Karl, the house cleaner

From chapter 25 of Chitbodhi’s memoir, One Life: A True Account

My first morning in Brooklyn. I had to move my ass now. With just $50 left, I had to find a job.
Working in New York without papers? What do you do? Couldn’t risk putting an ad in the Village Voice or any other newspaper. Nobody wanted the immigration office suddenly ringing their doorbell.

Design a nice text:

KARL, THE HOUSE CLEANER.

FREE ESTIMATE – Please Call,

Write your phone number 20 times at the bottom, cut each in with scissors, so that a passerby can just rip the number off and call you from their apartment.

Photocopy that flyer 500 times and walk by every house in Manhattan, sticking your flyer just beside the doorbells. Go home and wait for phone calls.

That’s what I did that first morning, subway to Manhattan, walking every street and every house in Greenwich Village, back home, wait. Next morning the same walk from 9 in the morning until 5pm, another district, home and wait.

Every day I needed twice 90 cents for the subway ticket, money for maybe two coffees at a McDonald’s, enough for a simple cheap sandwich, and on the way back enough to buy one pack of cigarettes, two cans of beer – plus 1 dollar to photocopy another 500 flyers.

As a German, always exact, I had figured it all out. I needed $9.50 a day to survive in style.

No phone call the first day, and none on the second day, and fuck, after six days, having spread already over 2000 flyers around, still no fucking phone call. The Mexican sannyasin was just great, giving me each morning an encouraging speech, that I have to be persistent and that it will work out for me and jobs will come, I just had to believe in it.

He built me up every day and I left, now with the last $9.50 in my pocket, to a new district, Manhattan, West, uptown, starting at 60th Street all the way up to 88th Street, close to Central Park, having just a coffee for lunch in the Park.

I have never found money on the streets in my whole life. But that day was different. Walking and thinking about my little desperate situation, house to house, sticking my flyer up, suddenly a one-dollar note blew by. In the next street I found 10 cents, at the end of that street another 20 cents, and another 50 cents two streets on. Now, in between each building, I walked with my head down, checking the sidewalk.

At 5 pm, back on the subway to Brooklyn, my $9.50 was gone, but I still had $9.50 in my pocket, freshly found cent by cent. Sitting in the subway, I couldn’t comprehend: I had started with 9.50 and that got spent. And now I had 9.50 in my pocket for the next day, on my way back to Brooklyn, not one cent more or one cent less. A real fucking miracle of life!

No phone calls that night – again. Next day flyers again and I found $10.21 that day, another day secured. And it continued, day by day, never less than 9.50 and never more than $12, a luxury day for me because I could buy two additional cans of beer.

And not even one phone call from my flyers in 14 days, which was somehow disappointing.

Our doorbell rang that night at 11 pm. Someone opened, expecting a friend – and we were faced with a real crisis!

The landlord, with behind him two living-room-sized guys, looking extremely tough: “I want all of you out by tomorrow 12 sharp. I need this apartment and I will come with my friends at 12 sharp and if I find anything still in the apartment belonging to you guys,” pointing his finger in a circle covering all of us, “we will throw all your stuff out the window.

“Is that understood?”

He turned, squeezing through his tough-guys, walked down the staircase, followed by them desperately trying to walk side by side in the narrow width of the steps.

Disaster had struck and we all knew: better not pick a fight with them.

The plan for the next day was simple: clear all our belongings out, stash them on the sidewalk, buy all newspapers at 7 in the morning, split up in three teams, the two girls would guard our belongings, and we would call every apartment offered for rent in the vicinity of Brooklyn, Park Slope… and find a new apartment.

I teamed up with Marco, calling from a phone booth all available apartments. Four were available to visit right away, and so we started walking to the first one.

The first two apartments – a real disappointment. I wasn’t surprised; they scanned us in a second, and didn’t even let us talk really, just closed the door with a ‘sorry’.

The third apartment: 11:30 am, Sackett Street, 3rd floor. I rang the bell and a nice guy opened.
I saw behind him, the apartment was empty; he welcomed us, showed us the rooms and explained, “$750 and 3 months’ rent in advance – and you can have it right away.”

For us impossible to come up with a down payment of over $2000. $750 – yes, we could collect that amongst us. So I told him straight away that we were seven illegals, just been thrown out of our apartment on 17th Street, and that our belongings were blocking the sidewalk now, and that we could pay him one month’s rent tomorrow morning, and that we needed to move in now.

He stared at both of us, the expression on his face slowly changing into a smile, “Thanks for being so honest with me. I don’t know why I am doing this, but here is the key and you promise me for tomorrow the $750 in cash, and I come at 6 tonight to meet you all. Okay?”

He handed the keys to Marco, locked the door; we walked down together and, splitting ways on the sidewalk; he to his car and us walking to 17th Street, but smiling at us when he got into the car.

