6. Substitute Standards
By Gordy Fluffer — Because not all views are created equal.
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It started with a warning.
At the end of Hose & Garden, Rafael had packed up his gloves, spritzed the air with lemon basil, and paused just long enough to tilt the world off its axis.
Rafael (calmly):
“Next week, I won’t be in. A colleague will handle your visit.”
He hadn’t smiled.
He hadn’t winked.
He just said it like it didn’t matter.
But Harold and Glenn knew better.
---
They spent the whole week preparing.
Harold polished the recliner arms. Glenn made herbal tea with the kind of quiet dread usually reserved for incoming in-laws. They fluffed pillows. They dusted for him. Just in case the substitute needed guidance.
Harold:
“She might be fine.”
Glenn:
“She might wear pants.”
---
She arrived at 2:00 p.m. sharp.
Marina.
No clipboard. No small talk. Just precision.
Her apron was black. Functional. Bleach-resistant.
Her gloves were already on.
She didn’t knock—she entered.
She moved like a Roomba with a vendetta.
Before either man could blink, she’d already vacuumed the hallway, disinfected the doorknobs, and corrected the alignment of the rug in the entryway.
Glenn (whispering):
“She didn’t even look at the recliners.”
Harold:
“She made eye contact with the toilet brush. That’s it.”
---
She was in and out in eleven minutes.
The house was perfect. Not just clean—sterilized.
No smudges. No gentle lemon scent. No hum.
The emotional dust had been vacuumed along with everything else.
She left behind a single note on the kitchen counter:
“Done. Windows too.”
And just like that, she was gone.
---
Harold and Glenn sat in the silence of the now-sparkling house like survivors of a very polite tornado.
Harold:
“I feel… disinfected.”
Glenn:
“I feel nothing.”
Harold:
“Exactly.”
They sat. Reclined. Unclenched.
Then Glenn stood. Wandered into the kitchen. Stared at the tea drawer for a long moment.
Glenn:
“She didn’t even open the tea.”
Harold:
“She probably alphabetized the canned beans.”
Glenn:
“Rafael let the beans speak for themselves.”
---
They started to remember.
The soft ka-chunk of the label gun.
The fitted sheet stretch.
The way he shook coriander with intent.
The smush against the window glass.
The whispered: “Not everything in your pantry should be revealed without proper context.”
Harold rubbed the bridge of his nose like the memories were too bright.
Glenn:
“She didn’t even bend.”
Harold:
“She hovered.”
Glenn:
“I need to… reset.”
He stood.
Harold:
“You going to the shower?”
Glenn:
“I don’t need a reason.”
He paused in the doorway.
Glenn:
“If you want the good towel, you’d better hurry.”
Harold didn’t answer right away.
But he followed.
---
End.