The Rest of the Story(27)

“People will steal anything from a motel room,” she said, nodding at the woman retreating. “I mean, those soaps are tiny and cheap. She’s driving a Cadillac. Really?”

I didn’t say anything to this, because I’d already figured out I had two jobs here other than my actual one: listen to what my cousin said, and retain that information. The commentary—and there was lots, sprinkled throughout—was just a bonus.

“You will be disgusted, daily,” she informed me as we stood in the open doorway of our first truly dirty bathroom. Towels were everywhere, the trash can overflowing, and the toilet itself full of something I wasn’t going to look at unless I had to. “There are rubber gloves on the cart. Do not be afraid to use them.”

“Right,” I said, bending down to grab the towels as gingerly as possible. Already, it was unspoken that we’d divide and conquer, with me doing the low stuff and her reaching the higher things.

“Clorox, and all its forms, is your friend,” she continued, spraying an arc from her own bottle—which said TRINITY on it in pink marker—into the room ahead of us. “Ditto for the blue goo.”

“The what?”

She nodded at the toilet. “Flush that first.”

I looked at it, and the contents, reminding myself I had been warned away from this job. The spoiled city cousin wouldn’t do it. So I had to. I started to reach for the lever.

“Not with your HAND,” she bellowed, and I jumped. “Use a foot.”

“My foot?”

In response, she stepped past me, kicking out a leg so one beat-up sneaker hit the handle, flushing the contents. As it swirled away, she sprayed the Clorox again in its direction. “Blue goo,” she continued, grabbing another bottle from the counter beside her, “is this toilet cleaner. Major disinfectant. Lift the seat—”

“With my foot?”

She nodded. I did. “Good. Now, line that bowl with this stuff. Don’t be dainty, load it in there. Then we leave it to do the hard work for us before we come back with gloves on.”

I followed these instructions, the bottle squirting loudly as I did so. When I was done, she handed me the bleach again. “Now, the shower.”

And so it went, as we covered everything, from the stacking of soaps—“Two in two places, the holders built into the shower and sink”—to checking the toilet paper supply—“one on the roll, one extra if it runs out. Any more, they’ll just get stolen.”

“People steal toilet paper?”

“I told you, people steal everything,” she said. “Aren’t you paying attention?”

This continued throughout the day, with us covering the polishing of mirrors (newspaper worked best for streaks), using caution when cleaning under beds (always look before you reach for something you see, you have no idea what else is there). With turnover, it was all about being thorough but quick, as people usually showed up early, eager to begin their vacation.

Housekeeping, on the other hand, involved an added layer of conscious, careful awareness. When working around people’s possessions and luggage, you were to treat them pretty much the same as toilets: don’t touch unless you absolutely must, and then, do it quick.

“We are always the first to be accused,” she explained, delicately moving a tablet aside to retrieve an empty box of tissues. “Something goes missing, we stole it. And God forbid it’s medication. If you go into a bathroom and there’s a bottle with pills falling out of it? Leave it as is. Even if it means missing a spot. Do you hear me?”

I nodded. “Look me in the eye,” she said. I did. “Understood?”

“Understood,” I repeated. When she kept looking at me, I added, “Never touch a pill or meds. Ever.”

“Good girl.”

Not for the first time that day, I thought of my own stays at hotels with my dad over the years. Had I left a big mess, toilet unflushed, something gross? I didn’t recall doing so, and certainly hoped not. Nevertheless, I felt a wave of shame as I realized I’d never given much thought to the people who cleaned our rooms, even after seeing them or their carts in the hallways. It was just like magic: messy became clean. Except it wasn’t.

While we cleaned, people continued to come in and out of the office, the clang of the wind chimes on the door marking each departure. But I wasn’t really paying that much attention when someone knocked on room five. I was fighting with the vacuum, which had a frayed cord and cut off every time I moved it. When I turned, there was Roo. I literally jumped, I was so startled.

“Hey,” he said. “Surprised to see you here.”

“Let me guess,” I said, sighing. “You were also told I’m the spoiled cousin who is on vacation.”

He just looked at me for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “Because Mimi asked me to clean this room, but you’re already doing it.”

Whoops. I pushed my hair out of my face, taking a breath. “Sorry,” I said. “It’s just been frustrating. Nobody has wanted my help.”

“Really?” He stepped inside, picking up my spray bottle. “Weird. We always need an extra set of hands.”

“Not mine, apparently. Until I forced the issue.”

He sprayed the table by the window, then grabbed a clean rag, wiping it down. “Well, you’re in it now. Once you start, you’re one of us. No escape.”