We couldn’t believe our luck. We had a fucking key in our hand! When we got back to our place, all our friends were waiting for us, the others had already returned fully frustrated from their apartment search – but knew the moment we turned the corner. Our smiles told them from afar: Success!

The rest was logistics. One of the girls had to wait and the rest of us had to pick up whatever we could carry and walk the 18 blocks to Sackett Street. One trip was not enough, we all had to walk twice. But before we got there Marco had picked up lots of beer and a few bottles of wine.

The landlord arrived at 6 pm, obviously liked what he saw, and left an hour later with a smile, our $750 in his pocket. We got drunk that night, high on the surprises of life.

The next day my Mexican friend moved out to be with his girlfriend, and a day later the Swiss girl also moved to her boyfriend’s apartment, but was replaced the same day by Francesca, an Italian with an 8-year-old daughter and Geo, her French boyfriend – the only one working, as a painter and remodeler.

Have any of you ever lived with a bunch of Italians? All Italian men are always the best pasta cooks, and they start discussing and competing with each other every night, who is the best – and nobody ever gives in.

They have all learned their art of pasta cooking from their mothers or grandmothers. We had pasta almost every night for the next five month. Pasta came out of my ears and nose, followed me in my dreams but yes, I have to admit, it was always good.

Francesco from Rome took his love for pasta to a disgusting high each morning. A slice of toasted white bread was loaded with cold pasta from the night before, olive oil poured from the bottle in total excess over the whole thing, so the toast floated around on the olive oil, and then he ate, with a sense of great satisfaction that he was an Italian…

I sometimes had to leave the room. I just couldn’t watch, couldn’t understand what was so good about it.

My money-finding kept on going every day, and one week into our time in the new apartment, it all started happening for me. I got my first phone call and a three-hour cleaning job, $30 pay, the next day in the Village.

A Jesus freak! He followed me around the entire time, talking about Jesus, but he was a nice guy. How Jesus had saved his life. How Jesus was telling him things in his dreams. How Jesus loved him so much. How Jesus took care of his life. How Jesus spoke to him when he was shopping in the supermarket.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, at least 300 hundred times Jesus in three hours cleaning his small apartment.

And my responses while cleaning: “Yes, really? Ohhh. That’s good for you. That’s nice. He must be good for you. Really? Yes, he obviously takes care.”

My first $30 in my pocket. I was exhausted, not from cleaning but from having to listen to him.

Next day I got two more jobs, and the day after that again. And from the day of my first job, I didn’t find any money anymore. I still kept looking, but the whole next month I did not find any money. Existence had just supported me until I could go it alone.

Suddenly the phone was ringing every evening and, within ten more days, my schedule was so full that I had to refuse jobs, or only take better jobs and let go of the not-so-good ones, like the Jesus freak.

$450 a week, Sundays off, 45 hours working a week, leaving Sackett Street at 7 and arriving back usually after 9, sometimes 10 at night, 2 or 3 jobs a day. And I got some absolutely beautiful jobs which I really loved doing, cleaning jobs that were fun.

Twice a week, 5 hours, mid-town West Side Manhattan, starting at 8 in the morning. I didn’t get a key, a woman opened the door in the morning, then went to work all day for the New York Council.

She prepared breakfast for me and left. While eating my breakfast I tried to have a conversation with her Mexican babysitter, who didn’t speak one word of English. But the 3-year-old girl she was babysitting was just fun. We talked about all kind of things that can happen in life.

Then my job started: change the bedsheets, mop and vacuum the living room, and often I got help. My cleaning assistant, the little girl, who gave me a hand with all the tasks too difficult for me.

I loved those five hours twice a week, and I kept them to my very last day in New York.

Mr. Winge

Twice a week I cleaned in up-town West Side 72nd Street, just a block from the Park. A Mr. Winge, a corporate lawyer on Wall Street, gay (but that nobody knew, just me).

I had a key, and started at 8 in the morning, going until 5 pm. A brownstone house, plus the small basement apartment below. Steps led down from the living room to a tiny space, a satellite TV and a fully equipped bar, two armchairs and a bar stool, and an additional room only for a washing machine and drier.

That he was gay he couldn’t hide from me, and also didn’t want to hide. At least 20 framed photos hung in his big bedroom, showing him with his boyfriend, sailing in the Bahamas twice a year. He told me a lot about his boyfriend, who was a German politician in Parliament, part of the FDP (Free Democratic Party).

I’ll bet nobody in Germany knew about this relationship, already going on for many years.

My job: cleaning and full housekeeping.

I rarely met him during the four months, just sometimes in the morning for 20 minutes, when he was late for Wall Street.

After the first two times I developed a fixed routine for how to create my day in all beauty.

First put a George Winston tape in the stereo. I had to start the washing machine after, sometimes doing three loads in the morning, shifting all to the drying machine, so his laundry was ready for ironing around 2 pm.

