Page 1 of The Naked Cleaner

Chapter One

Pontus

It’s always been a thing, the gag joke gifts my so-called friends present me with on Valentine’s Day. Not that people care much about Valentine’s Day in Denmark these days, but at one point in time, all my friends were single, stupid and desperate. Desperate enough that this idea was born of gifting each other ridiculous things to make us feel better about being losers. Single, pathetic losers. Now I’m the only one left who is single, and a loser, and totally desperate if you believe my friends, all of them being all grown up and sensible and mature and… adult. I hate that word.

I feel like everyone else has just grown up around me, yet I still sit here like an imposter adult in my tiny flat, decomposing like some sun-starved zombie.

I need to get out more.

I need to get a life.

They all tell me, and to be honest I agree. It’s just when the choice comes up between spending the evening under a big cosy smelly blanket, wearing those flannelette pyjama bottoms I currently tend to live in, eating junk food out of cardboard boxes and occasionally sniffing my own armpits to realise I should probably shower and change my clothes? Then there is that other option. Going out and meeting other human beings and engaging in socialisation, conversation and mutual masturbation.

I’m a slob. A fairly successful slob, running my own freelance company that allows me to conduct my entire working life from my surprisingly tidy desk, so that I never actually have to leave home. I get my food shopping delivered. Anything else I need I can easily buy online, and again, some poor soul will turn up on my doorstep with parcels and make my life supremely easy. Comfortable. Lonely.

I’m not really lonely, because I sit in on several customer meetings every week, meetings where I actually put a nice shirt and tie on, to sit in front of my webcam, sometimes even bothering to brush my unruly mop of hair into a messy manbun.Haircuts are a thing, my friend Jonas will sigh when he pops around to make sure that I haven’t succumbed to starvation or electrocuted myself on one of the many wires that crisscross the messy floor.

Slob. That’s what Jonas calls me. Over and over. All I can do is agree with him.

So, it didn’t surprise me when the boys looked like they were ready to burst on Friday night when I had actually showered and dressed and ventured outside my own four walls down to the Mexican bar on the corner. The boys had laughed, their faces far too smug for my anxiety demons not to wonder what the hell they had been playing at.

I still don’t truly get it. Apart from that the envelope they had proudly presented me with was pink, and the card inside said, ‘For my true Valentine,’ in swirly writing, signed by all the lads. The voucher attached was for four weekly house cleans. Two hours each time, covering a complete deep clean of all areas of my one-bedroom apartment.

It is a ridiculous gift. But then, so have the gifts been the previous years. An evening class in knitting for beginners. Speed-dating vouchers. Live nude painting.

I had thanked them all politely, enduring their catcalling and teasing with suitable grace whilst doing an inner eyeroll over the adultness of it all. Cleaner. My grandparents used to have a cleaner. Posh housewives in Frederiksberg have cleaners. I definitely don’t need a cleaner, and despite the mess I kind of acknowledge to myself that I do live in, what would a cleaner do about it? Apart from probably unplug one of my many essential leads and mess up my systems and my screen setup would be askew and smudged, and it would all be a flipping mess. It was bad enough when Jonas once did my dishes and I couldn’t find my favourite coffee mug for about a week. That was a bad week and I gave JonasALLthe blame for the shit that went wrong that week. All of it.

Well that was last Friday, and I should really have come up with something to retaliate with by now. Book the guys stupid Pizza deliveries on Valentine’s Day to stir up some shit with their frankly, very understanding wives and girlfriends. They buy me stupid gifts for Valentine’s Day? I should at least be allowed to spend the rest of the year pranking them.

It’s just, I am too tired right now. Too tired to even care. I should go and get something to eat. Perhaps have a nap. Stop my head churning over for a little while.

Instead I am sitting here staring at the email that has just appeared in my inbox.

TO:[email protected]

FROM:[email protected]

DATE:14 February 2020

RE: Confirmation of your initial cleaning appointment

Dear Pontus,

Thank you for entrusting us with your weekly clean and we very much look forward to brightening up your living space this afternoon. Our cleaner will be with you at 2.30 for a 2-hour initial clean. Please do not worry about the tidiness of your home, it is our job to ensure that your abode will look its best using our own locally sourced, organic, environmentally friendly cleaning solutions.

I sigh loudly, almost making myself jerk with fear at the sound of my own breathing through the silence around me. I should put some music on. I should change my clothes. I should lock my bloody front door and pretend to be dead. Invisible at least.

It’s bloody Valentine’s Day, and of course the boys have booked my delightful cleaning appointment on the very day. Yup. They had laughed in my face and told me that at least I could get on Grindr and get myself hooked up, because my flat would be sparkling clean. Wow. Thanks.

No thanks. They are idiots. They are all bleedin’ idiots.

I decide that I won’t open the bloody door. And to be honest I had forgotten all about the boys’ totally inappropriate gift until this damn email popped up with a cheery pling and now it will go on to totally ruin my day. It’s a normal business day for fuck’s sake, and I have things to do. Work to finish off. Naps. Stuff to watch on TV. Navel-gazing. A few beers. Sleep.

We are a professional company catering mostly to the elderly members of CNS, and welcome new clients that have been referred to us by the CNS and its members. All our cleaners are trained professionals and hold current Police criminal record certificates. You may ask your cleaner to show their ID and credentials on arrival.

Blah Blah Blah. I couldn’t care less. I look down at myself, the white shirt I carefully donned for this afternoon’s meetings buttoned up under my chin, the blue tie, theonlytie I own, fastened neatly around my neck. The clothes I am wearing then beautifully accessorised by my naked hairy legs, and a pair of fluffy unicorn slippers that was once part of another totally inappropriate Valentine’s Day gift, from years ago when we were all still at school. They must be over ten years old, but I like them. They’re comfortable, Okay? And somehow, they remind me that I was once someone else. Someone who had a life, apart from working and eating and sleeping.

My screen once again comes to life in front of me, signalling another video call, and I let myself get lost in my professional persona again, sitting up a little straighter and plastering another fake smile on my face before, once again, losing track of time.

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