The Dangers of Deep Cleaning

Early this morning, in Safeway, a woman approached me in the cleaning aisle. She leaned in as I was reaching for the Bon Ami and whispered, "You want to go with the Comet, she doesn't know shit."

'She' (the one who didn't know shit) was the store manager, who had just given me a grout-cleaning tutorial and suggested the Bon Ami.

I had noticed the woman who was unsatisfied by the manager's advice hovering while the tutorial was on, I had wrongly assumed she was trying to choose a toilet bowl cleaner. People like her don't choose toilet bowl cleaner, they know such things by instinct.

My instincts were telling me to run, but as I looked into the woman's steely eyes and saw her jaw set with resolve, I knew she'd only hunt me down. I consciously maintained eye contact as I bent over to grab the Comet, in case she sprang.

Once the Comet was in my basket, her demeanor passified and she gave me a little wink as she headed off down the aisle.

I remained in the aisle--shaken to my foundation obviously--trying to decide on the Manager's last piece of advice regarding grout cleaner: "You'll need some gloves."

She'd had some difficulty putting the grout cleaner into terms I could understand. Initially, she tried, "It's really harsh and nasty," but this explanation didn't seem to please her, "You'll need to open the windows otherwise it gets all in your eyes and throat and burns." She didn't like this either, as though burning wasn't convincing enough, or perhaps because she assumed that I, a member of the Generation Johnny Knoxville, enjoyed, and perhaps got paid, to burn my eyes and throat.

She almost gave up entirely, but launched one final salvo, "It's just really caust--really . . . hardcore." Her eyes brightened at this. She was visibly pleased. I nodded to let her know that I, 23-year-old, greasy-haired, vintage-clothed hipster, understood perfectly this 'hardcore'.

I finally decided against the gloves, deciding that the grout cleaner may very well be hardcore, but I--sister--am far hardercore.

I walked to the express lane with my head down, trying to digest the primal nature of this encounter. Big mistake. I was trying to decide who would have walked away and whom would have been dragged if those two had met on the sprawling veldt, when I heard the standard Safeway Checker greeting. I looked up. It was her, the manager.

I tried to order my items in such a way as to de-emphasize the Comet. I fooled no one.

She scanned it calmly and shot me a steely glare--identical to the one I'd received just minutes before--"do you have gloves at home?" Her emphasis on 'gloves' and 'home' mystically deepened my shame about the Comet.

"Yes ma'am, I do."

I walked as far as the automatic doors.

Then I ran.