I’m a janitor. I have been doing this for over ten years and currently do it as a part-time gig, cleaning two offices twice and once a week, respectively.

The way janitorial contracts work in Finland is that the customer and the company offering cleaning make a contract, which includes a list of tasks and their frequency. It also includes things like whether toilet paper, trash bags, etc., are included in the contract or provided separately. This list is the framework of what I do during the hours allotted to my work.

I got the smaller of the two offices almost three years ago, with no list and a promise to get it to me “as soon as possible, as it’s not ready yet.” Fair. Understandable. Happens! I was given a vague description of what the client wanted and agreed to it at first. It had some quirks, like fluffing pillows, arranging chairs, and dusting decorative items in the bathrooms. I was under the assumption that this was all in the contract, and time had been allotted for it.

In the first half year, it became painfully obvious that all the things I was verbally told the client’s contract included were not possible in the hour and thirty minutes I was given to work. It was to a point where I quite sternly told my manager I would only do about half of the things. Fluffing pillows and dusting decorative items could not be more important than hoovering the full floor carpets or taking out trash. More than once in the two-plus years before “The Incident”, I would stay extra time to get at least the most vital things done.

I hated the office job, as it meant hard work for an hour and a half, not finishing in a manner I was happy with, and usually came with post-it notes left by the client lambasting me for not doing some small task, like dusting windowsills. I would literally hoover desks and windowsills to make sure I could save as much time as possible. It was madness.

There was so much more I could complain about, but I won’t, as there is way, way, way too much. I will concentrate on the poignant bits.

That being… “The Incident”, AKA what happened when my managers’ superior retired.

Let’s call her Lisa. My manager shall be Katrina. I had been discussing most of my issues with Lisa, as Katrina was never very active in solving problems, including, still, two-plus years in, not having that ever-so-important list. Lisa was painfully aware of my issues with this client and would call me about the newest complaint with an attitude of “I know this isn’t your fault, but I have to inform you. Rules, you know?” Which left me thinking she was an ally.

Lisa was not an ally.

When Lisa’s replacement took over, I found out that there was a list. Always had been. It was dated almost exactly on the day the contract started. The list was short. Much shorter than what Lisa had told me the tasks were. Almost comically short, in fact. Nothing about fluffing pillows. Nothing about bathroom decorative items or the bathroom carpets.

It was an amusingly simple, short, and to-the-point list, with no frills.

The new person also somehow suddenly found me more time to do my tasks. This whole time, I had been told by Lisa that the client refused to buy more time. Turns out our scheduling department could easily just appoint thirty more minutes of work time to the job.

This meant Lisa had been lying to me for almost three years. For three years, I had been treated like a servant by the office staff, going far beyond what the client had bought, while Lisa was just too lazy to do anything about it.

I taped the “new” list my new superior gave me to the janitorial closet door, so it could be seen by the customer and me anytime someone opened the door. I made sure to do nothing at all, not on the list, and have enjoyed my two-hour work time immensely. I get to leave on time, I don’t have to run to take out the trash, and I haven’t emptied a dishwasher in months, as it turns out that wasn’t my job either. Just like those pillows weren’t.

Don’t be like Lisa and always demand your work tasks on paper.

I opened a chimney sweeping business under the shortened version of my first name, which, when shortened, can easily be mistaken for a man’s name. A woman called me up and wanted a quote for cleaning her chimney. I give her the quote, and she’s not happy.

Caller: “That’s too expensive!”

Me: “Are you a senior citizen or have you served in the military?”

Caller: “I’m a senior citizen.”

So, I applied the senior discount and re-quoted the price. She still wasn’t happy.

Caller: “I’m going to call [Shortened version of my name] and have him fire you for trying to charge me so much!”

I invited her to give him a call and wished her a pleasant day.

I guess once you get to a certain generation, it’s too hard to wrap their mind around a woman owning such a dirty business. The witch with long hair flying on a broom past a chimney as my logo should have given her a clue, though.

I hope she enjoyed finding out my nearest competitor charged double what I did and had a six-month wait list.

At the end of 2023, I had to have my gallbladder removed in an emergency surgery. My job at the time was with a small cleaning company. My tasks included general cleaning, biohazard cleaning, reception, and physical work like climbing ladders, cleaning baseboards, and moving heavy equipment with no help.

The day after my surgery, I get a phone call from my boss.

Boss: “When are you coming back to work?”

Me: “I just had emergency surgery yesterday. I’ll need a few days to recover. I’ll let you know when I’m cleared.”

Boss: “If you’re not back by tomorrow, don’t bother coming back at all.”

So, 48 hours after emergency abdominal surgery to remove an organ, I was back at work.

The very next day he comes in, looks around, and starts yelling.

Boss: “This isn’t clean enough. You didn’t get high enough or low enough. Do you even want this job?”

Me: “You know I just had surgery. I physically can’t lift my arms that high to balance on a ladder, and I can’t get on the floor or move heavy equipment yet.”

Boss: “My wife had her gallbladder removed and she was back to work the same day!”

Fast forward to the next company party, about a month later. His wife comes over to me, all friendly.

Boss’s Wife: “How are you feeling?”

Me: “Honestly, I don’t know how you managed to come back to work the same day after gallbladder surgery. That’s amazing.”

