I find myself in a reflective state of mind in the small hours of this morning, because it was eight years ago on this very date when I first mopped the floors, scrubbed the toilets and polished the mirrors at Paparazzi Nightclub.
At the time, I believed that cleaning job to be a bridge assignment. You know, something to keep me occupied and help pay the bills until moving on to a more rewarding pursuit, work that would offer creative fulfillment. I reckoned one, two years tops, then I would be out of that downtown basement venue faster than you can say, “Patti’s an old washer woman.”
Silly me. I did become an old washer woman.
As I approached my most recent birthday and its cake with 65 candles, I would often joke about it with Terry Bex, the delightful club co-owner who never failed to provide comic relief when the heft of my cleaning tasks put my health and mindset in peril.
“A charlady,” I would say. “That’s how it’s going to end for me…as an old charlady.”
“You aren’t just a cleaning lady,” he’d respond in a faux scolding tone. “You’re much more than that to us. Look at all the things you’ve done for us. And you aren’t old. You don’t look a day older than Carol Burnett. She was an old cleaning lady!”
It’s true, I did much more than just clean the club during my 7 1/2-year stretch. I was the cover girl, I did some banking, I handled the cash floats, I fixed the music, I repaired the pool table, I ran errands, I re-designed and rewrote the employee’s handbook, I decorated, I prepped for the New Year’s Eve celebration, I handled liquor/beer orders, I dealt with deliveries and tradesmen, I babysat the club when the owners were absent, I assisted CEO Helina Kinnersley…blah, blah, blah.
In the main, however, I was the cleaning lady. It wasn’t a full-time gig. Just a few hours, five mornings a week. And the pay was meager, although I never once issued a squawk in protest. Terry and his business partner, Attila Bassett, were always more than fair. They’re lovely lads.
It was a favorable alliance, at least to my way of thinking, although it wasn’t all joy.
There were times when certain of the employees were mean, with gusts up to cruel. Once, they took my work garments from the janitor’s storage closet and hid them. After a 25-minute search, I discovered them behind a door in a staff-only area, buried beneath a large pile of lost-and-found items. They could not have gotten there by accident. None among the staff had the courage to confess to the misdeed. They all lied. My trust in them disappeared that day and I outlasted them all.
The patrons could be a challenge, as well. The wanton destruction and disfiguring of club property was mind-numbing. It cost the owners hundreds—nay, thousands—of dollars in their corrective response.
The patrons did give me giggles, though. In a warped kind of way.
One morning, for example, I entered the ladies’ washroom. On the floor next to the toilet in the right-hand stall was a scattering of chicken bones. Oh, yes. Someone had gone in there the night before, plunked herself on the biffy and commenced to gnawing on a dozen chicken wings. In a public toilet. Who does that? I don’t even eat in my bathroom at home.
Another morning, my eyes were greeted by what surely looked to be blood splattered all over the walls and floor of the same stall in the ladies’ loo.
“Oh my,” I gasped. “That poor girl. She must be having the worst period in history.”
I put on a pair of rubber gloves and grabbed a mop bucket and scrubbing apparatus. This was not going to be pleasant. As I leaned into the stall, I peered into the plastic container that holds discarded female hygiene products. Inside was—wait for it—a half-eaten hot dog! Someone (no doubt the same woman who ate the chicken wings) had decided that a public toilet was an ideal place for a picnic. And that red gunk on the floor and walls? Heinz ketchup, of course.
Like I said, the patrons could drive me nuts, but they also provided warped humor.
For the most part, I reflect upon my time at Paparazzi with favor. Terry, Attila and Helina were wonderful bosses and, more important, they’re wonderful people. That’s why I often have, and always shall, rise to their defence when the huffing and puffing of naysayers tries to blow down their doors.
I don’t know what would have become of me if not for them bringing me on board eight years ago today. I just know they came along at the right time.
