(Friday) Fiction - The Floor Cleaner

Note: Due to an ongoing love-hate relationship with my computer and all related (or Murphy's Law) my MeeAugraphie poetry/fiction blog is not cooperating with me. So, my first ever Fiction Friday will be posted here, the later ones will move here when my mini crisis is solved.

For those of you new to Friday Fiction (like me) - they are drafts. The rules say no editing. I went back five lines to delete two because it wasn't right, but on my honor, that is all! (And it was while I was writing, not after I wrote it, is that cheating? I did leave the wrong words in -- that I just found.)

I cannot get the template to work correctly and the links embedded in it won't work. I am not having fun today!

Here is the link to find out about Friday Fiction: click here.

I am sure you will not have the problems I am having. . . it is just one of those months -- computer wise.

Now, the craziness that popped out of my head!


This Week’s Theme: No one refused her offer. . .


No one refused her offer to scrub their kitchen floors. After all, she did it quite well. She brought her steamer with her (no, not the ones she used every Monday night for the broccoli and cauliflower, the large ones used for floors), distilled water in a half gallon dulled white plastic bottle -- and pristine white towels. That's right, pristine white towels. She was only in their houses for one hour and eighteen minutes.

(How do I know this? I was her driver for three visits. Rumor was, she was excessively detail oriented, even for an accountant, so, I took that opportunity to time her. I also carried her towels to and from the car. They were pristine going in and disgusting going out. From the looks of those towels the men either had trouble holding on to things or had a food fight the night before. It looked like my back porch when our son had a taco party - at twelve. That was some food fight!)

The few women privy to this information were convinced she bought new towels for each visit. Not a single woman believed it possible that she returned the pure virginal white to those towels each week, even with bleach or the contents of the Rit box designed to pull the dirt and color out of whites. It became a topic for discussion at our weekly bridge game at Othella's.

I first mentioned it. "She does not reuse those towels. I wonder if she uses them as a tax right off?"

Masenga chimed in, "She'll need to take her butt to a few more customers than that if she wants to earn enough to need tax write offs. She needs to find some pigs on the other side of the fence, pigs stuffed with money inside that pork rind."

Sarenda laughed harder than the rest, nearly choking on her fish shaped crackers. (She brought her own each week, didn't like cake and cookies like the rest of them.)
That of course, caused her to snort. That cracked us all up.

Sheryl had been quieter than normal all morning, but burst out with this: "Shame to have to be on her hands and knees scrubbing a pig stye and not get to wallow in it."

Masenga and Sarenda were gob smacked. I just grinned, after all I had been given one thousand dollars under the table for each week I drove to not reveal just how much wallowing their must have been. She left no evidence behind, even carried the condoms out in the towel. She needed tax write offs, but only if she got caught.