When I was 16 my best bud Vicky and I briefly ran a rather successful cleaning business.
Our favorite client was Mrs. Carson, a social x-ray with who lived in a beautiful, rambling 1800 farmhouse. Children grown and a workalcoholic husband, she filled the void by dotting on her two stoner teenage house cleaners, preparing us these elaborate lunches of tuna sandwiches, cheese doodles and grapes and granting us pool privileges.
The house was spotless, so we “padded the bill” by leaving the vacuum run while we goofed off in the upstairs bedrooms. Mrs. Carson would be in the kitchen chain smoking and talking on the phone, while we lounged on the kids’ beds, reading books and magazines.
Flash forward to this past Sunday. I had to clean the apartment for Vicky and her sister Jenny’s upcoming visit. I took the bedroom, while Savannah “worked” the living room. When I stopped for a break, I found Savannah laying on top of a pile of cushions she had removed from the couch, gazing dreamily out the windows.
No magazines or books. But the vacuum was plugged in and running.