RHKOA: So You Think Your Job Sucks?

If you’ve ever spent a day on a job at any point in your life, it’s very possible that you’ve felt like you were being crapped on by your employer. There’s just no way around that fact. How did you feel on days like that? Did you feel like quitting your job? Did the slight make you want to seek redress? Did you go home fuming, vowing never to be crapped on again by that cruel manager/boss? I’ll bet you did.

But what if you had literally been dumped on by your employer?

This is a story about a cleaning job that changed my world view forever. Be forewarned. The details are grotesque and heinous. Put on your gloves and aprons as we enter the apartment where Dignity’s Child drew her last breaths.


It was a bright Saturday morning. Barely a cloud hung in the sky. A warm breeze whipped around Hilary’s bangs as she loaded the last of the supplies in the trunk of her car. The two of them rode in stony silence, neither one happy that they had to spend the weekend on a job.  Outwardly, it appeared that Hilary was handling it a little better. She chatted idly about nothing until they got to the gate of the apartment they were scheduled to clean. Samira rolled her eyes and mumbled “uh huh” at the required times, inwardly wishing Hilary would just shut up.

Hilary fished her cell phone out from the console in the car and dialed the client’s number.

“Hi!” she said loudly. “This is Spic ‘N Span Cleaning Hands! We’re here to clean your house?”

“You’re early,” said a male voice on the other end.

“Yes,” she conceded. “We were wondering if we could get an early start on the job.”

“No,” said the man firmly. “You’re scheduled for 12 o’clock and you can start then.”

He hung up the phone.

Samira looked at the clock and sucked her teeth. It was 11:43 am. She hated clients like that.

“Ashook Parivar,” she muttered, looking at the email with the details of the job.

“Must be Iranian,” said Hilary.

(For the record, these two think anyone from India, Pakistan and the Middle East in general were ‘Iranian’…pronounced EYE-rain-ean.)

Finally at noon, Hilary called Ashook on the gate box and he permitted them to come in. They climbed two flights of stairs before they reached the apartment. Hilary was excited. Cleaning apartments was easy. They could be in and out in an hour and a half at the most. She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out a business card to hand to the client. Samira struggled with the buckets and brooms in the background.

Finally, a disheveled twenty something man with brown skin opened the door and let them in. The plastered smile in Hilary’s face soon faded. Samira never smiled, and pursed her lips even further.

“What do we have here?” asked Hilary, attempting a joke.

There were beer bottles all over the floor. Red Solo cups containing day old liquor dotted every surface of the room. The apartment smelled like urine, weed, and body odor. Another man in his twenties lay half sleeping on the couch with his hand shoved down the front of his pants.

“We had a party last night,” said Ashook, smiling at the memory of what was obviously a wild night. “Can you clean the balcony also?”

It was not a polite request, but rather a terse demand.

“That will cost you an extra $25,” said Hilary, throwing her shoulders back haughtily. She expected him to balk at the upcharge.

“No problem,” said Ashook pulling two twenties from his pocket. “You can keep the rest.”

He flounced onto the sofa and began to play video games.

Samira pulled out a clear plastic bag and shook it noisily glaring at the two young men who had wreaked intense havoc on the apartment. She began picking up empty beer cans and vodka bottles and tossing them into the bag. Hilary chatted gaily with the men whom she had come to learn were students at Emory.

“I’m going to clean the kitchen while Samira works on your two bedrooms,” she informed them. “We can work a little faster that way.”

“Okay,” Ashook said dismissively.

Samira stormed into the room, dragging the vacuum behind her. When she got to the master bedroom, she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Oh my Gard!” she gasped in her deep Southern drawl.

The bed sheets were strewn everywhere. She lifted her eyes and noticed something reflective on the night stand. Two empty condom wrappers were hastily thrown on the wooden surface. When she walked around the bed, her worst fears were realized. Semen soaked prophylactics lay lazily on the carpeted floor. She gagged and threw on another pair of gloves.

As she hurriedly picked up more cups, bottles, cigarette butts and drug paraphernalia she heard water running  from the sink adjacent bathroom. An overweight ‘Iranian’ man stepped out, shaking his wet hands vigorously before wiping the excess dampness on his jeans.
“Oh. You’re here to clean. Good,” he said in greeting. “You can get in that bathroom now.”

He stepped past her and walked into the living room where his friends were sprawled and laughing. Samira heard one of the guys say something in response to Hilary.

“Yes, yes! Many girls were here last night. Many girls!”

“Hey dude, you remember that one girl?”

“Ahhh…yeah. THAT girl.”

They broke into the universal, self-satisfied male laughter that signaled they had all probably banged the same chick during the course of the night.

Samira couldn’t understand their next words, as they began to speak in their own dialect. She didn’t need to. She already knew what 3 college aged men who had had a wild party the night before were saying. Her disgust for the three of them was replaced by utter dismay. The fat collegiate who had just left the bathroom had left the door cracked and a foul stench came filtering through to the bedroom.

“Oh my Lawrd!!!”

“What?” asked Hilary, who had come to monitor Samira.

“Look in the bathroom,” she hissed. “Do you smell that?”

“Oh snap!” cried Hilary. “You might want to use some Comet on that.”

Samira shook her head frantically.

“Naw man. It’s the Bleach time to shine nuh.”

toiletShe sprayed until the fumes threatened to knock her unconscious.

There were no words to describe the dishonor Samira felt that afternoon. Never before had a grown man pooped, looked her in the eye, and walked out as if nothing had happened. He had literally taken a dump and left it there for her to flush. It was the ultimate disrespect.


So you sit there, dear reader, and complain about your job if you will. Unless you’re a sh*t carrier in Jakarta (and they do have those) I guarantee you’re not having half as bad a work day as this pair did.

Stop laughing. Happy Hump Day.