesitantly push it open. A creepy soundtrack builds to a crescendo, the audience yells “No! Don’t do it!” I force myself to peek in the toilet fearing what lay in wait. Thankfully, I didn’t have to break out the potato masher (as I understand it, there are people out there who store this ersatz kitchen tool next to the toilet plunger). No, Virgil had other goodies in store for me.
During their underestimated stay I tried to more or less keep to myself, staying out of the way, looking purposeful, as if I had things to do and could easily accomplish them while crammed in the kitchen with the living room contents and my computer. So I tried to work logged in from my laptop while standing at the counter. Little Virgil kept trying to make stupid conversation in between asking for water.At one point while going up a flight of stairs, I encountered Virgil’s rather large and rather exposed ass. He was bent over digging something out of a box. His dark skin almost hid the fact that twelve inches of his butt crack hung out for all the world to see - Hello! And he blocked my way and couldn’t see me, so what could I do? Clear my throat? Go back down and come back up and say excuse me so he doesn’t think I’ve been standing there forever staring at the Valley of Darkness?
Throughout their visit, Little Virgil tried too hard to make conversation to the point of being almost unprofessional. So what’s the proper response to that? Smile and laugh courteously but not so much to encourage more of it? The problem there is, you can’t be too stand-off-ish or else they might do something to your furniture. Or your toilet.
So after three and a half hours, big Virgil took my credit card and cordless phone to call it in. He walked into the kitchen so he could rest his weary self and as soon as I turned my back, I heard something crash to the floor. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Virgil, still out of breath from climbing stairs. I thought he was apologizing for dropping his clipboard on my kitchen tile and was afraid he’d cracked it. He asks, “Does this thing still work?”
I bought that phone about a month ago, and that was the first thought I had when I turned around and heard him apologize some more while staring at the phone in his hand. For whatever reason, my phone remained unscathed.
I agreed to purchase their spot cleaner as it was not supposed to bleach like the current stuff I was using. Little Virgil had already gone outside and was waiting by the van downstairs in front of my unit. Big Virgil walked out onto my balcony (three floors up from the street) to yell down to little Virgil to throw up some spot cleaner. He didn’t want little Virgil tracking dirt back onto the nice clean carpet.
So little Virgil throws up the plastic bottle which hits the balcony rails and drops straight down into the bushes below. Little Virgil makes his way through the tall bushes and finds it, making two more attempts before big Virgil catches it and hands it to me.
I gave the boys plenty of water during their stay and sent them on their way, wondering if I was supposed to tip them after they’d gone. It wasn’t until the next morning when I left for work that I noticed they left a piece of equipment just outside my front door. You know, one of those attachment doo-dad things you put on the end of the hose to steam the carpet and suck up the water. What are those things called?
I called Virgil’s number from the business card and explained to some Stanley Steemer girl what happened. I spent the next three days trying to coordinate a pick up, staying at home at the designated time and no one showing up and refusing to accommodate them at my inconvenience after that. Finally, one hour before I left to travel back to northern California, they wake me up with a phone call this morning.
“Yeah, they’re outside your place right now to pick up the equipment.”
I throw on some pants, shoes and a baseball hat (this is more than half the reason I praise baseball hats) and stumble outside.
“Morning Virgil,” I said opening the gate and handing him the Whatchamacallit.
“Hello!” says big Virgil. “I’m really sorry about this.”
“That’s okay. I’m just glad to get it back to you.”
“So, you got your Harry Potter hat on, huh?”
I’m sixty seconds out of bed, easily at my most unattractive and Harry Potter makes me look like I still got it. Or something like it. Poor big Virgil had to work on a Saturday and here he is still trying to be nice to me with some superfluous conversation. He seemed weary and I felt sorry for him, After all, it’s a whole flight of stairs to get to my gate door. He would seem like a big charming Teddy bear if it weren’t for the flashing butt crack incident.
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