It's All in the Wrist

I once had the pleasure of being on hand for a young woman’s very first day of work, at her very first job, ever. Although I say young woman, she was actually a couple of years older than me at the time (probably still is to this day), as it was 1992 and I was just 21 and she was 25. She was a single mom raising three kids, and had never held a job before, relying on her family and social programs up to that point. Admirably, she’d decided that she wanted to make some changes and do what she could to improve her situation and gain some independence. Her mom worked at Messenger House, the Alzheimer’s care facility where I was employed, and put in a good word for her. Thus, she found herself landing her very first job as a… janitor. Seeing as it’s been 27 years, I can’t say I actually remember her name, the reasons for which will become clear shortly. Let’s just call her Sally.

By that point, I’d been in exile at Messenger House for almost  a year, scrubbing toilets, waxing floors, and scraping dried tapioca pudding off of every possible surface. As such, I was one of the longest-running housekeepers in the joint, because it turns out that watching people lose their minds as they die in slow motion is actually kind of a bummer, resulting in high turnover, especially in relatively unskilled positions. It was like a factory that specialized in tragedies. But since, as an ex-pat Californian, no one else in the state of Washington would hire me, I was locked into my groove there and Judy, the acerbic, chain-smoking battleaxe that ran the Housekeeping department, knew it. 

I worked exclusively in the locked wards, which was where the residents with the most advanced forms of dementia were housed to prevent their escape. The locked wards were the source of the lion’s share of employee turnover, and I worked on Ward 3, which was the worst of the worst in terms of the mental health of the residents. So Judy sent all the newbies to me to train, because I was the Crazy-Whisperer, and she'd noticed that when I broke them in, I had a way of putting a spin on the horror-show that somehow increased employee retention by a few months. 

It was a grim job, no doubt about it, and more than a little horrifying on an existential level. So much so that after a dozen years of clean living in the LA area, it only took 2 months up on Ward 3 for me to pick up what would turn out to be a fairly serious drug habit. On the plus side, being permanently stoned, all day everyday, meant that nothing going on in the Tragedy Factory really fazed me much. Between the perpetual haze of my altered state and my finely-calibrated sense of gallows humor, I pretty much took everything in stride. So no matter what fresh Hell a day put in front of me—whether in the form of bodily fluids or the relentless tide of human insanity—I was imperturbable. But don't get me wrong, kids. Drugs are bad, mm'kay? You shouldn't do drugs. I mean, you know, unless you really, really need them.

Sally, however, being a normal, presumably sober human, did not enjoy the aplomb and equanimity induced by the assiduously concocted mix of THC and mordant cynicism that protected me, and was thus in for an awakening. She had a slight frame, a no-nonsense affect, and her blonde hair was lying damp on her shoulders. No time to dry it, obviously. Rookie mistake showering before work at that job, though. There’s a lot to wash off at the end of a day in a place like that, believe me. But who wouldn’t want to show up at a new job putting their best foot forward?

So there she was, scrubbed and polished, ready to embrace this next step as a career woman. Having never held a job outside the home before—never flipped a burger, never stocked a shelf, never been accosted by a customer—Sally probably would’ve been a little daunted no matter where she landed. But instead of starting off on a bunny hill, like maybe at a convenience store cash register, she’d come to Messenger House and was staring down the precipice of a black diamond run, and she didn’t even know it. My God, the humanity!  

Our shift began at 6:00a, and the place was on the back end of nowhere that was somehow 40 minutes from anywhere you started. So on the first day, of her first job ever, she had to be out the door at 5:15a, at the latest. Maybe that’s why she seemed so exhausted right off the bat. Then again, since she was outgunned at home three-to-one, maybe not. By 6:05a, introductions had been made, Judy had admonished me to take good care of Sally, and we got all dolled up in the polyester smocks they made us wear to annihilate any vestige of dignity that might have accidentally regenerated in us overnight.

