| Sparkly Cleaning Service by way of They-Staff Temporary Agency
St. Augustine, FL 1999
The apartment was quieter than usual.
Normally, the radio would be blaring or the Dreamcast would be buzzing or a movie would be playing absently on the television. Instead we sat silently on the floor, our empty plates in front of us, feeling full and bit disconnected. We both were thinking about it, though neither of us wanted to say it. Maybe we were just waiting on the right excuse. Or anything at all, really, that would help us feel better about ourselves.
Either way, we were conflicted, and that was the worst thing. On the surface it was purely a money issue. But below all of the self styled posturing, we didn’t know if we still had what it takes, if we had lost it somewhere along the way, or if we ever had it in the first place.
“Still don’t trust him?” Cha-chi asked.
“Never said that. Just said he doesn’t have much to offer.”
“He might offer a job. That’s something.”
“Well, we do need something.” I returned.
“You could call your father.” He suggested. “Borrow a few bucks.”
“I’m not calling my father.”
A few hours before, I might’ve sang a different tune. But a few hours ago I wasn’t sure which hurt more, my knees or my stomach, so I ignored them both. I must’ve been doing a horrible job of it though; because Cha-chi kept shooting warning glances my way. I knew what those awful looks meant. Keep working. Don’t slow down. Our goddamned livelihood depended on it.
We were operating on the vague notion that this temporary job would turn into something permanent, if we could only prove our worth. Dave was our boss for the evening. At least, he was the guy telling us what to do, and what we were doing was scrubbing the baseboards of a Dialysis clinic for six bucks an hour. Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily.
The job became something more than routine when Dave, a stocky little man with salt and pepper hair, and a deep, perpetual tan, laid down the following: “Never mind the drops of blood on the floor,” He told us as the clinic’s staff were clearing out for the night. “That’s what we have the machinery for.” He pointed to a monster floor buffer sitting in the bed of his truck. “It’s those ugly stains on the baseboards that’s our specialty. Sparkly Clean is the leader of baseboard stain removal in St. John’s County. You guys have lucked up on a winning team.”
Right away he wanted us to know who we were dealing with, though the importance of such factoids didn’t keep my stomach from rumbling. Eating only once a day will do that, and crawling around on your hands and knees with a toothbrush doesn’t help matters much, either. Yet, that simple word, that one tiny little thing, “TEAM,” had thrown us completely for a loop. And now we were taking it all much too seriously.
Cha-chi hissed at me from across the room. “Keep at it, man.” He said.
“This shit sucks.”
“All temp work sucks.”
I rubbed my kneecaps, but it didn’t help. All I could think of was the fluffy softness of scrambled eggs with a side of long grain rice. “I’m hungry.”
“Me too. But come on. You heard what the man said.”
Which was true. I had heard what he said. During our first smoke break, Dave upped the ante when he was quick to notice we were down to our last three Camels. Seductively, he handed us each a fresh pack of cigarettes, still in the cellophane. And, as we were tossing the Camel cash to the ground he said: “You know, I could use a couple of good workers like you guys. Our business is expanding. We have a few BIG accounts on the horizon. We’ll see how this night works out.”
As usual, Cha-chi was quick to say the right thing. “We’re definitely the guys you’ve been looking for,” He replied. “Hell, you’re the boss we’ve been looking for.”
Dave smiled. “We’ll see, fellas. We’ll see.”
It was the first hint of success in a long line of failures. For the last thirty days we had humped around the county like starving dogs, hoping to find work, coming up short on all fronts. The temp agency had saved us for the moment, but even their clients were quick to note that work of all varieties was short in the greater St. Augustine area. Of course, rent was due. The food was low. And the desire to pack it in and go back to Indianapolis was sounding better and better all the time.
“He’s jerking our chain,” I hissed back. “This guy doesn’t give a shit about us.”
“Fuck him,” Cha-chi whispered. “We don’t have to suck the guy off. Just see what the man has to offer.”
I pointed to my pack of Camels sitting on the floor and shrugged.
“You’re a goddamn lazy asshole, you know that? Keep working, motherfucker.”
Just then the colossal floor buffer switched off, and we heard the approaching footsteps of Dave. Both of us went back to it, scrubbing the baseboards like coke fiends, attempting to look like the fine specimens we wanted to be, regardless if it was true, or not. He stood over us for a moment, watching quietly, posed dramatically in the doorway. I tried not to notice him.
“Havin’ a BBQ tomorrow night,” He finally said. “The Jags are playing the Broncos. You guys should come out. We’ll talk about the job, and maybe the future.”
Cha-chi looked directly at me, as if to say, I told you so.
“So, are you guys down for some BBQ?”
Chach spoke up quickly. “Definitely, man. We’ll be there.”
Dave smiled. “Good. And bring your swim trunks.”
And that was it. Now we were sitting around with the patio door shut tight, thinking about it, wondering about our options and validity of Dave’s deal. The eggs and rice had sucked, naturally. And I was baffled as to how I had tricked myself into looking forward to it.
“Do we have anything left from the Ft. Lauderdale Run(*1)?” Chach asked.
“About two bowls. And twenty bucks. Enough for another trip to Albertson’s.”
“We should smoke,” He said.
“Let's wait. We don’t know anybody.”
“We wouldn’t have any cash any damn way. What’s the difference?”
“The difference is I want to wait. Smoke a cigarette. It won’t kill ya.”
Reluctantly, Cha-chi lit a smoke and pushed his plate away. “I’m sick of goddamn eggs and rice. Where the fuck is the meat?”
“Shit, at Dave’s house, I guess.” Then a revelation washed over me. “You don’t think he’s trying to fuck us? Do you?”
Cha-chi passed me the smoke. “You mean, literally?”
“Maybe he thinks that we’re… you know.”
“Gay?”
“No, man. Prostitutes.”
That made us laugh. But it did nothing to ease the sensation that we had not been ready, that our anxiousness to leave Indiana far exceeded our knowledge of survival without it. Around the time of our departure, I had been inundated with stories of past failures; of young assholes like ourselves who thought they had the world by the shorthairs simply because they decided the Midwest sucks. Of course, I had assured those same folks that failure was not an option, and barely in my vocabulary.
“Shit-a-million,” Chach finally said. “I’d sell my Dreamcast before I jerked that motherfucker for twenty bucks. And you know how I feel about the Dreamcast.”
Indeed I did. We only owned one piece of furniture, a chair, and the machine was sitting on it. We had no games for it. Only a sampler. But the prospect of one day being able to purchase a game made the thing seem as if it had unlimited potential. The thought of selling it was nearly as absurd as the thought of buying into Dave’s bullshit. That is, if bullshit was really Dave’s product.
*******************************
*1. (Cha-chi is referencing the short story: “From Broward to Eternity” taken
from the collection “Lost Fiction From Leon County”, 1998.)
What will happen to our friends when they reach Dave's house? What news of employment awaits them? To be continued!
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