Removing the rust

When I was 16 years-old, I had a job cleaning the locker rooms at Gold’s Gym in Hoffman Estates, IL. I took the job when Mike Ostos, the sole proprietor of the gym, told me he was tired of cleaning the locker rooms. He said he would pay me $40 a week if I cleaned them three times a week. He didn’t care if I cleaned them on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays or Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays as long as the job was done three times a week every other day. $40 a week was a lot of money to me back then, so I quickly accepted the job without any serious consideration.

The job wasn’t hard but it was disgusting. I had a specific routine when I cleaned. I would start with the men’s locker room, scrubbing the toilets to get rid of the piss, crap, and pubic hairs men would leave behind without regard to the actual thought of what they were doing. I would then move to cleaning the shower stalls with a large push broom and a product called CLR which stood for Calcium, Lime and Rust remover which supposedly killed all of the germs. Mike insisted I only use CLR and Windex to do my job. When I suggested other products that might do a better job, he ignored the notion. No matter how hard I scrubbed, there always seemed to be a brown, rust colored film that never went away. Since I didn’t know what calcium or lime looked like, I just assumed CLR really didn’t do anything for the rust.

Cleaning the women’s bathroom was always easier. Women seemed to respect each other and prefer to leave the bathroom in pristine condition. I liked cleaning the women’s bathroom because it was where I got to flirt with Stacy, a 23 year-old single mother who took a liking to me. When Stacy and I first met, I had told her that I grew up in London and had moved back to the States because my dad took a job transfer. She said she had never met anyone who lived in another country and wanted to hear all about my adventures.

Although I had been to London before, it was only a short two week trip when we visited my brother, Darrell, who was stationed there in the Air Force. I told Stacy that I went to high school in London and that I got to meet all of the members of the Royal Family because I won an essay contest sponsored by my father’s company. She thought I was the same age as her and that I was the father of a little boy who was the same age as her son. I don’t know why I started lying to her but once I started, I couldn’t stop. I just wanted her to like me and if she knew the real me, she would have paid me little attention.

After about three weeks of constant interaction, I got up enough nerve to ask Stacy out on a date. It was just before closing time and we were the only two people left behind. I was filling the paper towel holders with new roles and Stacy walked in the get her bag out of the locker room. She was dripping with sweat after a four mile run on the treadmill. She seemed to be embarrassed, so was working quickly to get her things and leave. She asked how my day was.

"I had a crappy day at school," I said. "I spaced out on an exam and probably flunked it."

Stacy kept getting her things together and nodded. After a moment, she stopped.

"Wait," she said, "what did you just say?"

"I think I flunked a test," I said, sitting down on a stoop in front of the lockers.

"You said you were out of school. Was this a college class?"

I knew I didn't have enough time to come up with a story. I felt bad for lying to her all along, and decided to come clean. I thought she might see the humor in it all; see that I was just trying to impress her. I turned red.

"You're still in high school, aren't you?" she asked. Her face started getting red too, but with obvious anger. "Aren't you?"

All I could get out were the words, "Well..." before a barrage of blows came my way. Stacy was frantically punching me, full swings, and yelling, "You lied to me...you lied to me..." over and over. I kept attempting to dodge and cover, but the speed and force at which the punches came were too much for me. I basically gave in, letting her hit me with hopes she would tire out quickly.

After the hitting stopped, Stacy just looked at me. "Don't you EVER speak to me again," she said, breathing heavily. "EVER!"

It was hard to spend so much time in a place like the gym--working out 3 1/2 hours a day, six days a week, and cleaning the toilets three times a week--and not speak with people. I'd see Stacy and want to talk with her, but she'd pretend I didn't exist. And with good reason.

Eventually, she started dating one of the older guys from the gym. I think they even got married. I was promoted to front desk clerk and trainer, and realized it was safer to keep the lies to a minimum. Cleaning bathrooms was dirty work, but cleaning up after myself proved much harder.