Multi-Purpose Floor Cleaner: A Love Story
Two ultimatums, two days, and one bottle that solved both.
I have a clear policy on homes and offices. I hate them both. But sometimes I get confused about what I hate more. Then I see my partner, and she sucks the will to live right out of my body. That’s when I know the answer.
Mary, my live-in partner, is a bitter person. For some strange reason she wants to marry me or throw me out of her home. Now when did living with someone for free for a decade, and showing no signs of ever marrying, become a crime? But let me assure you. I am not a bad person. I haven’t denied her proposal entirely. I just said nothing when she proposed to me again for the tenth time yesterday.
Mary got on her knees again before the entire restaurant and proposed. I stood there thinking what to do next, pinching my lips and moving them in all directions. After some time, she stomped out. I waited, then followed her.
As I knocked on the door, she opened it and said, “Either tell me your answer within two days, or you are out.”
She kept looking at me as if I would surrender and agree immediately. But thanks to my boss, I have learnt the art of stubbornness and ignorance.
“And what will you tell the landlord? Remember, he lent us the apartment on the condition that both of us stay here forever. If either of us leaves, he kicks the other one out,” I say.
Mary smiles. “I will tell him you cheated on me. Remember the exception clause in the agreement. If either one of us cheats, the other can kick that person out and stay alone.”
“But...” I stop as I realise she has the picture of me making out with the neighbour next door.
She could have thrown me out that very day. But man, she wanted to give me another chance. Thank goodness. I could have agreed to marry her right then just to keep the house. But her emotions got the better of her instead.
“Okay, but promise me you won’t throw me out before two days. I want it in writing.” I swallowed my fear as I pulled out a paper. I folded it twice, so only the bottom half showed, before I handed it to her. She signed it and threw it on my face. I put the paper in my left pocket.
Thank goodness she didn’t throw me out right away. Now I have two days to find a way out, or bring her to understand that we are better off without marriage, or sex, in the same house. How can marriage change that? We have been living like a married couple already. I mean, no sex and almost no talk, for as long as I can remember. She is such an evil person to not appreciate that, and to give me an ultimatum instead.
Thinking of evil, I hate my boss too. I was sleeping on my desk, without disturbing anyone, when my boss walked towards me. “You are the least performing salesman of the year,” my boss, John, said yesterday. “Either sell twice the products you sold all year in the next two days, or you are out of this office forever.”
“Okay, but promise me you won’t throw me out before two days. I want it in writing.” I swallowed my fear as I pulled out a paper and handed it to him. I folded this one the same way before I handed it over. He pulled the paper from my hands, scribbled his signature, and threw it in my face. I put the paper in my right pocket.
Isn’t he pure evil? I have sold four products in total for the entire year. So selling eight in two days is kind of impossible. But thankfully, he didn’t fire me. Else I would have to stay home all day with my evil partner until she lost it and threw me out before even the two days’ notice expired.
But now I have exactly two days to save my home, job, and sanity. I also have a plan. What if I try to convince my partner to buy eight products and test her love.
“You need to buy eight products from me?” I clear my throat as I stand behind her. She stops washing her utensils midway for a while, then resumes.
“Trust me, you will love washing the utensils more with this cleaner,” I say, placing the cleaner next to her and taking a step back. She looks at it and resumes her work.
After some awkward silence I ask her again. “So should I pack eight of these cleaners?”
She gasps and turns. “You want me to wash the utensils with this floor cleaner?” She throws the bottle at me, shaking her head. “That’s the reason you don’t sell any of these.”
I don’t understand the difference between soap meant for washing utensils and soap meant for washing the floor. It’s soap, for heaven’s sake. You won’t die if you use either one for any cleaning purpose.
“Do you want coffee instead? I will make it with my special ingredient. Maybe it will help you think better about a number of issues. Like marriage,” Mary says.
“Thank you, but I have a meeting with a client at a cafe. I’ll have coffee there.” I escape from what could have been an intimate encounter on the bed, something I am least interested in.
I know Mary quite well. But I have a clear policy on coffee. I just hate it. Not the cafe kind. The kind Mary makes, with what she calls her special ingredient, love. Now who wants that when you have caffeine to keep you awake, so you don’t fall for things like... you know... love.
But I love coffee shops and the bitter coffee they serve. The bitter coffee helped me get used to my partner’s bitterness. The cafes are my second home, actually, or my first, if you count the time I purposely waste there selling the worst products of my evil company.
People mistake cafes for places to hang out. How stupid are they? Where else can you find out more about what’s wrong with this world, especially the Gen Z generation?
For example, look at this guy sitting just before me, staring into his girlfriend’s eyes, his lips inching closer to hers, his hands in her hair. Perfect person to buy my products. The guy looks back to check if I am looking before he attempts to kiss his girlfriend. Of course I am looking! What else should I do all day besides hope someone asks about the products on my table?
