Nice Job

I'm perversely happy, giddy in a way, watching my kids gag and shriek as they clean out the inside of our garbage bins. We brought the hose up from the basement, heavy plastic bags and scrub brushes, Lysol and rubber gloves, all organized and ready on the stoop.

Trash and recycling bins on the streets of Brooklyn, abandoned for the entire summer, vulnerable to every Gen Zer with an empty iced coffee cup or bag of dog poop who strolls by, become a certain kind of humid, fetid melange of grossness that only a New Yorker can truly understand.

This is my job these days. Housework and refereeing my moody, long-limbed teenagers as they bitterly complain about the injustice of making their own boiled egg or having to feed the beagle. It seems there are always dishes to be put away or plumbers to be called. The piles of large sneakers and sweatshirts and scattered school supplies sometimes feel sentient, mocking in their persistence. “You think you can write?! You think you can carve a creative space for yourself, what, DAILY?! Ahahahah,” they cackle.

From the top step, I watch the boys argue about who will scrape the flattened shit bags off the bottom of the bin and who will hold the heavy plastic sack open for the other and think about The West Wing.

I just watched the tenth episode of the first season, In Excelsis Deo, before the kids woke up, before we had breakfast and started our dirty operation. Maybe I can write later, I suppose, after I torture them for a while more, when they are finally released into the joyous comfort of their individual glowing screens.

“Oh my god, I'm gonna puke,” Julian says, holding out the bag, turning his face away.
“Mom, this is so gross!!” Fernando moans as his torso disappears inside the giant bin.

“You can do it!” I say, sipping my second cup of coffee. It is heinous, I'll admit—the stench, the putrid liquid that drips onto my children's Crocs as they work. But I know how good it is for them. To be horrified by what they are sometimes called to do and to know they can do it.

I am still processing this episode's excellence, its radical poem of decency. This was a show I remember well, yet can't decide what to focus on; it was all so connected and perfect, filled to the brim with iconic moments.

It was Mrs. Landingham's boys and Toby’s vet. It was Leo saying, “We don't do these things,” and Donna's book from Josh. It was, for Pete's sake, CJ learning her code name was Flamingo, thus garnering Allison seven years of so many gifted flamingo mugs, throw pillows, shot glasses, and neon signs that she practically needed a separate trailer for her birds.

I remember the feeling, after filming one particular scene—when Donna tells Josh he needs to protect Leo (“I wasn't guilting you,” she says. “It was my regular face.”)—that we filmed so late it became early. After we wrapped, Brad and I stumbled out of the stage, our eyes adjusting to the light, while the grips and electricians, the painters and builders, walked in small clusters, heading in to start their day. We call it “Fraturday” in showbiz, and I never minded it. I loved the feeling of being a part of something larger, something so vital you had to stay up all night.

“Oh my god, Mom, no no no!!” Both boys lurch back, practically crawling like in a horror movie, away from the green recycling bin. I tell them to grow up, this is life, and saunter down to investigate. As I approach, I can barely stand the smell myself. There is something awful and rotting down there that needs to be removed and placed in the larger bag so we can hose out and Lysol the bin. There is no other way.

“Why don't we pay someone to do this?!” Julian cries, unironically. Inspired by his comment, I instruct him to get the hell over here to help me drag the heavy something from the bottom. We carefully reach inside, then retch and jump away in a frantic dance, screaming. We take a gulp of toxic air, then go back in and drag out what surely must be a severed head or twelve pounds of dead rats. We lift and swing the thing with a heavy thump into Fernando's open bag.

There is a palpable relief as we begin to hose out the bins and neatly replace the plastic liners. Lordy, we are nearly done. I tell them, “Go. Thank you, boys. You did great.” They don’t answer or turn around as they run into the house, sure I will call them back for another nasty chore.

But I have more to do, I always have more to do, especially at the start of a school year. I have an audition for a series that needs to be wrangled and taped and dinner that needs to be made. I have a world of school forms to be filled out, books to be ordered and giant sneakers to be purchased. I have the pharmacy and laundry and a do-list that only grows longer instead of shorter.

As I untangle the hose, I start to fantasize about the series I am auditioning for. I imagine new characters and new actors, how good it would feel to crack a scene—how nice it would be to go to work and get a break.

I walk to the spigot, adjust the cool water and begin to edge the leaves and gum wrappers toward the curb. I squeeze out a little Mrs. Meyers dish soap and intermittently spray, then scrub the dirty bluestone, forcing passersby to tiptoe through the spreading water. Absorbed in my work, I clean the cracks and crevices until everything gleams— until there are no good gigs or bad, no past to worship or future to worry over. There is only a mom on the wet sidewalk, facing her sparkling garbage bins, enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done.