More than two years ago, Mrs. Kimmelman asked me to help Alexa, on an “occasional basis.” Alexa is now 31 years old and wears large tortoiseshell glasses that cover her brown eyes, which always look sad and grave. She wears oversized black and navy sweaters that hang over black jumpers that trail past her knees. Her outfits are designed to hide her increasing girth, which she acquired from two pregnancies and a resignation to her lot in life. When she is on the street, she usually can be seen pushing her two and four year old sons in their double stroller. She never smiles because the world’s troubles are on her shoulders. Her older son, Paul, has severe asthma and requires the daily administration of some sort of breathing apparatus to keep his lungs clear. Since he should be living in a dust free apartment, you would think that Alexa would be meticulous in her housekeeping. Imagine my surprise when I first arrived at Alexa’s filthy apartment and saw dirty dishes brimming the sink; cans of formula, boxes of cereal, biscuits, and diapers piled all over the floor; soot and grime all over the window sills; crumbs and sticky marks covering the countertop and breakfast table; and dirty, frayed curtains. Even Paul’s room was replete with dirty stuffed animals and grimy toys from FAO Schwartz. The apartment was utterly horrifying, disgusting and uninhabitable. My apartment in Jackson Heights could easily fit into a corner of Alexa’s apartment: it’s small but spotless. It is not that Alexa is unaccustomed to cleanliness. Indeed, she spent many years in her parents’ immaculate Park Avenue apartment.
The “occasional” assistance has now stretched to a weekly occurrence. Every week I clean three apartments: the Kimmelmans’, Alexa’s, and Jordan’s. Alexa and her older brother, Jordan, do not pay me because they are still “struggling.” The Kimmelmans give the cash to their children so we can pretend that they are paying me, and I will respect them. Mrs. Kimmelman told me that I would get $80 for each apartment. Jordan is a bachelor and a slob. He never cleans his dishes, empties his fridge or places his laundry into the hamper that I bought for him. He is an “entrepreneur,” who is always starting a new business. Currently, he is launching his party planning business. He occasionally apologizes for the mess, remembers to thank me, and lovingly puts his arm around my shoulder when he addresses me as “Mom”; I admit that I still have a soft spot for him after all these years and do not mind cleaning his apartment.
Alexa is a different story. Her husband, Jonah, is unemployed and has bestowed on himself the title “consultant.” In today’s economy, especially in New York City, “consultant” is another word for unemployed. Everyone in New York City is a consultant, but no one is being consulted. Jonah has the decency to leave the house when I arrive because he knows I can’t stand to see him lounging on the beat-up brown corduroy couch that he has had since college when he should be working. When Alexa is not visiting the pediatrician or her parents, she mopes around the apartment as I vacuum, dust, and mop the floors. She has the decency not to talk to me. Alexa is not stupid, just worn out. In fact she went to Columbia University and received a bachelor’s and master’s degree in English. Last week I did an extra two hours of work because Alexa’s children had so much laundry. I find it incredible that two children have so many clothes. Each child has enough European outfits to attire at least a dozen children. To economize, I bring their laundry to the Kimmelman’s because their fancy building does not charge for the use of the laundry machines and dryers. Although it is extra work for me to walk the eight blocks between the two apartments, I do it every week. Alexa does not thank me for this. Last week besides being her surly self, Alexa gave me $60 instead of $80. Did she think I wouldn’t notice? She knows the deal is that I receive $80. She also knows that I won’t say anything. And she knows that I know that the money is not coming from her.
The Kimmelmans have also started to economize. To ensure that I did not ask for a raise, Mrs. Kimmelman told me that Mr. Kimmelman’s business was slowing down and they were now on a budget. I found this to be a bit strange since two weeks ago, Mrs. Kimmelman hosted a cocktail party for 75 of New York City’s elite to launch her first cookbook, “Little Bites of the Big Apple: How to Host a Cocktail Party in Manhattan.” Mrs. Kimmelman smiled as she asked me to do all the cooking “with some assistance and guidance from the author.” The timing was perfect because the preparations could be done in her newly renovated “chef’s” kitchen replete with cherry wood cabinets, black granite countertops, Mexican tile floors, and chef appliances. After the shindig, Mrs. Kimmelman burst into the kitchen to announce that the party had been a success and that everyone had loved her hors d’oeuvres. I nodded my head since I was tackling a large baking pan and my arms were immersed in hot sudsy water. I was given cab fare home since I stayed until 1:30 am to restore the apartment to its pristine condition.
In the midst of dinner preparations a few nights later, I proceeded to toss the empty jar of Rao’s tomato sauce into the recycle bin. Mr. Kimmelman deftly removed the jar, grabbed some of the freshly cooked hot penne from the colander and placed several pieces into the jar. He then opened the cherry wood cabinet above the sink and removed a plastic Mickey Mouse bowl that Alexa had used when she was two years old. Next he proceeded to give the jar a good shake and poured out seven pieces of penne newly coated with tomato sauce. “Rose, that could be your dinner. Never waste.” I said nothing, but when he left the kitchen, I removed the penne from the plastic bowl and placed it on his Wedgewood plate.
Another night, the Kimmelmans were in the mood for Chinese. I ordered their favorite dishes from Chef Ho’s Peking Duck Grill – half a Peking Duck with pancakes, plum sauce and scallions, sliced beef with snow peas, and seafood fried rice. There were three mouthfuls of food left in two of the white take-out containers. As I was leaving for home, Mrs. Kimmelman magnanimously offered the containers to me and announced that she was saving me the trouble of cooking my own dinner. I tossed the remnants into the garbage can that is located at the corner of their apartment building on 87th and Park. Sitting in my fridge was a succulent lamb chop, which I had prepared the night before.
The Kimmelmans went to Bermuda several weeks ago. They alternate their summers between Bermuda and the Hamptons. Their rental costs $126,000 for the summer; I saw Mrs. Kimmelman’s email confirming that she had wired $42,000 or 33% for a deposit. Although the family was spending the entire month of August in Bermuda, Mrs. Kimmelman insisted I attend to their apartment every day. They had left the apartment in shambles before their departure and expected that it would take a month to restore it to “Rose’s standards.” Mrs. Kimmelman stressed that it was important for me to check the mail and determine which pieces of mail were important enough to be inserted in the Federal Express envelopes that she had labeled for me. Additionally, she insisted on calling me at different hours of the day to make certain that “nothing” was going on and that I was “holding the fort.”
A few days before their return, I entered the drawing room while holding a can of Pledge surface cleaner and walked to the original red Shaker candle stand that had been carefully placed in the corner of the room – one of the least trafficked areas of the apartment. Sitting on the stand was a beautiful blue wooden oval box with original paint. Painted on the lid was a plump, regal-looking robin sitting comfortably on a cherry blossom branch; branches of cherry blossoms generously covered the outside of the box. Mrs. Kimmelman had inherited the pieces from her mother, and they were among her favorites. I heavily doused the candle stand and box with Pledge. The intoxicating lemon smell filled the air as I watched the table and box glisten with the pungent fluid. After a few satisfying minutes, the fluid was absorbed into the dry wood. I then vigorously wiped down both pieces. The flecks of red, blue, pink and brown paint clinging to the dust towel blended together to form a “V.” I walked out of the drawing room, wondering how long it would take Mrs. Kimmelman to discover my work.
Jennifer Yeoh-Wang
Age 17, Grade 11
The Chapin School
Gold Key