Washing machine started, I checked the TV program in his little bar room for a good movie starting between 2 and 3 pm.

Then the usual cleaning, bed-making, vacuuming and so on, but also walking over to the dry cleaner to take and pick up his suits. He had about 40 of them, with 6 clearly his favorites. Once a week also filling his refrigerator with his five favorite foods: eggs, yogurt, bread, butter and coffee.

He used 3 to 4 white shirts a day for work and an additional 2 shirts a night at home, also changed his socks and underpants each time. I loved working for this guy.

Cleaning his messy desk in the bedroom, I knew quickly from the paychecks that he clocked $300 an hour and his monthly pay after tax was always $40,000 to $60,000.

At 2 pm all this work had to be done, and I took his pile of at least 25 white shirts, same amount of socks and underpants, down to the bar room, set up the ironing board right in front of the TV, and watched a movie while ironing all his laundry.

For four weeks I resisted helping myself to an expensive whiskey from the bar during my ironing and TV sessions. He would never notice just a small amount missing from one of his 40 bottles, but still I didn’t.

One time my resistance broke, a great movie on HBO, Rambo: First Blood, and switching my concentration back and forth between movie and ironing, I helped myself to a very small whisky with ice, and stood it on the ironing board.

Suddenly steps coming down to the TV room, too late to hide my glass of whiskey, shit, fuck, I hadn’t heard the upstairs apartment door, I was listening to Sylvester Stallone.

Mr. Winge entered, throwing himself, tired-looking, into the big armchair behind me. What a fucking embarrassing moment, caught with whiskey, ironing board and Rambo movie. Oh Shit.
I started an apology immediately, but he didn’t let me finish.

“Karl, make me a whiskey too. What are you drinking, Dimples?”

Broken off in the middle of my apology, I could only stutter: “Yes,” and immediately got his glass out, ice from the refrigerator and the bottle from the bar.

“Don’t worry, Karl, I also need one now.”

“What happened? You never come home at this time? Stress in your job?”

“Yes, a little stress. I have to fly to Brazil this evening. My company car will pick me up at 4 to go to the airport.”

I checked my watch, it was 2.30 pm.

“What are you doing in Brazil? For how long will you go?”

He had finished his whiskey, now got up, took the bottle and ice, dumped some ice into my glass and filled it to the very top, and did the same with his glass.

Staring at my full glass, he explained: “You know I am a corporate lawyer, so we not only do legal work for big companies in the states, but also work for big foreign companies, that want to expand their business to the states. That’s why I have to go to Brazil for probably two or three days.”

It was past 3 pm now, and he had finished his whiskey.

“Karl, can you come up and help me pack my bags, I have to hurry now.”

Walking behind him, I felt like I’d been his housekeeper since 30 years already. I knew every little bit of him, all his small habits and all his favorite things. Cleaning the desk in his bedroom, arranging his four watches the way I thought look decorative, I’d found them the next cleaning day, neatly arranged on the other side, in order.

Arriving in his bedroom, I immediately started pulling things from the cupboard and spreading them in neat piles on his bed.

Three days in Brazil meant: 15 white shirts at least, one additional T-shirt maybe for the hotel, he only owned three of these, 15 socks, 15 white underpants, 3 of his favorite suits, at least 8 ties. I pulled the ones I knew he liked, and he corrected me: “Not that one, give me the blue one instead. You know me very well,” inspecting the spread-out piles on the bed.

“Yes, kind of.”

He laughed. “Maybe you can now also pack my bags? You are really good with this.”

“Yes, sure.”

Housekeeper… maybe I had been his mother in a past life.

Mr. Winge, you should be around 75 to 80 now and I hope you are still alive and maybe pick up this book. I hope so. I just honor every second cleaning for you in that distant past.

A Dental Musician

Twice a week, 7 hours: 4 hours his upstairs condominium, 20th floor, 2 to 6 pm; and three hours his basement dental office, 6 to 9 pm. Located in uptown 60th Street East Side, just facing Central Park.

He canceled my service after two months and I kind of know why.

At our first meeting in his apartment, I didn’t know why he’d hired me for cleaning. The apartment was spotless-clean, not a dust speck anywhere around, the only dirty things I saw, two wineglasses beside the sink in the kitchen. He left after 5 minutes to go back to his dental office in the basement.

Inspecting his apartment I kind of didn’t get it, even his bed was made and his walk-in cupboard displayed at least 100 suits and a similar number of expensive shoes, suits all neatly hung and shoes neatly placed at equal distances.

But he paid, $70 for the day, twice a week, and that’s what counted, so I started cleaning.

Not very satisfying to clean and you don’t see any results for your work! It just looks the same as when you started, and in two months never anything dirty or different in his apartment when I arrived.

