The Cleaners Chronicles – A Flattery (May 2020)
Siiigh…
A sigh was about to escape, but I slammed the door shut on it before it could embarrass me.
The clothes the customer brought in—if you could still call them "clothes"—looked like something not even a street rat would bother sniffing. Honestly, if someone had dropped them on the road, people would’ve crossed the street just to avoid being in their line of sight.
They were in such a state that I briefly considered telling the customer to try his luck elsewhere. But I bit my tongue.
Work had been slower than a snail on vacation thanks to COVID-19, and if I could just stomach this one job, maybe—just maybe—I could earn enough for my wife to buy a new set of paints for her art. That thought alone got me examining the clothes more closely.
Filthy doesn’t even begin to cover it. These garments were like a battlefield of stains—every blotch and blot like a microscopic army of viruses having a full-blown pandemic of their own.
The customer was a Middle Eastern man I’d never seen before. My guess? He was observing Ramadan, that holiest of Islamic seasons, trying to start it off with some spiritual and… textile cleanliness.
Then came the kicker—he needed it all done by the next day.
Cue the blood pressure spike.
Still, with my wife’s paint dreams and the customer’s sacred intentions hovering over me like two tiny angels, I gave in. “OK,” I said. And so began the quest.
Washing these clothes wasn’t laundry—it was a trial of character. A true test of patience versus perspiration. My stain-removing skills? Rock-solid. My patience? Less so. Even I wouldn't place a bet on it.
But lo and behold, by some miracle (and chemical-grade detergent), I got those clothes to about 95% clean. Not perfect, but enough for a holy glow-up.
When the customer returned, he didn’t even check the clothes. Didn't so much as lift a sleeve. Why? Because I beat him to the punch.
“You Muslims,” I said, with my best respectful face, “have such admirable faith. Fasting all day through Ramadan, only eating after sunset—really, it’s impressive.”
Was it a genuine compliment? Absolutely. Was it also a well-placed, preemptive brown-nosing? Definitely.
You see, when I go to church on Christmas or Easter, I don’t even bother ironing my shirt. I just pick the cleanest comfy thing I can find. My spiritual wardrobe isn’t exactly devout.
But this man—he brought a pile of filthy rags to be washed, not because he had a party to attend, but because he wanted to enter the season clean—in soul and sleeve. I had to respect that.
So yes, I let out a flattering fart. A symbolic puff of admiration. Maybe it was more for me than for him—a reminder to strive for a little more reverence in my own way.
As he turned to leave, I sent him off with a blessing:
“May you have a meaningful and joyful holiday.”
And then, like a pansy blooming at dawn, a wide, warm smile spread across his face. He paused, reached for his wallet—and handed me a $10 tip.
Now tell me, isn’t that a pretty decent return… for just one little flattering fart?
Happy Ramadan to him. And to me, a happy morning too.
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