Cleaning Up New York (8 page)

You can shampoo a rug if it is colorfast and you have a rug shampooer. The shampooer is easy to rent from a hardware or grocery store. The shampoo is clear and works chemically. The carpet need not be soaked in it. It is best if the fiber is standing up stiff, lightly brushed with the wet shampooer. It is good to brush the rug with a stiff brush while the shampoo is still damp.
Brush all the fibers in the same direction so that they will dry properly aligned with the other fibers. When the rug is dry, vacuum out the shampoo and dirt.

To buff a paste-waxed floor by hand is a very grueling procedure. I recommend the use of a waxer and buffer. This machine can also be easily rented. Paste wax is not difficult to apply by hand. Rub it evenly with circular motions. Or apply it with the machine. You place the coarse papers over the brushes on the machine and put some wax on the floor. The machine picks up the wax and spreads it out. After half an hour, you buff the floor using the brushes. The machine should just float across the floor as you merely steer it. Wax doesn't have to shine to be properly applied. Paste-waxed floors should have patina—that is, a surface appearance of something grown beautiful, especially with age or use.

Ben Cunningham no longer lives in his home. He is in a nursing care facility in New Jersey. Patsy can only afford to have me come once a month. While I work, Patsy takes the bus to visit Ben. She goes practically every day. Cleaning up the same rooms without Ben around impresses upon me a stillness, a sense of waiting. Every time I see Patsy, we talk about how Ben is doing. Of course, there is no hope of Ben recovering his health, but there is the constant wish for him to not be irritated.

It's a gray winter afternoon; I am cleaning the living room. I am alone as usual and Patsy will not be back until late in the evening. The doorbell buzzes. I turn off the vacuum and buzz the person in. I open the front door and peer down the stairs. The advancing footfalls call up to me, “Mailman!” A brown package
held by a hand precedes the actual vision of a postman. “OK,” I say and step out of the doorway to take the package. The door shuts and clicks behind me. I know the door just locked behind me. I'm crestfallen but quickly cover it up in order to graciously receive the package and not embarrass myself. The postman descends. I grab the doorknob and twist it with unusual authority and hope. The door is locked. I take stock of my resources. I have a dusting rag in my back pocket and a package. Inside the apartment is my shirt, my coat, my check, some rags on the floor, and the vacuum cleaner sprawled out like a corpse. No one else in the building is at home and I can't open the lock with my uneducated attempts at squeezing a plastic ID card between the door and frame to move the bolt. I don't have enough money to take the subway home. I just sit dejectedly on the top stair, my arms across my knees and my head hanging down into my stomach.

Well, I can't wait all night; I head outside in my ragged green t-shirt. The air is brisk to cold. I walk like an Olympic walker. I storm by people in overcoats raising eyeballs in my wake. I steam across Cooper Union, over St. Mark's Place and up First Avenue to 12th Street. Late in the evening, I reach Patsy by phone. I was afraid she would think I was kidnapped. She knew precisely what had happened by all the evidence; besides it is a common occurrence with that quick-locking door. Patsy reminds me about my unfinished work. I go back the next morning to clean the kitchen and pick up my clothes and check.

Last year I wrote a poem with references in it to Ben. When the poem was published, I gave a copy to Patsy. The section goes:

Patsy is interested in writing and writes herself on occasion and always with a plan. She likes my poems and talks of my “gift.” The next time I clean, Patsy gives me a mounted print of Ben's. I am knocked out by Patsy's gift. I hallucinate Patsy's presence at a poetry reading in St. Mark's Church. I turn around and there she is dressed in 1950s style and beaming at me. I am shocked and impulsively jerk my head to face front. Next time I look the lady is gone. I ask Patsy if she was there that night and she wasn't. Patsy asks me to have Shelley come over sometime after I've finished working, Shelley comes over and Patsy serves up drinks. Patsy must know me; she refills my bourbon without
asking. We go up into the studio and look at Ben's paintings.

Ben is getting worse. He has come down with pneumonia and has been transferred to a hospital. Patsy is really distressed now, though she tells me that the social worker in the hospital is an artist who knows and admires Ben Cunningham. I have to go out of town for a few weeks. When I come back, I don't hear from Patsy for a few more weeks. I'm wondering what is happening and something tells me that Ben has died. I call Patsy up. I am embarrassed because I realize this is the first time I've called Patsy about something unrelated to working. I ask about Ben. Patsy says she is sorry she didn't call me. She says she was just thinking about me. Ben did pass away. He never recovered from the pneumonia. Ben died April 5, 1975; there was no funeral because Ben “detested funerals.” His ashes are spread over the Nevada desert. Patsy says she has just been doing some cleaning on her own and when she came to the toilet she thought, “Imagine writing about cleaning a toilet.”

Patsy and I will work together for the first time and completely spring-clean the apartment. Then there will be a gathering for Ben's friends; Shelley and I will be there, helping out, too.

Topic A is cleaning. These are some hints to make cleaning easier to do.

Wear clothes that are loose-fitting. You want to be free moving. Sneakers are good to wear because they are easy to crouch in. Dress coolly.

Do some exercise to loosen the muscles in the body. Roll the head around the neck very slowly for a few revolutions. Let the head be limp and fall forward as it slowly rounds the neck. Reverse and go in the other direction. Bend over at the waist a few times to limber up the back muscles. Stretch your arms high over your head. Rotate your shoulders. Stand on your toes. Get loose.

