“Hey, honey,” she says. She has a southern accent but it’s fake. She’s working on it with a dialogue coach. Normally she has a fairly thick Boston accent. Vickie, like all of us, has dreams. She doesn’t want to run a maid service with half-naked male cleaners for the rest of her life. She wants to be a voiceover actor. “How’d last night go?”
I think back to the job I did last night. Two middle-aged women who shared a small house in Plattsburgh, New York. They were typical. They kept giggling and insisting they’d never done this before. But then one of them said how cute the costume idea was and asked when that started, meaning they knew not all the Manly Maids wore costumes to disguise themselves. Still, they were harmless. “Good. Fine.”
“Awesome. Now, sugar, I need you to get me out of a little pickle this afternoon,” Vickie says and I want to groan but I don’t. Plattsburgh was over an hour away and the job last night had taken two and a half hours. I hadn’t gotten home until way late. I don’t take local gigs because I don’t want people to find out about this little side hustle, and I didn’t feel like another long drive to clean toilets in my undies. But I also can’t afford to say no to work. “Before you say no, I’m willing to pay you twenty-two an hour for this one.”
“What? Why?” I ask, confused. “And also, I’ll take it.”
Vickie already paid us well. Twenty bucks an hour, and she included commuting time. “Because I’m desperate, Tate. This client booked last week and Vinnie was all set to handle it but he ate bad mussels or something last night and he swears he can’t leave his bathroom now. Everyone else is booked except you.”
“Okay…” I’ve helped Vickie out of scheduling jams before and there’s never been a pay bump so there’s more to the story. “When and where?”
“Five o’clock tonight. 10 Greene Street,” Vickie says and pauses dramatically before adding. “Burlington.”
And that’s why she wants to pay me so much. “I can’t ever do Burlington, Vickie. I told you.”
“I know. I know. But I’m desperate,” Vickie whines. “And it’s only one gig, Tate. One time. And you wear a costume. There’s no way anyone will recognize you. And even if they become repeat customers, I swear I won’t ask you to work there again. Even if they ask for you specifically. I promise.”
“Vickie I want to help and I need the money it’s just that I can’t. If anyone recognizes me I’m screwed in ways I can’t even begin to explain,” I reply. I told her my parents were religious zealots and would disown me. Vickie doesn’t know I’m a hockey player and I want to keep it that way. And she has no clue I’m on a full scholarship and that the rules for the scholarship indicate that we are only allowed to work part-time at an on-campus job. I figured the less people who know my secret the better.
“I’ll pay you twenty-four an hour,” Vickie replies. “And I’ll give you my new client in St. Johnsbury. Twice a month. Vince covered it once already and says she tips like forty bucks every time. She’s yours exclusively if you take this, just this once.”
I shouldn’t. It’s risky but damn…the money is too good to pass up. “Just this once, Vickie.”
“Thank you, stud,” Vickie says and repeats the address before hanging up.
I hang up and close my eyes, rubbing my forehead. I really hope I don’t live to regret this.
3
Maggie
“Who left all the pots in the sink covered in…” I stop mid-yell and stare at the crusty orange-ish gunk covering one of the three pots in the sink. “I don’t know what this is.”
“Jasmyn was playing around with a homemade marmalade recipe,” Daisy replies as she walks into our tiny kitchen carrying a square Tupperware she’s eating cereal out of because there’re probably no clean bowls.
“We are heathens,” I announce and sigh as I drop the pot back into the sink, which is filled to the brim with dirty dishes. “When is Caroline hiring that cleaning service?”
“She left it in my hands,” Daisy replies as she shovels another spoonful of Cap’n Crunch into her mouth and sits in one of the chairs at the tiny bistro table in the corner, which is currently covered in junk mail and books. “I’ve hired someone. They’re coming this evening.”
“Aren’t people supposed to tidy up before their maid comes?” I ask but Daisy shakes her head, her copper hair shimmying around her shoulders.
“That’s for people who have shame. We do not,” Daisy says with a grin.
I actually am embarrassed that we’ve let our rental get so out of control. Just not embarrassed enough to clean it. When we all first moved in together in July, I tried. Daisy, our mom and I were doing everything at the farm all summer because Dad was still recovering from his stroke and my uncles were too busy with their own business. I was exhausted every single day but I would still get home from ten hours at the farm and scrub the toilets, mop the floors and do the dishes. When I got completely fed-up with that, I made a schedule for everyone else to help but no one is following it and I refuse to do it all alone again, so here we are with stains on our countertops and rings around our toilet bowls and dust bunnies in our hallways. But then our roommate Caroline’s dad dropped in for a spontaneous visit last week and was horrified. He said he would give her a monthly stipend specifically for a cleaning person. Thank God for a rich roommate who is also a really great, albeit messy, friend.
“When does the maid get here?” I ask as I give up on the idea of cooking something and walk over to the cupboard and pull out a bag of tortilla chips. Daisy smiles. I stop midway to the fridge to retrieve the jar of salsa. “What?”
“Nothing. The cleaner will be here at five. You’re home right?” Daisy says and she’s still smiling in that way she smiled when we were six and she put a grasshopper in my bed.
“Yeah…why?”
“I just want us all here…to supervise.” Daisy shrugs and finishes her cereal. She leaves the Tupperware on a pile of mail and walks out of the kitchen.
“Weirdo,” I mutter and grab the salsa from the fridge. I take it and the chips to my room. I hate eating in my room but at this point, it’s the cleanest place in the house. Although I refuse to clean up after Caroline, Jasmyn and Daisy, I do clean up after myself.
I walk down the long hall, wide wood floorboards creaking as I go, to my room at the front of the apartment. We picked cards for rooms. I scored the highest card so I scored the biggest room. It’s like winning the lottery in this quirky third story apartment in a building built in the eighteen hundreds. It has a teeny but private bathroom attached and a door to the large balcony that fronts the apartment. The other bedrooms are at the back and side, so if my roomies want balcony access they have to go through the door off the living room, which is next to my room.
I open the door and immediately relax. I love my room in all its quirky but clean glory. I open the door to the balcony and admire my flowers and plants for a second. I covered our balcony with flower pots and boxes of them hanging on the railing. Jasmyn attached a bunch of tiny pots to the wall with herbs. We bought some brightly colored plastic bucket chairs that are cheap but comfy. It is an oasis. I would love to sit out there right now and relax, but instead I walk over to my desk and crack open the salsa and dip a chip in as I flip open my laptop. I should be reading an assignment for my Sustainable Business Strategies class, but I am still stewing about not getting a booth at the farmer’s market and want to brainstorm other moneymaking ideas.
