It's a Dirty Job

Dressed in my green Honey Pot Camp shirt, I wrestled the cleaning tub into the back of the camp van, then dragged the vacuum cleaner, mop, and broom in last. It was about 90 degrees in the shade, and here I was, a newly divorced mother of two, loading the equipment to clean the lakeside camps owned by Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey.

Along with the Honey Pot Leisure Camp, featuring bears of all sizes with paws stuck in honey pots, the couple owned about a dozen off-site camps dotting the nearby lakeshore. Mrs. Godfrey had given me a tour of these camps a few months ago when I began cleaning for them. They were meticulously kept, and I was expected to keep them that way.

So far, despite my severe anxiety and depression over being left alone with two little girls to raise and the fact that I had to bring them to work with me, as there was no one else to care for them, I was an exemplary employee. On time, even if I had to stay up all night to avoid oversleeping or had to walk to work, pulling my girls in a wagon when my rat-shit car acted up.

Thank you, Frank, for taking the good car, you bastard.

Photo by Artem Kniaz on Unsplash

No matter what, I had to keep this job. My girls and I desperately needed it, as there was no depending on the asshole to help us out. The Godfreys were great at handling my daycare problem by letting the girls join the planned group activities all day at the camp. They were having the time of their lives while I cleaned mud and silt off rugs and furniture, scrubbed toilets, washed dishes and greasy grills, and cleaned out firepits.

Because I wasn’t charged for their care every day, I was able to save enough for a downpayment on a run-down but repairable trailer within walking distance of the camp. That kept me going when my will to live waned.

Every day, when passing that pathetic, rusty, little two-bedroom trailer, my heart clutched in my throat, thinking of how I would fix it up, what flowers I would plant next Summer, and if there was room for a swing set in the backyard. We had been living in an apartment closer to town since Frank left us and declared that the house was his because his name was on the deed. It was sold practically out from under us.

The new owners were moving in as I hurriedly shoved boxes and trash bags into my car's trunk and hustled the girls to move faster. The new folks were sympathetic, but it was humiliating.

Now, I am working at the Honey Pot Leisure Camp and getting paid for sun tanning or burning while I clean, as I'm a redhead who freckles and peels instead of tans. I shut the van's side door and walked around to the driver’s door just as Mrs. Godfrey called to me from the office/store. “Oh, Karol! Karol, the renters for cottage number three are already en route. Please begin with that first.”

“No problem. Of course.”

“Karol, I don’t know how we got so lucky. You are a blessing. The girls are doing great this morning. Don’t worry about a thing.”

I gulped down the knot in my throat and waved as I pulled onto the highway that would take me to the lake cottages. She got lucky? I thought to myself. I’m the one who got lucky.

A tear trickled down my cheek as I thought about how they had hired me without a reference when they heard my story. Of course, Dilman’s Pass was a small town, and word traveled quickly. They pretended to have heard my tale for the first time to spare me the embarrassment. I always overworked and put my best foot forward at the Camp and cottages to ensure they were rewarded for their kindness to me.

I unlocked the sticky door to cottage three and gasped in disgust. Oh, my God, how was I supposed to get this place ready for new occupants in less than an hour?

There were muddy boot tracks from the entrance through the living room, to the kitchen, and up the stairs. Good grief. It would take a crew of five half a day to right this place. The kitchen was a stinking mess, with fast food wrappers cluttering every surface. Okay, okay, I thought, trying to calm my mind. What will they see first when they walk in?

The muddy footprints. I ran out to the van, retrieved the vacuum, and scooped up the detritus of lazy fishermen. Good heavens, the dried mud was everywhere. How the hell did they get it on the walls?

A mystery to be solved another day. I then began scrubbing the nasty kitchen sink, counters, and stovetop, quickly tossing all the trash into a big trash bag, which would go back to camp with me when I finished.

Next was the bathroom. Thank God there was only one in this cottage because I didn’t think I could stomach cleaning another one like this. Hair in the sink, hair in the tub, and a brown log was leaching its stink into the toilet. Flush, man, flush. It’s easy. What was wrong with people?

I was bent over, concentrating on scrubbing the filthy porcelain throne, when a voice behind me startled me back to toddlerhood. “Yo, yo. What have we here? A cottage and a chick with a nice ass to go with it. Hey, guys, we got a bonus from the campground. Check her out. Who’s first?”

The blood left my head, and I almost passed out as I saw a group of four or five men peering at me through the bathroom door. Oh, God. The cottage faced the lake in the front and was surrounded by a private patch of woods, far from other cottages.

All I had to defend myself with was a dirty toilet brush.