Walking toward the elevator, I tried to make small-talk with Sally, and met with only a little success. Then again, I’d long since gone nose-blind to the aggressive deodorizers used in everything from the laundry detergent to the carpet cleaners and furniture polish to cover over the sickly-sweet undercurrent of urine that permeated the place. I could only tell that it wasn’t really working when I saw the look cross a noob’s face when they got their first snoot-full and reality began to dawn. Awww… sweetie. That’s adorable. So we hopped onto an elevator that required a key to operate, and headed up to my personal fiefdom, Ward 3. Third floor: uncontrollable swearing, maniacal laughter, and adult incontinence at your service.

At Messenger House, the rabbit hole goes straight up.

Since the residents couldn’t be relied on to refrain from drinking the Lysol while your back was turned, we were in a constant battle to either stay ahead of them, or come in behind after they’d left an area. So before anyone was up for the morning, we headed into the communal restrooms to give them the first of three daily cleanings. First day of her first job ever, and Sally’s very first duty is to clean a public restroom? Obviously, that is not great. But we began with the Women’s room, because I wanted to start her off easy, as much as that’s possible in that world. Since men are absolute savages even at the best of times, you can imagine what a public men’s room in a place like that would be like. Actually, you really can’t, but whatever. Playing the odds, the women’s room usually presented the fewest unpleasant surprises after any given night shift.

Sadly, not so this fine morning.

The door swings in and there, smack dab in the middle of the room, was an 80 year-old, hatchet-faced Sicilian lady named Dolores. She was built like a fireplug, and had the temper of a wet tomcat, she smoked like chimney, and her voice sounded like a buzzsaw that spent its downtime marinating in Southern Comfort. On her more lucid days, Dolores had a great sense of humor and could weave tales about life in the Old Country that made you feel like you were in the Godfather. The rest of the time, she was cantankerous as fuck and known to swing for the fences on the unpredictable occasions when she came for you. She mostly acted like the whole of Ward 3 was an old school comedy roast, and the other residents and staff were the guests of honor. Over the year that I’d been there, I’d learned to do pitch-perfect impression of her, which she loved. Except when she didn’t. She would swear constantly, throw things at you, and then laugh like the Devil just told a good one. For all of those reasons, she was one of my favorite residents.

This fine morning however, Dolores had her Hawaiian-print mumu hiked up around her thighs and was squatting to defecate a lake of diarrhea right out in the middle of the floor. She looked over at us and, in that tender way she had about her, started shrieking at us to get the hell out. Like I would with a charging grizzly, I backed away slowly, not making eye-contact, and prepared to play dead at a moment’s notice. Although I’d herded Sally out the door along with me, she hadn’t know not to look directly at the horror. It ain’t for the faint of heart, and just like you don’t look right at the sun, you don’t look right at surreal carnival of everyday indignities that make up your 9-to-5 life here. Like Perseus dealing with Medusa by reflection, you get a sense of it, and then look away. Poor noob never had a chance. Well... it’s a black world, what are you gonna do?

Once we’d alerted the CNAs on the floor to the situation, they came and collected Dolores and wrangled her, kicking and biting, into a shower and some clean clothes before turning Sally and me loose on the environmental cleanup of Lake Biohazard. I’ll spare you the more visceral details of the job, but suffice it to say I poured a liberal amount of sterilizing agent all the way around the pool of vileness to contain its spread, then handed poor Sally the mop and said, “It’s all in the wrist.”

For a few seconds there, I actually thought she was gonna do it. She trudged over to the event horizon like she was climbing the steps to her appointment with the gallows, and stared at it for long moment. Then she executed a crisp about-face on her heel and handed the mop back to me.

“Nope. I’m out.”

Sally walked straight onto the elevator right behind the CNA who was taking Dolores’s soiled clothing down to the industrial laundry, and I never saw her again. Can’t say I blamed her. Hell, it was actually kind of a baller move, and I grudgingly admired her for it. Her illustrious career at Messenger House lasted a grand total of 15 minutes, which I imagine must hold the record to this day for shortest ever. Mine, on the other hand, went on for another year and half until the stink of California blew off of my résumé and I finally earned the right to be a dishwasher at a local Tex-Mex restaurant.

But before that fine day arrived, I still had a job to do in the wake of Sally’s exodus. So I went out to the maintenance shed to “gather some supplies,” and smoked a blunt that would have embarrassed Bob Marley. Then I waded straight into Lake Biohazard and took care of business on Ward 3.

Like I said, it’s all in the wrist.