Boss’s Wife: *Looking confused.* “I’ve never had that surgery… And if I did, there’s no way I’d be back in less than two weeks.”

And just like that, everything clicked. I quit right after that conversation.

Two months later, they called me asking if I’d come back.

Boss: “We could really use you again.”

Me: “Sure. Raise my pay from $15 to $20 an hour.”

Boss: “…”

Me: “That’s what I thought.”

I work as a cleaning “lady”. (I am a dude.) I had to clean for this nice old lady who did the best she could to explain what she wanted me to clean.

I was knee-deep in business when her daughter stepped into the home. Already off the bat, she was screaming at her dog to follow her inside. I thought nothing of it, and it was only a few minutes later that I struck a conversation with [Daughter] to ask if everything was in order before I cleaned for four hours.

She went on with deep attention to the fact that I should clean the floor with a very dry cloth cause it would damage the floor if I wetted it too much.

I told her I understood and began cleaning the upstairs first since the downstairs was only something simple, like only cleaning the floor and nothing else.

I got started ventilating, dusting, cleaning various rooms, and lastly cleaning the floor with “deadly” precision to ensure that nothing happened to the quality of the floor.

Two hours in, [Daughter] SMASHED the door open.

Daughter: “The downstairs still exists, you know.”

Before I could get a word out she cuts me off and asks if I spoke English, which she was horrible at. (We were speaking Dutch perfectly before.)

Daughter: “Two hours isn’t a lot, you know. You barely have any time left.”

She then proceeded to rant and “teach” me how to properly do the job by grabbing the cloth out of my hands and “demonstrating”.

By the time she smushed the cloth into the floor, I could already see that she had wetted the cloth too much.

Daughter: “Come on! I do this eeeeevery day, see? It’s easy! Just like this, eh?”

She said this in the most racist, slow-talking Dutch ever.

The entire time she was doing this, I was telling her that I already knew how to clean a floor and that I was just following her instructions to be extra careful.

Luckily, she marched off as if she had solved world hunger, and I could get back to work. I was already so close to finishing the work upstairs that I proceed downstairs in just ten minutes.

I vacuumed the floor and later cleaned it “the way she wanted”, just with a much drier cloth. After the wood was cleaned I could start using cleaning product again on the stone tiles.

I bypassed her at some point, and she took half a glance into the bucket.

Daughter: “There isn’t enough water in your bucket!”

Mind you, I measure my products and even them out with water to make sure I actually clean your floor and not destroy your water bill. Not to mention that the bucket had two liters in it for a medium-sized cloth for cleaning.

When I finished the entirety of the orders given to me, there was a solid forty-five minutes of nearly nothing to do, even with extra attention to detail such as the very dusty tops of shelves and closets. So, up yours, [Daughter]. You didn’t ask me to do those, and I saved you a bunch of lung problems for you and your mom.

Oh, boy, I was glad it was over, but God said, “F*** you,” and punctured the back wheel of my bike. I had to walk forty-five minutes home.

I work in a call center of sorts for a large local business in Hawaii. My department handles internal calls for the most part, so employees at our various locations will call if they need assistance with their security systems. Occasionally, we also deal with vendors arriving after hours, such as cleaners and delivery personnel.

One night, I get a call from one of the janitorial contractors.

Janitor: “Hello? I cannot get into the door.”

Me: “The door? You are referring to the front door that enters the lobby?”

Janitor: “Yes.”

Me: “Okay, what location?”

The janitor gives me the location, and I look at what I have on my side. Once I verify his identity against the list of authorized individuals, I speak to him again. 

Me: “So, you are having trouble with the front door that enters the location from the street?”

Janitor: “Yes.”

Me: “Do you have your keys?”

Janitor: “Yes.”

Me: “Okay, and the key won’t let you into the location?”

Janitor: “Yes.”

I run through my emails. The bad part is that it is a Friday before a long weekend, so if the janitor can’t get into the location, the trash from the business day will be sitting until Tuesday.

I ask my shift partner to reach out to the manager and see if they have, for some reason, changed their locks without telling us. 

Me: “Hold on, we’re contacting the management. Are you outside right now?”

Janitor: “Yes.”

Finally, I find a notation in my email about a keypad door lock that has been replaced inside the location, between the main lobby and the employee area, though this is a door from an internal space to an internal space. 

Me: “Just to clarify, you can’t get into the front door of the location, as in the door from the sidewalk outside into the interior lobby?”

Janitor: “Yes.”

Me: “You are outside.”

Janitor: “Yes.”

Coworker: “Hey, they say they never changed the lock for outside. They only got one new lock on the inside for the kitchen and that.”

Me: “Are you looking at a keyhole in a door or a keypad with numbers?”

Janitor: “Yes, it has numbers, keypad, I cannot get into the kitchen to clean.”

There was a solid beat. 

Me: “So, you are inside the location and can’t get into the back?”

Janitor: “Yes.”

Me: “So, you aren’t outside?”

Janitor: “Yes.”

Me: “So, you were able to get into the front door when you arrived, from the sidewalk to the lobby.”

Janitor: “Yes.”

Me: “Just… just… clean where you can, and we’ll get you a new code for the keypad on Tuesday.”

Janitor: “Okay! I do thank you, boss!”

The line dies. 

Coworker: “Are you okay?”

Me: “Yes.”