Bleached and Flushed

Bleached and Flushed

I’m ten days into a two-week stint as a “Host Camper” at Salisbury State Beach Reservation campground across the Merrimac River from Newburyport, MA and on the Atlantic Ocean across from Portugal. I leave for home after Labor Day and start a new assignment as Host Camper at Nickerson State Park, a fifteen-minute walk from my home.

The only thing related to “hosting” about being a Host Camper is keeping the bathrooms clean for guests, in this case, about 800-1000 guests on 450 campsites when the camp is full. Some Host Campers also clean the beach toilets for the thousands of daily guests who frolic in the sand and sun on the four miles of ocean beach.

I was told back in May when I got “the call” from the Salisbury Camp Director that I had been accepted — following a rigorous application process where all one’s camping skills are listed and criminal checks are initiated — and that my assignment here would be to clean women’s toilets.  Cleaning toilets is the last thing listed as possible duties for Host Campers. There are many other things meant to attract potential Host Campers like such as one, assisting the Naturalist; two, working at registration, etc. so I held out the dream that I might be reassigned given my extensive skills….

But, as it turns out, when I first met the “Host Wife” — no kidding, that’s what the woman who’s in charge of the Host Campers is called — cleaning toilets it is, at least for the female Host Campers here. The men seem to ride around in golf carts and clean out grills and fire pits using snow shovels.

I got what started out as the disturbing assignment of cleaning the Men’s  toilets, two of them, known as “E” and “F,” that total four showers, eighteen stalls with what my mother called “commodes,” ten urinals, and about twenty sinks, the latter including four deep sinks that are posted as NOT to be used for washing clothes or dishes. In other words, those deep sinks are not to be used for anything they might be useful for, but I digress.

Most people come here for the beach; I’m here for the bleach. It’s all about bleach. I’ve easily used more bleach in ten days than I’ve used in my lifetime. A lot of bleach with some drops of Pine-Sol is the answer to everything.

The problem with me cleaning the men’s toilets is this: I can’t enter them if any men or boys are inside, which means I have to hang around outside waiting for some unknown number of the opposite sex to leave. I open the door slightly and yell “cleaning lady” in my highest and loudest voice. I lock the entry doors so that those inside can get out but no one else can enter. Ultimately, since I hate waiting around more than I dislike cleaning, I go check and clean them less often but better than expected by the aforementioned Host Wife, who runs a tight ship

Since I use the women’s showers and toilet and pay close attention to what’s clean and what’s not, I have learned that it’s easier to clean the men’s facilities than the women’s. Yes, old men and young boys sometimes have a problem flushing, and men and boys of all ages are more likely to leave their wet, dirty underwear in the showers, but the women have more product slathered on their bodies and elsewhere, like on the counters, toilet seats, and sinks, and all females seem to carry personal paper shredders into the loo where the paper ends up on the wet floor. The men also use SO MUCH LESS toilet paper so I have fewer of these huge rolls to carry from the storage room.

Sick of these potty stories yet? I can’t leave you without telling you about what I first thought was a silver cell phone in one of the toilets this past weekend. Closer inspection showed me it was a “f—ing” fish. Yes, fish. What turned out to be a very dead, silver, ten-inch long eel-like fish. Considering the things I’ve touched over the past week or so, you might think I’d reach right in there with my plastic-gloved hand and get that sucker out. But, no. Assuming it was a “hazing” situation performed on me by the other Host Campers, most of whom have done this for years for the entire summer, I marched right over to the RV of the closest Host Camper and asked the Host Campers gathered there to ‘fess up.

They hadn’t done it nor would any of them remove the fish. The problem called for a call to headquarters. A State Employee was dispatched, but she wouldn’t touch the fish either. Finally, the challenged son of one of the Host Campers, who rides a three wheel bike with a basket with a dachshund inside, was given the assignment and performed it with great skill.

Today’s my day off before the influx of campers for the long Labor Day weekend. And I’ll have to admit that I’m having to fight off the urge to go check MY toilets. I can’t imagine that the “floater” (Ha, gotcha there, didn’t I?) has done the job. In this case, a floater is a Host Camper who fills in for those with days off. Instead, I’ll head into town for the Wi-Fi connection at the library while my clothes dry at the laundry across the street.