Chapter 48.5: The Housekeepers’ War, Part III
Atlanta, Part I
Rose’s POV
I’ve been waiting at Miami International for 20 minutes. This is unacceptable. I’ve called the Miami office twice since landing and been told that my escort is on his way. My husband, Chris, is quietly furious on the phone. Finally, I walk out the building and run directly into a familiar face.
“You’re a RangeMan, aren’t you?”
He nods. “I’m Armando, the XO. I was just informed you were here and since I was close by, I swung by. I’m sorry that your escort hasn’t arrived, and I apologize for that. Can I take your bags?”
I look at him suspiciously. That sounds like bullshit to me, but I hand him the bags. He escorts me to the waiting SUV and tucks my bag in the back. He climbs into the driver’s seat before he realizes that I’m still waiting outside.
I’m a lady. I don’t open my own doors.
He reddens and quickly comes around to open my door. “Sorry. That was rude of me.” I simply nod and climb in.
As we pull off, another large black SUV pulls up and honks. Armando looks in the rearview and grimaces.
“Better me than him.” I look over and he looks at me. “Your escort just arrived. The head of bodyguard services.” Ah, the infamous Antonio. I can’t wait to meet him.
Armando clears the airport and exhales. He looks over at me. “Well, welcome to Miami, Mrs. Taylor. Let me tell you about the office and the men.” He gives me a quick rundown of the office, and I notice that the light on the dash is blinking. I nod at it and he nods. He’s aware someone is listening.
“So, I think that covers everything. Any questions I can answer for you?”
“No, I think I have it covered, but I do need to know if grocery procedures here are the same as Atlanta.”
He blinks. “Grocery procedures?”
I shrug. “Who is my escort when I go shopping, how many men usually volunteer, etc. You don’t have grocery procedures?”
He shakes his head, confused. “No, we don’t.”
Oh, po’ little tink tink. Ya’ll gon’ be fucked up messin’ with me.
I’ve reviewed the pantry and Maria’s standard meals, and I’m astonished. These men are idiots and there’s no way I’m cooking this stuff, but I decide to play along and see if they would try to run the same game on me that they tried on Ella.
They try. I turn it around on them.
“Hello! I’m Antonio and welcome to RangeMan Miami.”
“Hello. I’m Rose Taylor.”
It’s a welcoming committee of five men and they all smile cautiously at me. “Well, Mrs. Taylor, we’re thrilled to have you here in house at RangeMan Miami for . . . how long are you here?”
Emotionless stare.
They look at each other. “OK,” Antonio says slowly, “are you also on vacation?”
Emotionless stare. Why I’m here is none of your business, young man. You delayed picking me up at the airport so you’re already on my shit list. Don’t make your situation worse.
Antonio looks as if he might want to try to make this a competition, but he soon comes to his senses. “Well, uh, great. We can’t wait to see what culinary delights you have in store for us. We thought we’d give you a list of our dietary requirements and the standard meal plans here, if you think it would be helpful, but it’s entirely up to you. Also, we have lists of our favorite meals and snacks and what we require of Maria.”
This little exchange didn’t go so well with Ella so they’re being very careful. They’re also very tense, which amuses me. I smile at them and they relax. “I’ve spoken to Ella and Maria, but I’ll take a look at your suggestions. Mind you, I’m going to treat them as suggestions. Now, what are the grocery procedures?”
Antonio raised an eyebrow. “The what?” I repeat the question. “Unneeded and unnecessary here.”
I blink. Well, if that isn’t a ‘Fuck You’. “OK. Do you have any questions for me?” They shake their heads, smiling. Fools. “Well, I’ll get started.”
“We appreciate that. Thank you.” He motions to the other men and they all walk out the kitchen.
I review the lists and laugh. They’ve presented me with full menus, day by day, with all snacks and treats. Not happening, men, not happening.
Then I get a brainwave and smile.
OK. I’ll give you exactly what you asked for.
Day one. Hmm … the boys wanted huevos rancheros and orange juice for breakfast. OK. Calorie count? About 600-750 because none of them has a sense of portion size.
OK.
I put out breakfast. A tomato salsa, Egg Beaters, and water. Calorie count? About 150-200. Nothing fried, no tortillas, no coffee.
They ate the hell out of it. Good. Step into the trap, boys. Lunch followed the same pattern. I took their requests, modified them to something healthy, and smiled at the praise.
