Day 1: Lease Begins
Cheer: “When will the apartment be cleaned? It looks like the love nest of caramel apples and concentrated New York City sludge in here.”
Manager: “The cleaning dude is coming tonight at 6pm.”
Cheer: “Do I need to be at the apartment to let him in?”
Manager: “No. Just leave the apartment door open. He can get in the building without you.”
Cheer: “OK.”
Cheer leaves her new apartment unlocked and vulnerable for a much needed scrub down. She sleeps at her old apartment one last night, and wakes early to begin moving into her newly painted, squeaky-clean apartment.
Day 2
Cheer: “I’m so glad that the cleaning fairy came while I was sleeping. I’ll just mosey on over to the new place and start basking in freshness.”
Cheer goes to her new apartment.
Cheer: “Whatthefuck.”
Cheer calls the manager.
Cheer: “I left the apartment open all night and the cleaning guy never came. When will he be coming today?”
Manager: “He was there.”
Cheer: “No. No he was not.”
Manager: “He told me he was there. What’s not clean?”
Cheer: “Everything.”
Manager: “Everything?”
Cheer: “Yes. I believe the bacteria have multiplied and it’s actually worse than when I was here yesterday.”
Manager: “OK. Let me call him and see when he can get there.”
Cheer: “Thanks.”
8 hours later, the manager calls Cheer back.
Manager: “He can’t make it today. He’ll be there tomorrow.”
Cheer: “Oh, good. That will give me just enough time to eat, sleep, breathe, bathe, and cherish the grime of the previous tenants, who were obviously a feral child and a troll that sweats motor oil.”
Manager: “That’s hot.”
Cheer: “What time shall I expect him tomorrow?”
Manager: “1pm.”
Cheer: “OK. I’ll be here.”
Day 3
Cheer continues to treat her entire apartment like a public bathroom–refusing to touch anything with her bare skin. Come 1pm, no one has come to clean. At 1:30pm she calls the manager.
Cheer: “The cleaning guy hasn’t shown yet. What’s the deal?”
Manager: “Oh, I don’t know. Here’s his phone number. His name is Bubba. You figure this shit out.”
Cheer: “Bubba?”
Manager: “Yeah. Bubba’s your man.”
Cheer: “Right.”
Cheer calls Bubba. She gets his voicemail and leaves a message. Hours pass. She calls again. Voicemail. Second message. At nearly 5pm, Cheer is certain Bubba isn’t going to show and she puts on her shoes and jacket. As she is opening her door to run errands, Bubba calls.
Cheer: “Hello?”
Bubba: “Hi.”
Cheer: “Bubba?”
Bubba: “Yes, this is Bubba.”
Awkward pause.
Cheer: “So… I thought you were going to be here at 1 today. What happened?”
Bubba: “Yeeeeaaaahhh… See, when I woke up this morning, I had this, like, really bad headache. So…”
Cheer: “A headache? A goddamn headache?!”
Bubba: “A really bad one.”
Cheer: “Are you completely inept at phone use? Completely unaware of social etiquette pertaining to appointments arranged with strangers?”
Bubba: “Well, obviously.”
Cheer: “So why are you calling me now?”
Bubba: “Oh. Well, I was going to come clean now.”
Cheer: “Now? 4 hours late?”
Bubba: “Yeah. I mean, is that a problem? You’re not home?”
Cheer: “Well, I was just walking out my door…”
Bubba: “We can arrange another time.”
Cheer: “Dear god, no. Just get your ass over here.”
Around 5:30 the doorbell rings.
Cheer: “Bubba?”
Bubba: “Bubba.”
Cheer: “You don’t weigh 300lbs, have low riding plumber pants with visible crack, and you’re not breathing heavily, in a manner which makes those around you concerned they may have to call 911 on your behalf at any moment.”
Bubba: “No. I’m a tall, thin, soft-breathing man with well-fitting pants.”
Cheer: “I didn’t think men of your appearance were allowed to be named Bubba.”
Bubba: “I got a special exception.”
Cheer: “Ah.”
As Bubba enters the apartment, Cheer peers around the corner into the hallway looking for cleaning supplies. There are none.
Cheer: “You didn’t bring any cleaning supplies?”
Bubba holds up a small grocery bag. Said bag is that which one typically receives at a New York corner store–black, plastic, and small. It is not full. Cheer could have been convinced that it contained only a sponge and a Snickers bar.
Cheer: “Please tell me that bag has Mary Poppins powers.”
Bubba: “Huh?”
Cheer: “Nevermind.”
Bubba: “So, I was here yesterday. What isn’t clean?”
Cheer raises an eyebrow and seriously wonders if Bubba is actually blind. She feels awkward as she tells him things that need to be cleaned, because she feels she is just stating obvious facts.
Cheer: “The entire bathroom is covered in a visible layer of dirt. If you were to run your bare finger down any surface in there, it would be qualified as a biohazard, have to be removed, and then disposed of via special containment. The stainless steel sink is a brownish-green color and I’m certain that radioactive tadpoles are living under the sink strainer. Every surface in a two foot radius of the stove is covered in a urine and honey reduction. I’m scared to touch any cupboard because I would become permanently bonded to it. Due to the inability to escape the flypaper cupboard, I would eventually perish in my dirty kitchen, 4 inches out of reach of all food and water. I don’t want to die.”
Bubba: “OK.”
Cheer web-nets while Bubba cleans. Every now and then he calls on her for approval.
Bubba: “Clean?”
Cheer: “Cleaner than before.”
…
Bubba: “Clean?”
Cheer: “Ummmm.”
…
Bubba: “All done?”
Cheer: “If I were a goat without a sense of smell, it might suffice.”
Bubba: “So, I can leave now?”
Cheer: “Yes. You’re obviously the manager’s second cousin’s husband and were never meant to be employed in the cleaning industry. Thanks for wiping the first layer of dirt off. I will clean for real now.”
Bubba: “Works for me. Laterz.”
Cheer spends approximately 30 hours during the following weeks cleaning her apartment to her standards. Bottle after bottle of cleaning fluids are emptied, sponges and brushes are worn and tattered, and perhaps a year’s supply of paper towels are kaput. She regrets not hiring a cleaning company, but her apartment fucking sparkles.
Click to enlarge
Illustration below copyright Haven Duveyoung