He raises his eyebrows, as if to ask what I want. I shrug and raise mine toward the white dandruff on his black t-shirt. Certainly a gift from his girlfriend. He notices it, tries to rub the dandruff off his t-shirt, and looks at his girlfriend. The girlfriend looks offended, clenches her teeth, and walks away.
The guy stands but I interrupt. “Hey, take these. Gift them to your girlfriend.” I hand him eight bottles of the cleaner. “Ask her to wash her hair every day with this,” I say. “There won’t be any dandruff left.”
The guy scrunches his brows slowly as he reads the label. “Are you kidding me? There won’t be any hair left if she uses this.” He throws the bottle at me.
I don’t understand why people don’t want to solve their problems permanently. Wouldn’t it be easier on his girlfriend’s budget if she had no hair? She wouldn’t have to spend money on shampoo, oil, and expensive spa treatments. Such a careless guy, I tell you.
Anyway, both my plans have flopped. I try to sell my products to everyone I can get hold of in the cafe, but the owner interrupts and throws me out instead.
With one more day to go, I am literally out of options.
Every morning I wake up with new hopes of finding two right people. Someone who would let me stay in her house without the pressure of marriage. And someone who wouldn’t care if I don’t come to office, or sleep there, or with a colleague he can’t. But today I wake up with a plan in my head, something that would help me keep the house and the job.
I get ready and quickly get out of the house before Mary notices. I call a taxi and try to sell the cleaner to the driver, but get thrown out instead. I board a bus and try to sell it there. Same result. I have been telling people it’s a multi-purpose cleaner. But people want to spend money and get poorer instead.
Anyway, I reach my boss’s house, knock on the door, and leave a package before anyone finds me. It’s a gift bag. Eight bottles of the cleaner. A note tucked inside, the ink still fresh, signed with a name that isn’t mine.
I go to the post office next and send a courier too. Not really for Mary. For someone who is about to take a very personal interest in her husband’s whereabouts.
I go to the office and sleep on my desk. My boss notices me, but since this is probably my last day, I don’t care, as always.
“What’s the noise?” the colleague at the next desk asks, waking me from my slumber. I check the time, then the person yelling at my boss. She holds his collar and pulls him towards the door. Other men and women follow them and watch until they vanish into a car.
I pick up my belongings and leave for my house. As I enter the building, I hear noise coming from the third floor, where I live. I call for help and run up the stairs. I find my boss and his wife in a shouting match with Mary.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Who are you?” my boss’s wife asks, pointing her finger at me.
“He is my partner,” Mary says, loud enough to scare the shit out of me. Not because of her voice, but because of the way she claimed me.
“Do you know what’s even happening?” the boss’s wife says, raising her voice.
I check my watch, then the staircase. “What’s happening?”
The lady is about to explain, but I ask her to stop. The person I called arrives. “Hello, sir. Please come,” I say to my landlord.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
I ask my boss’s wife to explain. “This guy,” she says, pointing to her husband, “and this lady,” she points to Mary, “are having an affair.”
My landlord’s eyes widen. Mary and my boss both shake their heads.
“It’s not true. You know it, Ken,” Mary says.
“I know it’s true.” I hand the landlord the letter. He reads it, and his emotions shift from shock to anger. Mary takes the letter and reads it.
“What? This is nonsense.”
It isn’t nonsense. It’s blank space, filled in carefully, two nights ago.
“It’s a declaration that you love John, and that you want to live with him. That’s why you want me out of the house,” I say. I shake my head. “See? You even signed it.” I show the letter to my landlord.
“You are a dead man. So dead. This is the exact same paper you made me sign yesterday,” Mary says, walking towards me, clenching her hands. I hide behind the landlord, who stops her.
“Madam, do you have any other proof of the affair?” I look at the boss’s wife.
She picks up the gift bag from the floor and reads the note inside. “For your silky hair. Yours and only yours. John.” The boss’s wife grits her teeth as she points to the signed note from my boss. John tries to speak, but his wife kicks the gift bag, and the cleaner bottles spill their venom on the floor. All the liquid from the eight bottles now lies on the house floor, waiting to be cleaned.
I check my watch, hoping the second person I called turns up. Within minutes, the HR arrives, and I inform her of the situation.
My boss John knows sleeping with an employee’s partner is not tolerated in the office. He wants to explain that he hasn’t even met Mary before this day, but all the proof is against him.
The HR leaves, giving my boss a day to resign, and giving me sympathy plus a promised hike to keep my mouth shut.
The landlord leaves, giving Mary a day to move out, and giving me the house I wanted.
See, that’s why I always try to keep my anger in check. Else I’ll end up handing a signed blank paper to someone who could make me do things I don’t want to do. That’s why I have a clear policy on coffee. Always have it to keep your mind awake.
But if something wicked spills out of your mind, try to wipe it with the cleaner I left at my boss’s house. One cleaner, multiple purposes, you know.
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