Day Three? I sat a tray of modified papas rellenas out. The retching and complaints were amusing and I’m just getting started. By day five they’re furious and glaring at me. I wonder how long it will take them to confront me.
No need to wonder. Day five at lunch, I get a visitor to the prep area. I’m ready for him.
“Mrs. Taylor?”
I turned around. Antonio. Just who I wanted to see.
“Yes, Antonio?” I can see he’s choosing his words carefully and I’m trying not to smile.
“Well, I’m here on behalf of the men and their concerns.”
Armando walks into the room in the middle of that sentence. He stops, rolls his eyes, shakes his head and chuckles. He grabs a banana and yogurt and walks out quickly.
I smile. “I’m listening.”
“Well, we really appreciate the effort that you’re putting into the meals here, but I’m afraid it’s not quite meeting standards.”
“Oh? Do tell.” I’m amused and take a seat. “I’ve been careful to ensure everything’s well within standards, but please, tell me where I’m failing.”
He smells a trap but he doesn’t know where it is. We’re joined by the ‘committee’. Ignacio, Pedro, Juan, and Braulio. I can see Mario and Deuce watching carefully from the doorway.
“Well, take these papas rellenas for example.” He picks one up and it falls apart in his hand . . . I might have undercooked this particular batch. “Well, this is still soft, so it wasn’t fried long enough. Yesterday they were overcooked. The empanadas have a funny aftertaste.” He shrugs. “It’s just off.”
I smile and motion for him to take a seat. He remains standing, towering over me. I’m not afraid or intimidated. I merely cross my legs and tap my pen.
“And do you know why all of it is off?” He looks at me suspiciously. “Because I’ve been cooking all of it in vegetable oil. The papas rellenas are fried in vegetable oil and they are not my cuisine,” I give a one-shoulder shrug “so it’s hard to judge when they’re done. You men presented me with a list of meals you wanted. Since you chose to attempt to dictate to me what I should serve, I decided to try to make all of you happy by cooking lighter versions of those dishes instead of cooking the meals I excel in.”
All smiles drop. They see the trap now.
“So, I’ve made some changes. The papas rellenas contain turkey and they’re wrapped in mashed cauliflower. Quite difficult to deep fry mashed cauliflower, so it’s a balancing act.”
Eyes are widening.
“I tossed all the lard I saw and bought Crisco to make the empanada pastry. Crisco is a lot of things, but it ain’t lard. The shrimp skewers I wanted to make, well, since you find grocery procedures unneeded and unnecessary, the shrimp went bad in the back of the car in this heat.”
Lots of throat clearing and hard swallowing. Hehehe. The looks of disgust on their faces when I returned with 15 pounds of bad seafood in the back of the car were just priceless. I simply smiled, handed them the keys and reminded them the car needed to be cleaned thoroughly before I did another grocery run.
“That’s why the men have a car to detail. In short, I’m trying to give you exactly what you asked for and, since I purchased the food to meet your requests, I don’t intend to change course now. You men can enjoy it.”
I stand and smile indulgently at them. “By the way, Ignacio?” He looks at me. “I don’t do laundry. If you’d had the courtesy to ask me about my laundry procedure, you’d know that. You’ll never ask me again, I promise you.”
Ella’s POV
I’m dying of laughter. Luis is clutching his chest in tears. Chris, Rose’s husband, hasn’t stopped laughing yet. Rose is a stitch.
“Honey, they are begging me to cook what I want, do you hear me? Begging!”
“Coliflor rellenas,” I gasp, laughing.
“Whatever you call them, they’re in tears. They can’t eat it so now they have to eat the yogurt and fruit, except I haven’t been buying enough. Of course, when I’m asked, I point out that I’m buying based on historical amounts in this office. Rock meet hard place.”
I’m mean. Rose is vindictive. She’s ruining their favorite meals on purpose in her attempts to ‘lighten’ them.
“Do you know one of them had the nerve to come in the kitchen today and try to teach me how to fry?”
“NO!” I gasp. “How did that go over?”
“Like a Nazi at a Black Muslim meeting, I’m sure,” Chris says. Chris knows his wife very well. Rose can fry anything she’s given, no matter what.
Luis walks out and returns with two Tylenol and a glass of water for me. I should have sent Rose first. She’s conducting psychological warfare.