Listen to music. It should be music that you really like. It should bring your mood up. Music of high sentiment or personal meaning is good because it can make you cry. There is something about weeping and cleaning that make them go hand in hand. Music moves your body without involving your will. The radio is really meant for you. Radio is confidential and immediate like you are.

Try to arrange your cleaning hours to fall during the part of the day when you are on the upswing. I like to clean when I am tired and sleepy. When I am done cleaning, I am awake and clearheaded. The idea is to let the work be beneficial for both
you and the apartment. When you are done cleaning, you should feel happy and still have energy to have fun. Cleaning can turn exhaustion into restoration if done with grace and the will to better spirits.

Have all the supplies you will need. Here is a simple and basic supply list: Murphy's Oil Soap or equivalent, Ammonia, Cleansing Powder, Bucket, Rags, Mop, Broom, Dustpan, and Vacuum Cleaner. The last item is not essential but it can be one's powerful ally.

I am wringing out a dark mop over the kitchen floor when Cherry Malard pops in to say her girlfriend is interested in having me clean. “Talk to Kathy,” she says, pointing to the phone. Kathy and I make a date for the next week after my regular job with Cherry. Kathy Applegate lives on Second Avenue in the Sixties, which is only eight blocks away from Cherry's apartment. The next week, I finish up at Cherry's and proceed to wearily walk down Second Avenue. I stop off in a dime store and take four photos of myself for a quarter. I fall down the chute looking drugged, heavy-lidded, and mopey. I comb my hair and do eyeball exercises, take off my glasses and straighten my back. Put another quarter in the machine, transform my looks to bug-eyed and wired. Up four floors in a tiny elevator. I go to work.

The door opens into the kitchen; on the left is a bright yellow counter that supports a photographic enlarger. On the right is a stove, a sink, some cabinets, and a half-size refrigerator. The bathroom is straight ahead, as is the bedroom area where you turn a corner and look into the living area ending against a row
of windows. The windows are covered with plants. Some plants are on window shelves and the others hang from the ceiling. There is a sofa covered with a bright Indian bird pattern and above the sofa hangs a bird cage made of red wooden sticks and inside are two tropical finches. There is a wall completely recovered, first with a rough cloth and then with photographs, prints, beads, and locks of hair.

Kathy Applegate is in her thirties and teaches English in the public schools. She is ash blonde with a slim figure and a bright eager face. But it seems to me that she is very particular. She tells me how to clean everything. After breaking me in for a while, she goes out. The phone rings. I pick it up and say hello. “Kathy?” a male voice inquires. “She went out to do some shopping. Can I take a message?” “No.” Hangs up. I get a premonition that someone is going to come in the door soon and it won't be Kathy. I decide to do something obvious and start to vacuum the sofa, which I figure I could use to hide behind. In a couple of minutes, I hear the faint clicking of the door lock opening. A big muscular guy walks out of the kitchen. I turn off the vacuum and slowly straighten up, “Hello.” “Oh, hello, my name is Boris.” “Bob,” I say and we shake on it.

Kathy's medicine chest reveals many prescription bottles. There are unmarked bottles, too. One has a variety of pills and the other has five green-and-white SKF spansules. She knows her pills, I gather. Here I am again about to steal. A little angel whispers in my ear, “This is not novel and it is not even a challenge.” A tiny demon pipes up, “You know you want those green-and-white pills!” I shake my head and close the cabinet door.
Looking at my face in the mirror, I decide there is too much involved. Sin is a natural fascination created by the amount that cleanliness is next to you-know-whatness. I suppose if I were a burglar I might occasionally feel an odd desire to clean up after myself. It is unsafe for the burglar to clean too much and it is unsafe for the cleaner to steal too much. Both the burglar and I still share the same fascinations.

Cherry tells me that Kathy really likes me. “As a person,” she adds. Kathy realizes after my first day that I do know how to clean and now she enjoys working with me. We often clean together. Kathy is talking on the phone to her astrologer. She describes me to him as being fastidious. He declares I must be a Virgo. Kathy asks me my sign and I answer, “Leo.” Hmmmm. He needs my birthday, hour, and location and soon I am read out to. My moon is in Virgo and so is my Mercury. So that explains it. Kathy is interested in my Mercury as well as my Moon.

Kathy and Cherry make similar health foods; Cherry is good at cakes and Kathy is great with drinks and shakes. When I work, Kathy offers me mixed fruit juices, yogurt with molasses, and a health drink made from blended almonds, bananas, and honey. The almonds, with a little water added, blend into almond milk. These foods are terrific energy boosts. With new energy, I go into the living room.

The sofa is covered with birdseed that the birds have tossed overboard. I turn on the vacuum and vacuum the sofa. On the coffee table next to the sofa, I notice a little pile of grass. I say, “You don't want me to vacuum this up, do you?” “Oh either put it in that little box or smoke it if you want to.” “Well, sure, I
don't care if I do.” “It's great dope!” Kathy says as she fetches the papers. I smoke it up and Kathy stays straight. I continue with a slower cleaning of the living room. I put the upholstery attachment onto the vacuum and start to suck up the birdseed off the bright bird background. The motor in the vacuum sends out bleeps that put shivers down my spine. I am being contacted from outer space. I look up and see Cherry and her dog, Orchards. The sight makes me laugh out loud since I had just spent a punishing day at her house the day before. Cherry says, “I always turn up at unexpected moments.” Kathy and Cherry giggle in the kitchen as I make the living room incredibly, UFO, gleaming CLEAN. I also find Boris's knife. Inconspicuously waiting on the dresser for me to see and feel, the knife hits me like a telegram. I read it once and put it down.