At 6 pm he’d come up from his just-closed office, suit, tie, nice shoes, stand still just one meter inside the apartment, his eyes scanning like a hawk every little centimeter for a speck of dirt. Satisfied, he’d do the same in the kitchen and bedroom.

A smile would appear and I was excused to then go down and start cleaning his dental office.

He worked alone with three dental assistants, two treatment rooms, waiting room, X-ray room and his small office room. I never got a key, just had to close the door at 9 pm when I left.

His payments were always very exact, $70, and if I had to buy cleaning materials, he paid on the cent, even looking around in his apartment to find that additional cent to complete my payment.

Well, I did my job as best I could, and only once or twice, standing in the doorway, his eyes stumbled upon something, and his finger pointed in that direction.

“Karl, there, can you see it?”

Walking over and inspecting the floor, to me it was all clean, no dust whatsoever, but then, he was the king and so I took the vacuum cleaner out, vacuuming again that particular spot.

Now he was satisfied, and I could go down.

Midway through the two months, I was vacuuming his walk-in closet, when I saw a crumpled dollar note peeking out of the side pocket of one of his suits. It was almost falling, but still holding on.

It was crumpled like you squash a piece of paper with your fist and throw it in the garbage.

I took it out, smoothed and folded it, a $100 note, and put it back into his pocket. I felt more crumpled paper in there, and, now curious, I took them all out.

50-, 100-, 20-dollar notes all crumpled the same way, really strange to see money treated like this.

I put them right back the same way he had left them.

Finished with the cupboard and continuing in the living room, but I still kept thinking about the money.

Curiosity overcame me and I went back and checked the other pocket, more dollar notes, all denominations, squashed the same way, more than $160.

Back it went, checking the next pocket, same thing, more money, over $300, checking the breast pocket, under the nice handkerchief, more money.

Next suit and next suit and pockets in his trousers matching the suits, all the same, everywhere money, crumpled like garbage. I checked about half his suits – in every pocket the same contents. Just roughly estimated, in about 50 suits I had come across $20,000 or even more.

I didn’t take a dollar, but it’s the strangest thing I have ever witnessed. This guy had no respect for money, must hate it the way he treated it, almost distancing himself from money.

Two weeks later came the only complete break in his routine with me that ever happened.

He entered his apartment at 6, I was ready for his inspection, but it didn’t come. He walked past me, throwing his suit-jacket a few meters through the air to the couch, walked straight to the stereo, took a big vinyl LP out.

He opened the small door below and grabbed a clarinet. Completely ignoring me. I didn’t know what to do. Go down to the basement? Wait for the inspection? I couldn’t make a decision so I just kept watching him.

The record started very loud, jazz, he put his lips to the mouthpiece and for the next 25 minutes the world was forgotten around him and also around me. The guy played his soul out, a brilliant clarinet player, improvising with the musician from the record, his white shirt soaked in sweat and sweat streaming down his face.

I watched him in awe.

I am not at all into jazz, the closest thing I might love would be Weather Report, but I became witness to a live concert of the finest in jazz. In the middle of playing, he suddenly stopped, staring at his clarinet, stopped the still-playing record and sat down. Then he noticed I was still standing by the door.

“Oh Karl, you are still here.”

“Yes, sorry, you forgot to inspect the apartment.”

Smiling, he motioned me to sit in the other armchair.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

I felt uncomfortable because he just kept staring at me.

“You are a brilliant player. That is good enough to play live concerts. Did you play professionally?”

He pointed to the record: “Have you ever heard ……………. Live?”

I forget the name, some famous jazz player, his name started with a W.

“No, I don’t know much about jazz. Do you know him?”

“Yes, we were friends and we played together a long time ago, but have no more contact now.”

“What happened? Did you fight?”

“No, I made the wrong decision, that’s what happened.”

“Wrong decision? What decision did you make?”

Staring into space: “I decided to make money, decided to have security, to get rich. I am a dentist now and gave up my music. And now there is no turning back.”

“You are rich now, as I can see, so why not play with him again?”

“No turning back, Karl.”

I understood his situation in that moment. Deep down he hated himself for ever making this decision, he was still trapped in the security and money thing. And what he loved deep down he had given up. Only used it as a pressure cooker release. He hated money, the symbol for his failure, that’s why he treated it like garbage.

I didn’t know what to say anymore, didn’t want to disturb him in this space of recognizing his failure.

No more words between us, he was just staring at his clarinet.

“I go down now, OK?”

And I left.

The next time cleaning, he was not there. No checking of my work, and one of his helpers arrived at 6 to bring me down to the dental office.

Two days later he called me, just said sorry and that he had found another cleaner, short and to the point.

I knew why. I had seen him in a moment of weakness and desperation, and I am sure he had never shown that side to anybody.

This is an edited except from chapter 25 of Chitbodhi’s One Life: A True Account