“I looked that child in his eyes, thanked him for his assistance, and took off to the grocery store. By dinner time I had my preferred meal going. Baked chicken with brown rice, edamame succotash, iced tea, and a light cheesecake. So of course, they come in sniffin’, trying to find the goodie, and I run ’em all out the kitchen. I served that meal to Armando, Shane and Thomas and cleaned up the kitchen. Left them with something called Boliche—”
“NO! You did not ruin a Boliche?” Luis says, astonished. That’s hilarious.
“Oh yes sir, I did. Turkey kielbasa, ‘forgot’ the olives and used half the normal amount of garlic, wrapped it in a pork loin, nothing on that dish was right.”
I can imagine. It sounds horrid. But if you were going to lighten the dish, that’s going about it the right way. Well, if you know nothing about Cuban cuisine. “Boliche is made with beef.”
“Whoops. Damn shame I’m not Cuban. If they want Cuban food, don’t ask the black woman to cook it.”
Luis is rolling on the floor in laughter. I’m massaging the back of my neck. Oh god, this is hilarious.
“I think that by the time I’m done, they won’t mess with Lucia.”
“Shame. Lucia is looking forward to it. By the way, where are you?”
“The beach. I remembered what you said about the apartment being bugged so I don’t do anything there except sleep and watch TV. Otherwise I’m out and about. OH! I didn’t tell you that Ignacio tried to drop off a load of laundry, did I?”
“Lord help,” Chris mutters. “Do they know you don’t do my laundry? Or Atlanta’s”
“They won’t ask me again.”
I’m wiping tears from my eyes. “Why?”
“Damn shame I mixed up the regular bleach with the color safe stuff. Not clearly labeled, you know. All his boxers are very interesting colors now.”
I have a headache from laughing. “Maria is very careful to label correctly.”
“I’m sure she is, but since they treat RangeMan like a Laundromat, they’d replaced the bleach but not labeled it correctly.”
I shake my head. I wish I’d taped this call.
“Only Armando, Shane and Thomas are coming out of this clean. They’ve been respectful. Everyone else, well, crapshoot. Some of the men are getting the point, but they’re lumped in with the bad, so that’s that.”
“No, that’s perfect. I don’t expect every man to let go of his sexism overnight, but the ones who straighten up need to have the courage to call out the men who are still disrespectful. Until they all straighten up, they all suffer.”
“You know what’s been the most eye opening part of this entire experience?” Rose says, a little quietly and seriously. We all calm down.
“What?”
“The fact that at no point did those men ever give me the courtesy of asking me about my standard procedures. They never asked about my laundry procedures and they ignored the grocery procedures question. They simply took it for granted that I would do exactly as they pleased.”
Rose’s POV
“Ms. Rose?” Armando. He’s been enjoying this, and I’ve actually enjoyed working with him. He’s polite and respectful and helpful. It’s clear that the attitude of the men pisses him off, and he’s quick to ignore all complaints, telling the men that the housekeeper knows the dietary restrictions and requirements best. He’s in no position to challenge me in the kitchen.
“Yes, Armando?”
“The men would like you to attend our staff meeting, if you don’t mind.”
I grin. “Of course not. Delighted to do so.”
We walk to the conference room and I take Maria’s seat at the end of the table. My seat in Atlanta is next to the liaison. I place my memo pad in front of me and watch everyone else file in. Once everyone is seated, we begin the meeting. It’s routine until we get to my report. I report that there have been no real changes in the housekeeper’s routine and no building maintenance upcoming. I see rolled eyes during my report.
“Any questions?” Armando says, hiding a smile.
“Yes, I have a question,” Juan says coldly. He turns to me. “Rose—”
“Ms. Rose.”
He stares at me, but I merely stare back. “If you gave me a reason to respect you, I might give you the title.”
“Mats. 1700. One hour,” Armando says, seething. I hold up a hand to Armando, who nods, jaw clenched, then turn back to Juan.
“Fine. If you want to play that game, what is your question, Jackass?” There’s an audible intake of breath at the table. Juan looks stunned. “What? I’m not Maria. I made it clear that I’m to be referred to a Mrs. Taylor or Ms. Rose. I am your housekeeper and due the respect of the position. I will cuss your dumb ass out any time, any place, but I’ll do that offline, outside the building. If you can’t give me the respect I deserve inside this building, I can certainly match you tit for tat.”
There’s silence in the room.
“Keep it up. You don’t want to see my non-preferred personality. She’s a bitch,” I smile and sit back. “Inside this building, I’m calm and professional. I do my job and do it well, and if the next words outta your mouth were going to be telling me how to do my job, you better show me your degrees and years of experience first. Otherwise, keep your trap closed.”
