The Weight of Wet Linen

“You the new girl? Martinez says I’m supposed to have you floor-ready by next week. I’m Enid, listen close, work quick, and try not to irritate me too much. I’m only running on one cup of joe this morning.”

“Understood. Pleasure to meet you. I'm—”

"Yeah yeah, we’re already running behind. The other girls have already gone up. Throw those duvets into the machine. I’ll grab the cart. Then we’ll head upstairs. We’ve got the 4th floor to ourselves this morning.”

“Yes ma'am.”

“Oh no, girl. Don’t use your back like that. Use your legs.”

“Sorry, ma'am.”

“If you lift like a debutante, your discs will be screaming before the 10:00 AM checkouts.”

“I'm sorry. I read that you’re supposed to engage your core and—”

“Listen to you. ‘Engage your core,’ you say.”

“I just meant—”

“I know what you meant. Here, grab the other end there, careful ones damp.”

“Okay.”

“On three. One, two—there. See? Legs.”

“Gosh, these are heavy when they’re wet.”

“Fifty pounds each, give or take. You’ll do about forty lifts like that a day. That’s a literal ton.”

“I didn’t realize...”

“You will. Cart’s over here. Watch the wheel, it sticks… You deaf? I said the wheel sticks.”

“No, I just—”

“Don’t let it scrape the wall like–. Oh move, I got it… Come on, there’s still time to catch up.”

* * *

“Does... the elevator always take this long?”

“Mhmm. When it works.”

“And... when it doesn’t?”

“Stairs. Six floors with a full cart. You learn to pray for a lower floor.”

“That sounds awful. Is maintenance pretty quick to fix it?”

“They prefer the term, ‘Engineering’. But yeah. They are pretty quick to get on top of it. But getting it fixed, that’s a whole other bag of worms… Hit four.”

“Four. Got it.”

“You got your master key?”

“Right here.”

“Lanyard around your neck girl, not your pocket. You lose that key, it’s a hundred and fifty out of your check.”

“They told me in orientation.”

“They tell you a lot of things in orientation. What’d the module say about the bathroom sequence?”

“Toilet, tub, sink, mirror, floor. Dry wipe the fixtures, then wet. Dirtiest to cleanest.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Dirtiest to cleanest? That’s how you smear germs from the commode onto the mirror you’re supposed to check for streaks. Here in reality, it’s always top to bottom, clean to dirty.”

“I… I just followed the guide.”

“Mhmm. They get paid to write that training nonsense. We get paid to actually do the work. Got your master key? Good, ready for your first room?”

* * *

“408 is next?”

“Mhmm. 408.”

“It doesn’t smell like anyone was here. Not like 403.”

“Business traveler probably. Slept six hours, used one towel, left at five AM. You’ll learn to read a room. This one’s a gift, compared to tomorrow’s family of five. You can bet they’ll let their kids jump on the beds and shove crayons in the outlets.”

“I can strip the bed.”

“Go on then.”

“You’re just going to watch me?”

“That’s my job. Making sure you don’t give me more work than what I already gotta do.”

“Pillowcases inside out?”

“Saves you thirty seconds on the remake.”

“Smart.”

“It’s not smart. It’s thirty years of experience. Those computer

modules won’t teach you stuff like that.”

“Sorry”

“Stop apologizing, girl. You apologize when you break something. Not when you run your mouth.”

“Ok. Sorry. I mean—”

“Fitted sheet in the bag first.”

“I know. I remember.”

“You remember a lot for someone who’s been here two hours.”

“I used to stay in places like this. When I was younger.”

“…”

“I just meant I’ve seen how it’s supposed to look. The finished product at least.”

“The finished product huh?”

“Is that… was that the wrong thing to say?”

“Duvet in the bag. I’ve got the bathroom while you redress the bed.”

* * *

“Enid?”

“What, girl?”

“I was just wondering how long it takes to move up from this. To management or something like that?”

