Intro: This is A sad, dark story of ambition, redemption, a love betrayed, and the lives affected.
Read and enjoy…
***********
It started as a good deed. I swear. Makes you wonder sometimes.
My best friend Nick was on his honeymoon. Twenty eight years old, he was on his second marriage. In my opinion he hit the jackpot with this one. Alice was attractive, had a good job, and was an absolute sweetheart. Good for him. He deserved it after the first miserable go-around. At least that cheating bitch had moved away, and we didn’t have to be around her anymore.
I was responsible for watching over his house while he was gone. Not much to do, really, no pets to take care of, or plants to water. I had a key for emergencies, and I checked his mail. That was about it.
I knew that his new wife would be moving in with him upon their return, and letting go of her apartment. Nick’s place was a bachelor pad, and he wasn’t the cleanliest person in the world. I looked around, after emptying his mailbox and checking for any packages left on the front stoop. He’d made an effort to neaten it up, but it really could use a woman’s touch, and a thorough cleaning.
I knew just the people for the job. Intimately as it were.
My wife of six years, Brenda, had started a cleaning service a couple of years earlier. She was a real neatnik. Our home was always spic-and-span and I wasn’t complaining. Her friend Gail was similarly cleaning compulsive, and over some beers one evening they came up with the idea of starting their own service. I was happy to sit in on the discussion and add in my two cents where appropriate. I knew a little about starting your own business, since I’d done it twice. The second one stuck, and had been paying our way ever since.
The conversation had entered the realm of differentiation. How they could make their business stand out.
“So much of the commercial cleaning products are crap,” my wife argued, somewhat intelligently for the amount of alcohol she’d imbibed.
“Full of poisons, too,” Gail added. “I stopped using most of them. I’m using the Mrs. Meyers stuff almost exclusively now. It doesn’t even cost that much more.”
“Meyers? Have you tried the Seventh Generation cleaners? So much better,” Brenda argued.
They got into an argument over what the best natural and organic cleaners were. Shows how much I know. I’d never heard of any of them. Seventh Generation, Mrs. Meyers, castile soap, Trader Zen, Bon Ami, and homemade solutions with orange, vinegar and other stuff.
I sat back and kept my peace, content to watch them. Neither was hard on the eyes, and I figured as long as I didn’t cause trouble, I had a fair chance of getting lucky that night.
They eventually decided their gimmick was to use Eco-friendly cleaning materials, good for the environment, and all that hooey. I didn’t think much of the idea, but didn’t want to rain on their parade. I worked with them on the business basics, marketing, business plan, bank accounts, etc. I even funded the effort, and we agreed to use our vacation fund that year to give them a start.
Six months in they were getting down in the dumps. Their business was slow taking off, and I was pumping a little more money into it every month it seemed. Not a lot, but the ladies were almost working for free. Brenda seemed to be always tired, and in a bad mood most of the time. I was considering asking them to give up the business. It was rough on our marriage, a drain on our bank account, and didn’t seem to be going anywhere.
We were gathered together at our house, on a Sunday afternoon. Just the four of us, my wife and I, her partner Gail and her husband Ron. The conversation returned to the subject of their business, and the issue of differentiation. The ‘eco’ cleaners didn’t appear to be enough.
Ron started the conversation down the slippery slope. “If your customers saw how you cleaned our house, you know damn well they’d all be repeats.”
Gail blushed, and I raised my eyebrows in question.
“Panties alone is about the most conservative outfit she wears.”
“Ron!” Gail squealed.
Of course the visual that came to mind was not something I would share. Gail was pretty enough, kind of plain-pretty, but her body. Damn! Some serious attention grabbing tits, and a nice round ass. Little thicker around the waist than absolutely necessary, but I sure as hell wouldn’t have minded seeing her scrubbing the floor in just her panties.
“It’s true. Her birthday suit’s her favorite outfit.”
I grinned. “I know I’d pay a premium for a maid like that.” Stupid, I know in retrospect, but I blurted it out. “Remember that French maid outfit you surprised me with,” I reminded Brenda, heading off any grief.
She smiled. “Oh yeah. That got your motor running.”
Gail was taking the whole thing more seriously than I expected. “Maybe something like Hooters? Shorty shorts and a tied off ultra-tight t-shirt? Think that would have them ringing the phone off the hook?”
“Every red-blooded single male in the area,” I laughed.
“Most of the married ones, too. If they could get away with it,” Ron said.
Brenda was catching on. “You really think so? Would they pay extra for it?”
I looked over at her and Gail, who seemed to be seriously considering the idea. “You would do that?”
She shrugged. “No worse than going to the beach, really. Maybe a bikini top and tight shorts.”
Gail leaned forward eagerly. “We could give them choices. Sexy maid, lingerie, bikini. Different price points.”
“All your staff would do that?” Ron asked.
“Don’t know if all of them would, or if we’d even want them to. I imagine for the right price we could find plenty. Get a raise from $9. 00 an hour to $15. 00 and raise our prices by $10. 00. I know I could find the girls, the question is would it really work?”
A week later, after endless discussions they were determined to try. I wasn’t feeling 100% comfortable with the idea, and made sure that Brenda knew it.
“It’s just an outfit, Dave. We’ll make sure it’s very clear there’s no touching, no solicitation, nothing of that sort. I’ve looked it up. There are lots of companies doing something just like it. In most major metro areas. We’d be the only ones around here.”
“I’m still not sure I like all those guys ogling my wife,” I insisted.
She laughed, climbing in my lap and hugging me. “With the girls I’m lining up, I doubt they’ll be doing much looking at me. There’s a lot of young hard-bodies looking for work. Looks like we can pay them as much as $20 an hour and still make a nice profit. College girls, single moms, underpaid liberal art majors, there’s a lot of them out there.”
“Maybe the management should wear more conservative clothing. More professional.”