Cleaning Up New York Read Free

clean. For me, learning to clean the clean will be the challenge.
    The Cunninghams own the building and one of my duties is to sweep the staircase and polish up those brass plates. Above the apartment, separate only as a separate reality, is Ben’s studio. Here laxity of order and individual quirks rule; here is the TV. Giant paintings are stored in racks and all around are tools, artist’s supplies, toys, and a bugle. The attic walls slant up into a skylight and the light comes down around me, putting my rootsinto Greenwich Village. I feel the sense of times before me and the dignity of an older way.
    Mrs. Cunningham’s first name is Patsy—I find out when Ben calls me Patsy—Patsy likes the way I clean and eagerly engages me again and with handsome terms. I am to receive four hours at the cleaning rate of $3.50/hr. and $3.00/hr. for any time over four hours when I would sit with Ben. During my second day’s work for the Cunninghams, someone rings the doorbell and I buzz the person into the building. A frumpy man is walking up the stairs. I open the door and the man just walks in. Ben seems to recognize him. They both sit down on the couch in very similar distracted manners and I sit in the other chair intent on what would ensue. After the visitor utters a few words, it is apparent that he is crazy and in fact his conversation is primarily concerned with his last five years in a mental hospital. I gather that the man had once been Ben’s student. Both he and Ben speak their own way for a while, neither one comprehending the changes in the other. I suggest to Ben that he may be tired; he assents with a clear look, knowing it is an excuse. I usher the fellow out and get his name in order to report the story to Patsy. She is pleased with the way I handled the situation and her confidence in me is boosted. Soon I am working at the Cunninghams’ four times a week.
    With this much work, I no longer need the agency. I tell Barbara of my good luck and she heartily congratulates me. Patsy always leaves the house when I am working, so soon I feel in control as cleaner and sitter. I could give Ben a tranquilizer if I want, though I don’t unless he gets terribly frustratedand irritated. Ben sits all afternoon smoking BETWEEN THE ACTS little cigars. He has a problem striking the match; lighting his cigars becomes a gracious part of my cleaning movements. Swinging by with the vacuum, throwing a courteous arm and hand with lit match, pulling the vacuum back with the other hand as Ben lights up. Ben and I never converse but he is up to pulling a good trick on me. I am vacuuming the living room and the machine is plugged into a socket located in the washroom. Suddenly the machine goes dead and I turn to see Ben with the plug holding it under the open faucet. My first thought is, “Aw my God, he’s gonna plug it back in—wet!” I run up to Ben and calmly ask him what he is going to do. “I mean, Ben, it’s great and everything but I’m just curious to know why you did it.” He looks deep into me and his eyes become clear as pinpoints and he says, “To confuse you.” That’s the right answer and I fall in love.
    Being the housekeeper at the Cunninghams’ allows me to play around with the cleaning a bit. There are certain things I do every week, but there are other things that only need doing every so often at my discretion. Occasionally I shampoo the rugs, or wax the floor, or concentrate on all enamel surfaces. My initial trepidations about the cleaning soon dissolved in this freer state of cleanliness. This is the model house to learn housekeeping in because it is so well organized that there is no clutter or interference from human frivolities. I learn how to arrange little surprises for Patsy to find a few days after I’ve cleaned. I clean out-of-the-way areas such as a shelf behind the shower curtain or a row of books. Sometimes I imagine the things I