When You Don't See Me by Timothy James Beck Page B

all.”
    I knew that was bunk. While it was true that our more anal retentive clients had cleaner apartments, they were also far more demanding. The smallest spot on a water glass, or a speck of dust on a bookshelf, sent them into fits of rage. But as a substitute, I wouldn’t have to break my back. If my work wasn’t up to snuff, Benny could apologize and promise I’d never darken their doorstep again.
    â€œThis is a one time thing, right?”
    â€œOf course. You can fit him in between your ten and four o’clock clients. Please, Nick. You have to do this. He’s a very important—”
    â€œFine,” I relented. “I’ll do it.”
    Benny gave me the address, and I groaned after I disconnected the call.
    â€œBad news?” Kendra asked. I’d almost forgotten she was in the room. Before I could answer, she said, “Roberto and Morgan are gone. Call in sick. I don’t want to go to my classes. Let’s goof off.”
    â€œI can’t afford to goof off. I have bills to pay. So do you.”
    â€œThey don’t pay me to go to class,” she said. “Besides, I’m just talking about ditching class. I’ll go to work this afternoon.”
    â€œLet me get this straight. You want me to miss work and not get paid, so I can keep you company and entertain you. But later, you’re going to ditch me, so you can go earn a living?”
    â€œUh, yeah,” she said.
    â€œNice try. Go to class,” I said. “I have to get ready for work.”
    Â 
    By the time I arrived at the temporary cleaning gig in Chelsea, I was already exhausted. My ten o’clock had been a single mother, which meant several loads of laundry. Of course she didn’t have a laundry room in her building. I had to schlep everything three blocks away, running back and forth between loads to wash dishes, vacuum, dust, and bleach everything her precious baby could possibly put in her mouth. Right before I left, there was a diaper incident that made me want to call in a hazardous waste crew.
    The address Benny had given me led me to a condominium high-rise. I rechecked the numbers, hoping I’d read them wrong. Unfortunately, I hadn’t. I stood outside, staring up, trying to count the floors. Across the street, the half-finished steel skeleton of a similar building rose from behind a blue barricade. Signs were posted along the fencing, urging pedestrians to keep back. Returning home to Spanish Harlem seemed a safe distance. But I didn’t want to lose my job. With any luck, the apartment I’d been sent to clean would be on the third floor.
    In the lobby, the concierge handed me a key to one of the two penthouses. He called after me, “Don’t forget to water the plants on the terrace.”
    I turned back to smile and nod. When he looked away, I flipped him off and reluctantly summoned the elevator. Inside, I closed my eyes and screamed the chorus to “What Have I Done to Deserve This?” by the Pet Shop Boys, until the doors opened again. I willed the key not to work, but it did. Everyone and everything was against me.
    The penthouse was easily four to five thousand square feet, with a mezzanine loft providing extra acreage to thwart my plan to get in and out as quickly as possible. The vast space was heightened by the minimalist décor. The few pieces of furniture were arranged in small groups, making a guided tour irrelevant. The black leather sofa, two chairs, and barren glass coffee table seemed to exclaim, “Hi! We’re the seating area. If you sit down, please don’t touch the table.” And so on through the apartment.
    As promised, the owner was compulsively neat. The kitchen was cold and sterile. The stainless steel island begged for an emergency appendectomy to be performed on it. The glass table in the nearby dining area suggested that its owner’s motto might be Tables should be clean and not seen. The mirror in