Shouting and arm-waving ensues, she’s a bit red in the face from the exertion.
The condo closing is today. A few odds and ends are scattered across the dining room floor, a slightly damp rug emits a strange sheepish odor, piles of soggy rags and cleaning supplies sit off the edge of the countertop, a tilted broom handle peers around the corner from the den.
The place glistens with cleanliness and order underneath the minor chaos. I can’t imagine the liquid stock in the refrigerator, once encased with jam, stuck tamarin sauce, dribbles of mustard and mayonnaise, tubes creased and dead draws attention. Oven glistens, the frig top, once caked with dust and airborne grease is now sleek and spiffy, countertops sugar-free and dry. Handprints indescernable.
The condo is surely ready for the new proud owner.
But the previous owner, angry and energetic, though obviously sleep-deprived, moans in regret. She balks at the price of my fastidious services and hollers for retribution.
How could this be?
Suppose it began with her past experience. She purchased homes in the past where the previous owners left oodles of stuff, filth and mayhem. "They didn’t CARE about the havoc they left in their wake," she insists. Why should she pay me for anything other than a “Broom Clean” the realtor suggested?
I work one way.
My best effort is put forth. I prefer to leave it like I’d like to find it. Spotless and ready to move my precious belongings into an immaculate home.
Anything else seems disgusting and irresponsible.
We come from two different sides of the boxing ring. I want what is due me, for my hard work and effort. She stands alone in her Backlash from the past.
I sit tight. I stand clear and steadfast. My past experience is jumping in and reducing my rates, lowering the price to please the client.
I am silent.
Letting her stew in her own juices.
The upstairs neighbor trods down the stairs to congratulate me in a job well-done. She was taking a tour of the pad while I ran amok, like the Tasmanian Devil, clearing, scrubbing, vacuuming, washing walls and tossing garbage, packing, sorting, and yes, sometimes muttering swear words at the ceiling. I was sweaty and unkempt.
She gapes at the interfering neighbor. An understanding suddenly washes over her, like an ooze of compassion.
She then declares a Truce and lets an Agreement rip from her like a torrent of hot wind.
"I’ll find a way to pay you what you’re worth. Time is time, I understand that."
I take her two weary hands in mine and say:
“May this experience pay forward tenfold for the both of us. Good luck!”
We part.
I praise whomever is up “there” pulling the strings…
"Thank you for sending the neighbor to me! Twice!!”
Now to research a contract to present to my next client!
Lesson learned. (no, not another!!)