“Move up from this? Honey, I moved up to housekeeping. I was in the laundry room for six years.”

“Oh. You mean this is… better than laundry?”

“Better than three hundred pounds of wet sheets an hour? Yeah, it’s better. Twelve rooms a day on average is a promotion. What, you think this is a management-in-training position?”

“I didn’t mean… I just thought…”

“413’s a checkout. Grab extra bathroom bags from the cart.”

“How many?”

“However many you can carry.”

* * *

“Enid, there’s something in the drain. Hair, I think, but it’s… a lot.”

“Needle-nose pliers in the side pocket of the cart. Blue handle.”

“Found them.”

“Don’t gag.”

“I’m not going to–oh God.”

“What’d I say?”

“It’s like a small animal!”

“It’s not alive, it’s just hair. Pull it out, bag it, run the water till it’s clear.”

“Does that… Does this happen a lot?”

“Only every third room if you’re lucky.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s the job. You want disgusting? Ask me later about 614 last March.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“No. But you will. Stories keep us sane on the longer days. Tub next.”

* * *

“Enid, can I ask you something?”

“You’ve already asked me quite a few things, girl.”

“How long have you worked here? Total?”

“This property? Nineteen years. Before that, the Marriott on Causeway. Before that, a motel in Revere you’ve certainly never heard of.”

“So more than twenty years?”

“More than thirty. Thirty-one in October.”

“That’s a long time.”

“It’s a job. No need to make it a story.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Yes you were. I can hear it in your voice. You’re using this back and forth to build a narrative. Trying to make us feel something or another about the old woman who’s worked in housekeeping for three decades.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s not useful. Mirror next. Top to bottom, no streaks.”

“Alright, I got it.”

* * *

“We had regulars, you know. Back before the renovations.”

“Regulars?”

“Families. Came every summer. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving. You get to know the rooms they like, how they want things. Extra pillows, extra towels, hypoallergenic soap, an extra coffee filter because the Mrs. prefers decaf and the Mr. prefers hazelnut.”

“What happened?”

“The economy happened. Or something like that. Things got expensive and they just stopped coming. Probably still come; but stay with family now.”

“That’s sad.”

“It’s turnover. New people fill the rooms eventually. Stayed busy enough, but the regulars were fewer families and more business travelers.”

“Still.”

“One daughter, she’d probably be about your age now. Maybe a little younger. She swam in the pool every morning. Ordered room service pancakes. Left her wet towels on the bathroom floor in a pile shoved under the sink counter. Never did figure out why.”

“Sounds like a kid.”

“She was. Then she wasn’t. Grew up right in front of me, summer by summer. Dolls, to ipads, to books, to cell phones. Never looked at me once. Face was always glued to something.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean–”

“Fifteen years. Not even when I brought extra towels she asked for. Looked right through me like I was just a piece of furniture. I don’t know why the memory of her sticks with me like that.”

“Maybe she was shy.”

“She wasn’t shy. Distracted maybe, pampered and soiled certainly. But not shy.”

“...”

“You’re quiet now?”

“Just focusing on the mirror.”

“Uh huh. Streaks on the left side near the bottom, don’t miss them.”

“I see them.”

* * *

“419’s another checkout. Brace yourself.”

“Why? What’s wrong with 419?”

“Bachelor party.”

“Oh… Oh no.”

“‘Oh no’ is right. You’re taking this one. I’ll be here. But you’re taking it.”

“Is this a test?”

“It’s a Tuesday. Now grab the caddy.”

“Ew. It smells like–”

“Don’t name it. Just turn on the air.”

“I’ll open the window.”

“Doesn’t open. Breathe through your nose and work fast. Linens first.”

“There’s a stain on the sheet. It’s… it’s an awful color.”

“I see it. Bag it separate. Biohazard tag.”

“Biohazard? Seriously?”

“You want to guess what it is?”

“No…”

“Smart. Duvet’s on the floor under the desk. Start there, then the sheets.”