“Fine,” Juan says coldly. “Let’s start discussing the things that don’t require a degree or years of experience. The floors haven’t been mopped. The windows haven’t been cleaned. The—”
“Not my job,” I state. Every eye widens. “My instructions from Ella were to come here and do my normal duties for two weeks. Not Maria’s. I don’t do floors in Atlanta. I don’t do windows. I largely don’t do housework. That’s Joe’s duty and he does it well. I don’t do laundry, as Ignacio well knows.” I turn and incline my head at Ignacio, who looks furious. “This, gentlemen, is your fault. You never asked me about my routines. You simply attempted to dictate to me what I should feed you. So I’m feeding you lightened versions of that cuisine. Isn’t that right, Antonio?”
Stony silence.
“You’re getting exactly what you asked for. Lightened cuisine and nothing more because you didn’t respect me enough to treat me as an equal.” I stare at each one. Mando’s hiding a smile. “I’m no one’s maid. And if you keep it up, you’ll find yourselves in a world of hurt.”
I didn’t expect to get away with this for long. I figured five days. Maybe a week. I would cook my normal cuisine the last three days, so they could see what they could have had, if they’d kept their mouths shut.
Day Nine saw me in the prep area, trying to determine how to ruin a ham croquette, when I heard the door close. Ah, Mario, head of Bonds Enforcement here. He’s not so bad, and I can tell he’s getting irritated with Antonio and Ignacio.
“Ms. Rose?” He waits, standing. Humph. Momma may have raised this one right. I motion for him to sit and close the binder.
“How can I help you, Mario?”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m not here on behalf of anyone besides me and my stomach. I want to know what it will take to get the cuisine we’re used to.”
I look at him coolly. He’s nervous but determined.
“What did Ella tell you?” His shoulders slump. “Exactly. The cuisine around here is changing to the standard RangeMan diet.”
“Then what’s this been about? You ruining all our favorite foods?”
“Mario, what’s your background?”
He looks confused. “I’m a former Army specialist. Infantry.”
“Skilled at running, shooting, finding men?” He nods. “Have I attempted, in any way, to tell you how to do your job?” Head shake. “Then why did Miami feel it necessary to attempt to dictate to me how to do my job?”
He’s quiet.
“What do you know of my background? Nothing? Well, my background is in food service. I spent years as the head of special events for a major hotel in Atlanta. I spent years juggling hundreds of different dietary needs, ensuring quality and freshness. That’s why I have the Atlanta branch. In one branch you have vegetarians, vegans, one man with celiac disease, and six with food allergies. Some can’t eat shellfish and others can’t eat tomatoes. Three have diabetes and 12 are lactose intolerant or sensitive.” I sit back and stare coldly. “I juggle all that on a daily basis, and I’ve never once had a complaint about my food.”
“Sounds like hell,” he says with a small smile.
I laugh. “Baby, sometimes I wanna cuss ’em out, but I respect their situations and feelings. For some, the dietary restrictions are religious or moral. For others, the doctors have determined they have a problem. In any case, it’s not my job to try to change their minds or disrespect them. I merely accommodate. That’s also the reason I don’t have housework in Atlanta. Juggling that many dietary needs is a full-time job. I don’t have time to do anything else.”
He nods. I can see he’s thinking about this.
“I’m ruining your favorite dishes because I’m showing you what it would taste like if Ella allowed Maria to serve this cuisine but forced her to modify it to RangeMan standards. Everything I’ve served you has been within the standards. Not enjoyable, is it?”
He grimaces and shakes his head. “Disgusting, more like.”
I laugh. “So, you tell me, you want this on an everyday basis? Or you wanna try the normal diet?”
He blinks and smiles. “I’d like to see what the normal diet tastes like.”
I nod. “I plan to cook it. Everything I normally cook in Atlanta. Trouble is I heard you men lost your housekeeper?” His jaw clenches. “Umm hmm. We know. Here’s what you need to know.” I look him dead in the eyes, completely serious. “If you men want your housekeeper back, prepare to make changes. Prepare to respect the power of the woman wielding the mixing spoon. Respect the power of the woman pushing the vacuum.” I stand and cross my arms. “You know how powerful I am?”
His eyes are wide.
“I could poison each and every man in this office if I wanted to. Just for pissing me off. Just for the disrespect you’ve shown Maria. That’s my power. I can kill you with a smile on my face.”
