My partner takes the kitchen and I tackle the bathroom. Big mistake. When I ask the client, a sexy twentysomething in tight jeans and top, if she wants to use the washroom before I get started, she looks horrified. "I never use the toilet here," she says.
And then I see why. Frisbee-sized stains of ochre urine encircle the base of the toilet. Feces splatter its rim and underside. The seat is streaked with old urine. Solidified toothpaste, spit, phlegm, beard stubble and pubic hairs -- how did they get there? -- coat the sink. The floor is thick with dust balls and more hair.
It turns out the young woman doesn't actually live here. This 12th-floor condominium at trendy Queens Quay, off Lake Ontario, belongs to her boyfriend. They're professionals, in finance. His condo is closer to their offices. But she refuses to move in until he has had the condo professionally cleaned.
By us, a crack team from a company I'll call Metro Maids. My partner and I have been sent here at a one-time, first-clean rate of $28 per hour, per maid, plus GST. At least, that's what the company gets. For workdays that stretch to 11 or 12 hours, I will earn less than minimum wage.
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But I don't know that yet. One of the many bad things about working at low-wage jobs is, incredibly, it's not always clear what you are getting paid. Right now, I'm concentrating on the toilet, which apparently hasn't been cleaned in a year, possibly two.
I spray it all over with Fantastik Original. Then I use Fantastik With Bleach, Vim Oxy-Gel, Mr. Clean, old-fashioned soap and water, scouring brushes, paper towels. I let the poisons marinate, while I attack the sink.
Meanwhile, Mr. Filth and his paramour are necking on the dusty couch. She's in his lap, giggling. He's feeling her up. My middle-aged partner has a clear view from the galley kitchen, which opens onto the living room. I see them every time I step into the hall for more paper towels.
I am working undercover -- though I applied for this job using my real name -- but this is ridiculous. I'm practically under the covers with them. Then I understand. We are maids, and therefore we are invisible, subhuman, beneath notice. We are the untouchables of the Western world.
Every other lousy job has a euphemistic title. Garbage men are sanitation workers. Undertakers are funeral directors. Whores became prostitutes and then sex workers. Gender-specific professions have neutered their titles too. Stewardess has become flight attendant. Waitress has become server. But maids! The companies that employ us -- and try to entice you -- revel in the feudal grovelling and female subservience the word implies.
And so there are dozens of companies in North America that invoke the name: Maid Brigade, Maid for You, Maids to the Rescue, Maid to Sparkle, Magic Maids, Maid Marian Cleaning Service, Maids-R-Us, Sunshine Maids, Maid to Clean, Merry Maids and, of course, Molly Maid.
And so the client behaves as if we're not there. He's a tall, pale blond man in his late 20s or early 30s. By his accent, I surmise he's from northern Europe. She appears to be from India. Mercifully, they finally stop necking and go out on an errand.
"Aren't they a lovely couple?" my fellow maid calls sweetly from the kitchen, where she is sweeping up the pistachio shells and used bamboo skewers that litter the floor.
"They're doomed," I mutter. "The relationship is doomed."
"Why do you say that?" she asks reproachfully.
"Because neither of them will clean a toilet."
On Feb. 1, Ontario's minimum hourly wage rose to $7.75 from $7.45. For reasons that now escape me, I thought the best way to tell the story of that 30-cent raise was to work -- and live -- at the bottom of the food chain. I would find a low-paying job, a low-rent apartment and, single-mom-like, take my boys with me for the month and see how we survived.
In real life, we live close to the top of the chain. Our riding, which includes the Bridle Path, has the highest average income in the country, according to the Elections Canada's website. We vacation abroad. We have a part-time housekeeper. My boys go to a private school, where they wear grey flannels and speak French all day. Ben has two violin lessons a week. Sam's hockey gear costs more than his cello (yes, he's a goalie).