“It’s… it’s soaked...”

“Mini-bar ice bucket. Seems they were using it for something else, then spilled the whole miserable thing on the floor and tried to hide the soaked mess with the duvet.”

“Why would anyone… What’s in… ew…”

“Don’t sniff it! What are you thinking? Just set the ice bucket on the table and get the duvet into the bag. We’ll have to steam the carpet.”

“Okay.”

“Legs, girl. Legs.”

“I know, I’m using my–”

“Not your back, I said. Legs! Bend your–”

“I am–ah. Ah, God–”

“And there it is.”

“Something just–it’s like a–”

“Zipper. Up the spine? I know.”

“I can’t-”

“Set it down. Set it down. Breathe. You’re ok.”

“I’m not… It’s getting worse!”

“It’s a spasm. It’ll pass. Don’t move.”

“I think I need a doctor…”

“You don’t. Breathe in. Slow. Through the nose. Good. Now breathe out. Good, good girl.”

“Oh my God.”

“I said breathe, not pray. You’re ok.”

“How do you… do this… every day? And at your age?”

“Excuse me? Ice tonight. Ibuprofen, not aspirin. Tomorrow you’ll be stiff but it’ll be workable.”

“Workable?! I can barely–”

“You can, and you will... Or you won’t. Either way, this room needs to be done by eleven. So stretch it out, walk it off, and let’s get back to it.”

“Just… give me a second.”

“Take two. It’s not like we’re behind or anything.”

“...”

“Roll your eyes all you want, sweetheart. But the clock doesn’t stop for your back spasms.”

“I know. I know. I just… didn’t expect it to be this hard. I go to the gym!”

“You thought going to the gym on the regular is enough to have prepared you for real physical labor?”

“Isn’t it?”

“When you go to the gym, it’s something you do to your body. Labor is something you do with your body. There’s a difference.”

“I’m starting to understand that.”

“Left knee went in ‘09. Right shoulder, 2015. The planters fasciitis so bad I can’t walk before 6 AM started during covid.”

“How are you still doing this?”

“Money. Bills don’t pay themselves. Now pick up one end. I’ll help you this time.”

* * *

“Enid.”

“What?”

“That family you mentioned. The one with the daughter, who shoved the towels under the sink.”

“What about them?”

“Their name was Ashford. Wasn’t it?”

“Was it?”

“You know it was. You’ve known since I first walked in.”

“I read about your father in the paper. Something about pension fraud got him in the end.”

“Alleged.”

“They’re all alleged until they’re not, girl.”

“He didn’t… it’s… it’s complicated.”

“It always is. Retuck that end, you’ve got it wrinkled.”

“Mph… Is that why you’ve been so…”

“So what?”

“So hard on me?”

“I’m 58. I’m hard on everyone. You’re nothing special.”

“That’s not–”

“Girl, I’m hard on you because the rooms don’t clean themselves. Because we have six more to do, then laundry, and you’re limping around with a back spasm and wanting me to validate your feelings about your father.”

“I wasn’t asking for you to validate my feelings.”

“Weren’t you?”

“I just wanted you to know that I’m not… I’m not like her… The girl who didn’t look at you. I’m not her anymore.”

“Anymore?”

“I’ve changed.”

“You’ve been broke for all of what, six months? A year? That’s not changed. That’s tourism.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Fair? Who promised you fair? I’ve got nine years until I can collect Social Security. I’ve got a retirement account with only about four thousand in it. I’ve got a knee that needs replacing that’ll cost me sixty thousand I don’t have. And you want to talk to me about fair? Live a little longer in the real world. Then we can talk about fair.”

“I didn’t realize things were that tough for you.”

“Nobody does. That’s the point. You don’t know what’s going on in someone else's life. Once you start paying attention, things like fair start getting hard to measure. Someone always has it worse, and someone else always has it better. Now, let’s move. We’re still behind.”

