You’re up to your neck in what you’ve convinced yourself to be organized chaos but is in fact is an apartment that has suffered neglect. You blame this on your long office hours, late home arrivals and necessary cable TV binging. It’s not your fault that your bachelor pad looks like a pigsty – and that’s describing it lightly. The deadly combo of unwashed dishes, laundry heaps, Addams family-sized cobwebs and dust mites would drive any sane person to do what you should have done months ago – hire the services of a professional cleaner. Little do you know that you’re in for more than a clean sweep.
Your girlfriend recommends a young man in his twenties who’s got a couple of cleaning gigs up his belt. He’s like Rambo in this game, armed with every germ-killing, dirt scooping equipment. He knows his onions and he is going to make your onions cry. In next to no time you can see a remarkable transformation – your nostrils have been released from the captivity of stale leftovers. You’re now living la vida loca – well it’s more like lavendar loca the way the cleaner throws you into a sneeze fest on day one. After you reprimand him gently he moderates his commando urges and eases off the cleaning spray trigger. Your home is inviting and neither you nor your girlfriend has any complaints. If only you decided not to watch that disturbing clip caught on your spy camera two days later.
It would have been better if you caught him stealing one of your valuables. You could even stomach him bringing one of his girlfriends into your bed (and of course send him packing). But he was rummaging in a place he shouldn’t have been – your dirty laundry. You watch in horror as he sorts through your office shirts, gym shorts, socks and then picks up one of your boxers. He stares at them in awe like a map discovered by Indiana Jones. You notice you’re getting uneasy as you continue to watch then suddenly the video starts buffering – fucking internet! Why at this moment? You know you shouldn’t continue watching but you can’t help yourself.
You’re back online and you see him bury his face in that underwear. What’s worse is that you can see him taking a deep, long sniff. ‘What in Tommy Hilfiger briefs is going on here?’, you ask yourself. It doesn’t end there. He cuts to the bathroom with his new ‘face mask’ and your spy camera is out of focus. Fuck! Your mind is playing tricks on you. You’ve seen enough and need to address this clusterfuck. You contemplate calling your girlfriend who referred him but you can’t gather the words. How do you frame the accusation? What crime has been committed? You believe ‘invasion of privacy’ doesn’t do justice to the matter. You worry that this could somehow disrupt your relationship so maybe it’s best to handle this man to man.
(To be continued)
