A Day in Paradise

The stench was aggressive. It drove us back to the safety of the truck, eyes watering and gasping for air. We prepared for the second assault with face masks and gloves, but the maggot-infested nappies on the kitchen bench forced us to retreat. There we were in Paradise.

Young, naïve and keen to make a buck, we had jumped at the opportunity to ‘clean’ a house for $25 an hour. The house was in Paradise, a small picturesque village off the Mt Baker Highway in North West Washington. The drive to Paradise was stunning. The road wound through undulating farmland before plunging into a dim tunnel of tall pine trees that cloaked the road in permanent shadows. Occasionally the canopy would open to reveal a thawing Mt Baker basking in spring sunshine.

If the inflated pay rate didn’t warn us that it wasn’t a conventional cleaning job, then the state of Shaun, the other mercenary for the day, should have sent us scampering. Shaun’s perfume of booze and body odor was enough to make the wild flowers wilt. He was proud to admit to being a full blown alcoholic and a former drug addict. “I’m off the hard shit now though,” he had said reassuringly.

Squatters had lived in the house we were cleaning for the past year. They were not exactly perfect tenants, living in one room and using the next as a rubbish bin. Our mission was simple: empty the house completely, rip out the carpet and paint the floor to mask the smell. Even though Shaun's personal hygiene levels were less than that of a neanderthal man, he was a good worker and his antics were highly entertaining. At one point we were chased out of the house as he ran at us, waving a sex toy in front of him pretending to be Darth Vadar with his light saber.

Cleaning up that sty wasn’t the America we’d dreamt of, but it made America the America we’d dreamt of; it funded our endeavours, it took us to one of its most beautiful corners and it taught us a lesson in personal hygiene. I’ll never forget our day in Paradise.