What follows is a true account of an odd job I picked up in Portland. It was a strange, affecting experience and I have been meaning to write about it for some time. So I sat down and wrote about it. It's a bit stilted and awkward, but it feels good have out with it.
I found Marguerite through craigslist. Having recently finished college, I was desperate for the odd job, but also for the structure in my day. She hired me to clean and organize her house for a highly anticipated "guest." I was put off when she demanded I be "clean cut" at least three times over the phone, her deep voice full of scrutiny. But upon meeting, I found her refreshingly shrewd.
After eight hours of wiping dust from the white molding in her bedroom, scraping apple sauce off her refrigerator shelf, and finding silky, coral-colored panties mixed-up with her son's laundry, I wanted her to know me, too. I wanted her to look in my eyes and match her menopausal wisdom to my soul. She was blunt and prim and phobic, but also maternal, accommodating and bright. By the end of the first day, I could have lived and died by her razor judgment. I felt like she could help me map the poles.
I am tempted to write a list of things I saw in her drawers and cabinets and let you find her there. After all, they were sufficient for me. But you need to see the objects in relation to each other. A feminist essay on faith and creativity stacked above something titled From Fatigued to Fantastic. Vaginal cream (not a lubricant) on the nightstand inches from a purple stuffed poodle, overturned. A mist of organic, all-purpose household cleaner and the citrus scent of moist dusting wipes.
Domestic tasks generally make me feel like I am twiddling my life away, but here, I went over and beyond my duties. I wanted Marguerite to notice that I had washed the windows without her asking, and found a much more sensible place for the cereal. At one point, surveying boxes left unpacked for the past two-and-a-half years, I wanted to scold her. I wanted to talk to her like I would to my own mother. When are you ever gonna use this beaded keychain?
Most of my second day at Marguerite’s was spent weeding her front lawn. I think weeding is senseless (I won’t explain myself here) but I attacked that lawn like a face-full of pimples. With a shovel, hoe, and serrated spade I exorcized a white web of roots from dry soil. I was fifteen again, steaming open my pores and squeezing every last centimeter of my acne-ridden face. I obsessed over the furtive network of dandelion tentacles I had surely missed. I made piles of my roots, the crisp threads, and looked back at them with satisfaction. I would subdue that yard with my relentless prodding and stabbing, make it shine like the shaved back of a animal. And I nearly did.
It was all therapeutic. I liked the daylight sliding through the blinds, liked to feel it change from room to room, hour to hour. I also liked performing to very clear, measurable standards. I genuinely hoped she would call me again. I continually stressed how much I love organizing. It would be fun cleaning out your garage, I said, I’m grateful for the work! If she had asked me to do the same task twice, I might have thanked her.
I haven’t heard from Marguerite since. Surveying her weed-less lawn, she said, Looks good enough. Glancing under her son’s bed, she questioned, Did you vacuum down here? How could she know I wanted to lay myself on the living room rug for her assessment? As a 22 year-old woman who never speaks to her mother, I wanted Marguerite to make a clinical estimation of my options, plans and dreams. Or maybe put a hand on my shoulder and say, laughingly, God, you’re young. You can’t possibly know what you want.
I don’t want to emulate her, a work-at-home author of user’s manuals for IBM software. Confronted with her belongings, the artifacts of midlife and of all the choices that preceded midlife, I sensed the distance between what we intend and what we accomplish. It’s not a cold distance, or an impossible cliff, it’s the divergence of paths that touched once but will not touch again. I could see this between flicks of the bed sheet; I could see this often works out for the best.
Our lives work towards ends we never considered. I could read this on the walls, I just wanted her to issue the warning. You touched once, but touch no longer. It’s minutiae, consequential minutiae. Which, I suppose, is all meaning ever is.
