Housekeeping. Key West, October 1994

"Work! Clean! Work it like a washing machine!"
-B-52’s, "Housework."

Ah, the ritual of repetition. Or !, if you feel strongly enough. Every day, almost every room, work consisted of the same sequence of events. A knock first, then "Housekeeping!" I’d unlock the door and enter their room with the necessary supplies.

They are all on vacation. They are rich and not so, young and old, hot, sleazy, talky, friendly, gruff, drunk, stoned, yelling, tan, or taking pictures. The hygienic state of their rooms also span a wide array, way wide. But that’s not really important. Annoying at times to be sure, but not central to the experience.

Housekeeping was, for me, about getting the most work done in the shortest amount of time and figuring the optimal systematic routines to accomplish the required tasks. By remembering those procedures, I then become a machine; my body focused on repetitive motions while my mind is free to drift. My mind would open to all forms of abstractions, multiple thoughts, ______, our problems, and possible solutions or alternatives. A form of self hypnosis develops, deep thinking and analysis allowed by mental detachment from physical action, born of doing the same set of motions in the same or almost the same manner, alone, five or six hours a day, every day.

Upon entering a room, I would first…

Turn on the television. I am already gone.
Strip and re-sheet the bed.
Make bed/fluff pillows/adjust comforter.
Place new towels and washcloths on bed.
Clean ceiling fans every other day.
Check for and spot-dust.
Check room for anything that needs straightening, or
Pick up several dozen beer/whiskey/et al bottles.
Put soiled sheets in a pile, out of general traffic.
Proceed to bathroom.
Pour bowl cleaner in toilet.
Moisten sink and apply Ajax.
Moisten tub and apply Ajax.
Pull used towels out of bathroom.
Put in pile with bed sheets.
Return to bathroom.
Scrub toilet bowl, clean toilet and immediate area.
Scrub bathroom tiles, grouting and fixtures.
Scrub sink, and clean surrounding area/fixtures.
Windex and clean all mirrors.
Replace soap as necessary.
Consolidate all trash into one bag.
Clean floor by hand with paper towels.
Trash used paper towels.
Tie trash bag.
Vacuum bedroom.
Gather all supplies, re-tie vacuum cord.
Turn off TV.
Leave.
Drop off laundry to laundry room.
Go to next room.
Begin again.
Repeat 10 more times.
Wash all laundry.
Dry all laundry.
Fold all laundry.
Put all laundry away.
Leave for the day.

And I loved it. The work was hard and I worked hard at it, but most of the time, like I said before, I wasn't even there. So many thoughts to consider then, the manic urgency of my need to know, man, was strong. My world, though, was unstable; taking shots from all directions.

I had no money, I was naïve, barely hangin’ on, but at 9 a.m., I could forget all else. Each day, the same. Blessed release, blessed relief, I was working again. I was alone and thinking alone. For six hours, I had static reality as a platform, a foundation. My structure, my sanctuary, was cleaning toilets and making beds.


I worked with three other women in Housekeeping. Renate was from Lithuania, Christina was from Poland, and the woman who was very nice, but whose name escapes me, was from Maine. The nice woman would sometimes substitute for Renate. We all had the same room assignment every shift. Renate was in early, setting up breakfast for the guests, stocking pastries, making coffee, and breakfast breakdown. Because of her early duties, she had to only clean five rooms.

Christina powered through her thirteen rooms in less time than it took for me to finish my eleven. Whether my mind was present or not, my body worked hard, and fast. But Christina worked harder, and was always faster than me. She was born in Poland and had family in Gdansk. She was the stereotypical physical archetype of a scythe wielding Eastern European harvest woman. She was built to work hard, and did so.

She had another job as a buffet attendant at a restaurant on Duval, working from 4 until 10 or 11 each evening. She and her husband sent every bit of money they could overseas to their family, so they could come to America, also. She showed me pictures of her son and daughter-in-law. Her timid giggles would bubble up and out despite herself, sometimes, at various comments I made. "Oh Lan." She would say, giggling, probably, the same way she did, I imagined, when she was young.

It rained hard in September and October, sometimes, and we would still have to work. The layout of the guesthouse contained no completely covered or enclosed access to all the rooms. On those rainy days, we would walk slowly in the rain, heavy with our supplies, the vacuum covered with a trash bag, in and out of each room, back and forth from the rooms to the laundry room. I would see her from a distance, coming in and out of rooms, carrying supplies, and clinging to thoughts of her family and the day they would all be together again. She never complained: Never. She just went on to the next room. And then I would also return to my chores.

Because, after all, we were at work.