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The Carpet Cleaner
by Jan Ramming Her miniature schnauzer plopped down at Rosemary’s feet, and she scooted him away. Damn Brutus was always messing on the rug. As if he read her mind, the dog growled and backed up further. Stanley had told her not to get a dog, but she couldn’t help herself. She needed the companionship. Stanley had little time for her, with his long work hours and short attention span. She loved him as best she could, though she knew, even after 25 years of marriage, that he wasn’t the love of her life. Brown and yellow spots dotted the white carpeting in her living room. Rosemary had tried to clean them herself; but they would return, darker and smellier. Stanley hadn’t wanted to pay for a carpet cleaner either, the cheap ass. She called them anyway. A hot flash raged, and as Rosemary fanned her hormonal flames with last month’s Better Homes and Gardens, the doorbell rang. “Good morning, ma’am,” said the first young man. “I’m Gary.” He reached out to shake her clammy hand, as the other young man stepped forward. “And I’m Mike. We’re here to clean your carpet.” Their good manners impressed her. “Come in, come in,” she said, feeling lighter. “Over there in the living room.” She barely looked at their faces, pointing them down a long hallway, noting their work boots and pleated pants, their fresh t-shirts that said “Perfect Clean” on the back. Brutus yapped and cowered under an antique side table as they entered the room. Mike flipped through some paperwork on his clipboard. “I see here that you ordered a regular cleaning, ma’am, is that correct?” She turned around to face him, straightening her blouse. “It’s Rosemary,” she said, looking at him--and stopped—taking him in. His shaggy blonde hair hung over his faded-denim eyes. He had that nose that turned up just a bit at the end, and his mouth was in that perpetual grin she knew so well. His voice was deep, deeper than his small frame should allow. My God, he was a spitting image of-- “Bruno,” she whispered, dropping her magazine. “Ma’am?” “Bruno.” She said it louder this time, as her head rushed with images from the past: their first apartment, their young naked bodies writhing under crisp cotton sheets, the little sapphire and diamond-chip ring he had given her one Christmas, flashing on her finger. She hadn’t seen him in thirty years, and it was impossible that he could be here now, so preserved. With one hand over her mouth to hide her smile, she looked at him, looked away. She wanted to giggle. “Uh, ma’am---Rosemary--it looks like you may have some pet stains here that we should specially treat with a sanitizer and deodorizer. It’s going to cost you extra though.” He whipped out a calculator and punched some buttons. “Yep, $120 extra, but you’ll be glad you did it. We’ll get rid of those stains for good.” She didn’t hear him. She was remembering the pain she felt when he left, how her broken heart ached for months after. She could feel another hot flash coming on. She narrowed her eyes, clenched her fists. “Damn you.” He scratched his head. “Well, maybe I can take off ten percent, but I would have to call my manager.” He took out his cell phone. She stepped toward him, folded her arms, and raised her chin. “So, you came back to gloat?” “Pardon?” He cocked his head and took a step back. “How about twenty percent off, since you’re a returning customer—do we have a deal?” He pressed a button on his phone. “Sure. Rub it in. See if I care--” He gave her the shhhh sign and held his phone to his ear. She knocked it out of his hand. “What the hell, lady?” He took another step back, eyeing her. “No need to go off on me—I don’t set the prices, OK, Rosemary?” He picked up his phone. “Let me go out to my truck and call to my manager.” “You,” she seethed. “How could you just leave me like that? He held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll be right back in, Rosemary, I promise,” he said, rolling his eyes. “No, you never came back,” she said, her voice cracking. “We were supposed to get married, remember? I was going to go pick out a dress and you were going to talk to my dad?” She sounded young again, the pain felt fresh. “Seriously, lady, what the----?” He took another step back. “You said you loved me, you said we would always be together, remember?” She wiped away a tear. “Look, obviously you have me confused with someone else, OK, Rosemary. It couldn’t have been me, OK?” He cupped his hand beside his mouth. “Just between us, I don’t even like women.” “I knew it!” she screamed. “Why didn’t you tell me? It was John, wasn’t it? You always liked John.” “Who is this John guy? And you knew I was gay? Hey, that’s stereotyping, Rosemary. Just because I like a clean carpet doesn’t mean---“ “You’re gay?” Gary punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t you think your cleaning partner deserves to know about that, or do we have a don’t-ask/don’-tell policy at Perfect Clean now?” “Does it matter?” he yelled at both of them. He stomped his foot. “My sexual orientation has nothing to do with my carpet cleaning ability!” Rosemary stepped aside and blew her hose. Sniffed indignantly. “You should have told me.” Mike threw up his hands. “Well I didn’t think it was necessary, Rosemary.” “Fine then.” She dabbed at her face with the back of her hand, reached for his clipboard. “Where do I sign? “Right here.” He jammed his finger on a line at the bottom of the page. She signed and handed it back. “Thank you,” he said, recovering. “You’re welcome.” She scooped up Brutus and turned to leave. “Rosemary?” She stopped but didn’t turn around. “Yes?” “I’m sorry.” She nodded. It would have to be enough. |
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