Plague Journal, Day 30: Pilers and filers

“There are two kinds of people in this world,” said a Brookline rabbi I saw for a while in couple’s therapy and, after the couple’s demise, individual therapy. “Pilers and filers. Which are you?” 

Piler. Pick your adjective: Lifelong. Inveterate. Chronic. My academic office featured dozens of piles, both atop the office’s many flat surfaces and inside the office’s voluminous filing cabinets. (Moving things from piles into folders; inserting plastic label holders into folder holes; labeling labels; inserting labeled labels into plastic label holders: compared to putting a pile into a drawer, it all seemed like a lot of work. I could almost always remember in which pile I’d left the thing I needed.) When I left my office I threw out many, many piles; I also brought home boxes filled with piles. My apartment’s closets are filled with boxes filled with piles, plus a couple of two-drawer filing cabinets, which hold piles stacked horizontally.

In my apartment today, Saturday, turns out to be cleaning day. After three weeks of listless illness, The Girlfriend and I are feeling better. It’s a sunny, breezy Brooklyn afternoon — a fine time to open windows, fill pails, scour.

Soon after we begin The Girlfriend says, “For an anal person, you’re not very clean. It’s surprising. You’re sort of just — just a boy.”

I cannot argue. One of the things I recall about Holden Caulfield is his complaint about his roommate, Stradlater, whom he called a “secret slob”: he looks presentable but leaves the sink a mess, his razor filled with soap and hair. My sloppiness is perhaps more secret: My sink is tidy, and I give the toilet brush a swirl every week or so. But I don’t often break out the detergents, cleaning sprays, scouring pads. Rare is the day I get down on my knees and do a thorough job.

The bathroom’s not my job today; The Girlfriend’s got that, plus the hardwood floors.  I’m cleaning most everything else. It’s a fair trade. The bathroom’s grotty; the floors, while reasonably well swept, are — what’s the opposite of clean?

“Disgusting,” The Girlfriend says. 

One of the things she wants me to do: remove piles. I don’t think it’s that many. But the newspapers — I get The Times delivered daily — are now in three piles: on a lower shelf of an end table, where the already-read stack goes; uncompleted crossword puzzles on a stack on a different table; and a stack of articles I’d like to read, on a dining room chair. 

“Plus the magazines,” she says. The end table is covered with two piles of New Yorkers. The magazine rack is overflowing with folded, yellowing New Yorkers, covering all, I believe, of 2019. 

“Maybe it’s time to throw some of those out,” I say. 

“Mmm-hmm,” she says. “And what about under the game table? What’s there?” 

“A pile.” 

“Of what?” 

“Sunday book reviews. It’s an aspirational pile. At some point I plan to go through and put in my library list all of the books I’d like to read.” 

“How old is that pile?” 

“About six months.” 

“It’s time to let go of that aspiration.” 

My social media feeds are filled with people using CoronaWorld to tackle household projects: closet reorganizing, shelf paper re-lining, ceiling fan replacing, cabinet staining, tile backsplashing. No such projects will be launched at my apartment. I’ve considered pile consolidation, but that seems daunting. My spice rack, already alphabetized, could use straightening. Otherwise, keeping the place clean seems plenty ambitious. 

As a high school student, The Girlfriend worked as a house cleaner, earning much more than minimum wage. At 27, after graduate school, as soon as she got her first job, her first act as a full-time wage earner? Hiring a housecleaner. She's had one ever since. 

“I know how to do it," she says. "I just don’t want to.” 

Hiring a housecleaner isn’t an option in the early days of CoronaWorld. The Girlfriend gets to work. I clean a bit, then disappear into a bedroom to write. When I come out, the place smells different. 

“What is that?” 

“That’s what clean smells like.” 

The bathroom is an entirely different color, like someone ran it through a white filter app.

“That’s what clean looks like. Notice anything else?” 

“Ummm. Did you clean the refrigerator?” 

“No, but it needs it. Look at the pantry floor.” 

My apartment kitchen is small. It’s made more useful by a small space just outside it, a passage between dining room and hallway that includes two low, good-sized cabinets topped by a counter about four-and-a-half feet high. We call the counter “the bar,” the space “the pantry.” The space includes an outlet where we charge our phones; I often stand there, reading the paper, doing the crossword, scanning my phone. The hardwood floor under the bar gets pretty dirty. I recall it as blackened when I moved in, but that memory may have been implanted by lassitude, wishful thinking. I do know I’ve told The Girlfriend, “Oh, you can’t clean that. That’s stained.” 

Now I say, “Oh my god. What did you do?” 

“Used a mop. Got on my knees for the last bit. I knew it wasn’t permanent.” 

“You’re a miracle worker. The floor is an entirely different color.” 

“That’s what clean looks like.” 

After a few hours with windows open wide, The Girlfriend notices: “We haven’t heard as many sirens today. What’s up?”

“I don’t know. Are new cases slowing down?” I look for wood, knock on the floor. 

If they’re slowing down, it’s not by much. New York state numbers as of Saturday: 180,458 diagnosed with Covid-19, up about 10,000 from Friday, or 5.8 percent; 783 more dead, to a total of 8,627, up 10 percent. Overall U.S. deaths: 20,454, up 10 percent.