* * *

“Enid–”

“I don’t want an apology, you’re fine.”

“I wasn’t going to apologize.”

“Then what?”

“I was going to say thank you. For pretending and all.”

“Pretending? What are you going on about?”

“That this is something it’s not. That I’m going to find myself here. That hard work is noble and redemptive and whatever else people say to themselves to feel better about how things are.”

“It’s not noble. It’s just work. Hard is when you do it for forty years and end up exactly where you started.”

“Well… at least that’s not what happened to you.”

“How do you figure? Pick up your end, girl. Legs!”

“You’d be at a motel I never heard of if you had.”

“Hmph.”

* * *

“Hand me the fitted sheet.”

“Right. Here.”

“Watch the corners. Tuck, then pull. Like that.”

“Like that?”

“Tighter.”

“Okay.”

“Better.”

* * *

“We’re making good time now.”

“Three left?”

“Two. 424 is a stayover, just towels and trash.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Don’t get too comfortable. This weekend we have a Realtors’ conference staying with us.”

“How many?”

“Two full floors.”

“Great.”

“You’ll live. We both will.”

* * *

“Enid?”

“What?”

“The thing with the pillowcases. Them being inside out.”

“What about them?”

“Are there other tricks like that? Things that save time?”

“Hundreds.”

“Will you teach me?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing all day, girl? Talking for my health?”

“I mean–”

“I know what you meant. Toilet paper, fold the ends into a point. Guests like it. Management likes it. And when both Guests and Management like something, it’s gold.”

“Okay.”

“Hangers all face the same direction. Which direction doesn’t matter, just all the direction.”

“Why?”

“Because it looks intentional. People like intentional.”

“That’s… smart.”

“Like I said, thirty years.”

* * *

“Oof, my hands are cramping.”

“They’ll do that for a while. The first two weeks are the worst.”

“Does it get better?”

“You get stronger. Or you get used to it. Same things, I guess.”

“That’s grim.”

“That’s Tuesday. Eucalyptus lotion, the cheap kind from the dollar store. Use it every night to stop your knuckles from cracking.”

“Eucalyptus. Okay.”

“You’ll get a headache like a vice tonight. Drink more water.”

“Oh joy, can’t wait.”

“Sarcasm. Good. You’re learning.”

* * *

“Last one.”

“Last one.”

“Stayover, remember, so just knock first. Loud.”

“Housekeeping?”

“Louder.”

“HOUSEKEEPING!”

“There you go.”

“No answer.”

“Must be out. We’ll move fast. Towels, trash, vacuum if needed. Don’t touch their stuff.”

“I know.”

“You know now. Last week a girl got fired over a laptop getting moved six inches.”

“Six inches?”

“Guest complained. Said she was snooping. Management didn’t bother asking questions. Guest satisfaction is key.”

“Sarcasm.”

“You’re learning.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s the job. In and out. Ghost hands, we were never here.”

“Ghost hands.”

* * *

“You can set the cart there, then you can take off early.”

“Don’t we need to launder the sheets?”

“Let’s limit your spasms to once a day. You can join me in the laundry room after you’ve had some time to adjust.”

“Thanks, and Enid?”

“What?”

“Thank you. For today.”

“Honey, don’t thank me. I get paid whether or not you learned anything and whether or not you come back tomorrow.”

“Still.”

“Clock out at the desk. Don’t forget to sign the sheet.”

“I won’t.”

“And the lotion. Eucalyptus.”

“Dollar store. I remember.”

“...”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Enid.”

“You coming back tomorrow?”

“I… Yeah. I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Good. We start at six-thirty. Six-forty and you’ll be lifting the duvet’s on your own, spasm or no.”

“I’ll be here.”

“We’ll see.”

“Enid–”

“What, girl? The linens won’t wash themselves.”

“The family. Your regulars. The daughter who never looked at you.”

“Yeah? What about her?”

“She sees you now.”

“Six-thirty. Don’t be late.”