Two Dollars an Hour: On Cleaning and Leaving 362 Wymount Terrace

 What is it about a one hundred dollar cleaning deposit that inspires two full grown women, mother and daughter, to spend hours scrapping, scrubbing and scouring? In the past few months I have willingly contributed hundreds of dollars—a suit, flowers, airfare, hotels—for my son Nathan’s wedding. And now for a mere hundred, we feel compelled to spend hour upon hour. For three days we have cleaned, leaving no dust mite nor grease splatter undisturbed. Conservatively I estimate we two have been working at the handsome rate of two dollars an hour. Last January I turned down a job that paid far more because I did not consider it worth my time. Even in my darkest moments of maternal guilt and self-flagellation, I consider myself worth far more than two dollars an hour.

I suppose it is the sense of challenge that drives us. Can we satisfy the demands of some anonymous inspector? I imagine him, donning white gloves, haughtily scanning the apartment and perfunctorily swiping his index finger across the top of a doorframe in order to detect the thoroughness of our dusting. Can we appease him? Can we triumphantly claim the full cleaning deposit? We are determined not to fail where others before us have: there will be no oven cleaner residue on the oven, no scratch marks on the stove, no dust in the window tracks.

Even the fixtures and appliances seem to challenge us. I contend with these less-than-attractive, wood-grain laminate and steel cabinets. First, I attack with hot water and soap, then oil soap, and finally spray cleaner. Yet a few stubborn patches of residue remain. These cabinets bear the nicks and scratches and gouges of nearly three generations of married Wymount Terrace students. I am certain they harbor more than my daughter’s four years worth of grime. No one would fault my valiant, sufficient efforts. And yet I feel compelled to triumph over these cabinets. Finally, I listen to my daughter. I gently scrap the edge of an expired credit card—my daughter’s favorite cleaning tool—across the remaining resistant spots. Victory is mine. I run my hands up and down each cabinet. All are smooth. Satiny. Completely clean.

As I seek to justify our hours spent cleaning, I discover that my pride lurks a bit deeper than this sense of challenge. I am a mother. A good mother, I believe. I know how to keep house, although more often than not I choose not to. I have taught my daughter how to keep house, although more often than not she does not have the time. I am convinced together we can clean her apartment, far, far better than anyone else. The gleaming oven racks prove this—only one as cleaning wise as I would know to soak them overnight in garbage bag with a cup of ammonia.

I do not intend to devote much time to the shower and tub. I intend to just bubble and foam away the soap scum and be done with it. But my cleaning haughtiness soon gets the better of me, and I am quickly donning rubber gloves, pouring a small cup of bleach and grabbing an old toothbrush—one of my favorite cleaning tools. Even then, as I determinedly brush the grout, I think I will only scrub a few scummy spots around the tub spout, the showerhead and soap dish tray. But then I stand back and admire my work. The line of demarcation between the bleached and unbleached grout troubles me.  Just a little more, I rationalize, a few more tiles to the left, a few more tiles to the right. And before I know it I have brushed the every inch of grout. By bits and pieces, the unclean grout has disappeared just like a cake with uneven edges on a Heritage Halls kitchen table, demanding straight edges, beckoning all who see it to slice small piece after piece until it no longer exists.

I am proud. This tile looks far cleaner than the bathrooms of any of the hotels I have patronized in the past month. I am a bit too proud, too haughty. I revel in my gleaming success.  I find myself sneaking into the bathroom every hour or two just to take in the shower’s clean, blinding whiteness.

In my more altruistic moments, or perhaps when the fumes from the cleaning chemicals have clouded my judgment, I conclude that it is also a sense of obligation that spurs my cleaning efforts. I am descended from hardy pioneer stock, they who planted crops at way stations in Iowa or marked trails across Nebraska plains or Utah canyons, hoping to make an arduous journey a little easier for those who followed. I, too, hope to pay it forward. I can imagine the next occupant of 362 Wymount—an intent yet prudent bride, one who assured her new husband she would willingly sacrifice amenities like dishwashers and microwaves for a sensible apartment at a practical price. I imagine her excitedly flinging open the apartment door, catching her first real glimpse of her honeymoon cottage. I can also imagine her illusions slowly dissipating as she sees, for the first time, without the benefit of romantic blinders, the cinder block walls and industrial strength carpet.  I hope impeccably clean cupboards and counters provide some solace. 

Ultimately, however, I wonder if we are not driven in our cleaning pursuits by a sense of that grand American fear: What will the neighbors think? I am reminded of all the neighbors who are oh-so-willing to render judgment to their local small town paparazzi whenever any newsworthy event draws the attention of the community. The little old lady who lives next door to the corrupt local official or bank robber is either routinely astonished—you would have never known it, for he was the nicest gentleman, who always had a kind word for me—or not surprised in the least—he was a loner, always keeping to himself, coming and going only at night, yet always managing to kick my dog.

And it is that fear that most compels me. What will the new inhabitants say to the neighbors about our cleaning habits? I imagine their airing our dirty laundry at the next neighborhood barbecue in the quad: I found a moldy sock on the top shelf of the closet—can you believe it? There was a mound of half-eaten candy bars in a dark recess of the pantry—what slobs! And when we turned on the kitchen faucet, the disposal regurgitated a slew of soggy strawberries and sour milk—what were they thinking?

Regardless of our motivations, in our calculus of time and money, I naively assume we have determined my daughter’s cleaning deposit is worth more than our time. How else am I to categorize three days of cleaning in trade for a hundred dollars? Yet in a delightful twist of irony, my daughter tells me that for her it is this time spent cleaning that really matters most. She has very carefully measured out our hours and days with lists and tasks and talk. Talk of vinegar and calcium deposits, ammonia and grime, personal tales and family lore. And mother to daughter, I pass on cleaning secrets and homey wisdom garnered during a lifetime. We have talked. And we have listened. Nothing can replace our hours spent together. And yet a thought still nags—could we not get this same satisfaction from three days at a spa?

Our time is now limited. Today we must finish. The refrigerator and oven sparkle. The windows gleam. We will swipe the bathroom sink and kitchen countertops one last time. Yes, I readily admit there is a certain sense of satisfaction. Yet it would have been much simpler to have quickly packed her bags (and, of course, an entire U-haul truck) and turned in her keys without nary a thought.

Two dollars an hour. Was it worth it?

I do not know. I would ask Chrissy, but she is in her bedroom, crying. Maybe, in a few days, her check will make her smile.