My Maintenance Man

It's Friday and that means supper at the club with Hubby.  That sounds a little more glamorous than it is, as "the club" is where my hubby works.  On Friday I pick up something for supper and head to the club to spend some time with Hubby, as he works the late shift on Friday's.  It's the little things.

After getting our drinks, we headed to a table.  Several were open in my favorite seating area, which is the last row, closest to the exit doors so I can people watch.  Anyway, most of those open tables were dirty.  Hubby cleaned what looked to be catsup off of a table for us.  As I removed my coat and laid it on the bench, I noticed lettuce and chunks of chicken on the floor.  Presumably from a salad.  Someone had spilled it and left it for someone else to clean up.  No big deal.  It's just a little thing.

Hubby is one of the maintenance men at the club.  His duties include running the floor cleaning machine, sweeping the floor, emptying the trash, painting walls and posts and cart return poles, cleaning the break room, running the compactor, shoveling snow and the kicker, cleaning the restrooms.  He's patched holes in walls, cleaned up vomit and repaired the floor cleaning machine.  The stories he tells me about "stuff" he finds on the bathroom floors, on the bathroom walls, and on the toilet seats; the "stuff" in the personal items trash cans in the ladies rooms; and the time two guys urinated all over the family restroom turn my stomach.  How many people can break dill pickle jars in a day?  The snow and rain make for lovely entryways that constantly need cleaned.  And he swept up the salad off of the floor when we were done eating.  Just little things?

This is one of those jobs we all take for granted.  Hubby thinks this job is the lowest on the totem pole.  He thinks he's sunk to the bottom in his work life.  He feels ashamed to answer when others ask what he does for a living.  So let's imagine heading into the club after the maintenance men have been gone for three days.  No one has taken it upon themselves to do their job. La dee dah, la dee dah, a shopping we will go.

You grab a cart and head through the door.  The first step in the store finds you slipping and sliding on a wet, muddy floor.  Yes, it's been raining.  Feet securely under you again, you head back to the food aisles and grab a box of cereal.  Where is all of this popcorn coming from?  It's crunching under your feet.  Not only does it crunch under your feet, it's sticking to the bottom of your shoes.  Ugh...gum!  And someone's receipt.  Nice.  Turn the corner and, "what is that smell?"  All of a sudden you're hungry for a hamburger.  Sniff.  Sniff.  Ah, there it is.  A schmear of dill pickle slices, pickle juice and broken glass.  You turn your cart around because you don't want to add that to the sole of your shoe and point the cart in the direction of the cold food cases.  As you get to the milk aisle, you think you see spilled milk on the floor.  Nope, that's vomit.  Dried, but vomit.  About that time you think you're going to lose your lunch.  You leave your cart in the aisle and make a mad dash to the restroom.  Oh, good, it's not closed for cleaning.  You round the corner and lose your footing...again.  You've just slipped on a paper towel.  After picking yourself up off of the dirty floor, you wipe heaven knows what off of your hands and pants and quickly maneuver yourself into a stall just in time to...oh, my god, what is on that toilet seat?  There's no where to place your hands and you sure don't want to put your face down there.  And that's all it takes.  Lunch is over.  I mean all over, the floor.  What you wouldn't give for a wet paper towel for your face and to wash your hands.  But guess what...no soap...no paper towels.  You should have known.

Just little things?  Don't hang your head in shame, hubby.  I would hate to shop where there are no maintenance men.  When I walk into the club's restroom and see the stainless steel doors shining and the toilets clean I smile.  My hubby keeps that room clean for all of the ladies that visit that store.  It's no easy task.  People know someone will clean up after them, so they leave their messes and their trash on the floor.  Yes, it is the maintenance crew's job, but that job does not mean you should be a pig.  Picking up after yourself is such a little thing.