While I was at university I had several jobs I did in my copious free time. Being young I didn't need to sleep, ever, and I could eat while working. Some jobs I could even study while working, waiting for putative customers who never arrived. As far as I was concerned I'd take any honest work that came along, as long as it helped pay the bills.
I wasn't totally dependent on these odd jobs for money. My father could afford to pay my way and was quite willing to do so if required. It was more a point of honour to do it myself. Also, squeezed into the odd corners of my day, I had an online business, writing apps. Some were written to spec for customers and some were written for the hell of it. You know the sort of thing. Write a games app and see if there were any takers. Most of them bombed but I did get a healthy return on a couple and I was building a nice little nest egg. If the apps really started selling I'd ditch the part time jobs and concentrate on the online business. Altogether I was doing OK.
One of the jobs I had was cleaning at the local school. It was a night job, only taking an hour or so after night school was finished. Some people look down on cleaning as beneath them but I didn't care. Like I said, any honest job, and it paid.
This was one of my nights for cleaning at the school and I fronted up around ten, expecting the place to be effectively deserted, which it was. There were still a few students and teachers floating around but they were all making going home noises. I ignored them and set to work.
In the third classroom I came to I ran into a small surprise. There were a couple of cheerleaders there, bent over the teacher's desk and examining some paperwork. How did I know they were cheerleaders? They were both wearing their cheerleader costumes. Why, I wondered, were two cheerleaders, in costume, at night school? I could understand the night school, but why the uniforms?
Deciding it wasn't any of my business I ignored them (Which took some effort. I like cheerleaders.) and got on with my own business, to wit, cleaning.
And the snide comments started. Not loud enough to actually be addressed to me but definitely loud enough to make sure I could hear them. Comments about losers and cleaning. Comments about how they would have decent jobs when they left school. On it went, interspersed with giggles, the girls having a great time running down the old boy who had to do cleaning. When I say old boy I'm not referring to my age as I only had a year or so on the girls. I mean it as in having attended the same school, Mary-Anne and Cheryl having been one class below mine.
I steadfastly ignored the remarks, just going on with my work. Finally, when all I had to do was empty the rubbish bin, I gave way to curiosity. As the rubbish bin was next to the teacher's table I decided to ask the girls why they were there.
"As a matter of curiosity, just why are the pair of you here, at night, in your cheerleader outfits? Not that there's anything wrong with those outfits, you look quite charming, but just a bit out of place."
"Not that it's any of your business," Cheryl replied, "but we're doing some special courses with Mrs Fotsome at night school. We'll get extra credits for them. We wouldn't want to find ourselves having to take cleaning jobs when we leave school."
Mrs Fotsome, Mrs Fotsome, what did she teach? Oh, yes, remedial English for some of the slower students.
"I don't think either of you need to worry about that. To do a cleaning job you need at least some experience of doing cleaning."
"And just what is that remark meant to mean?" snapped Marie.
"I know your brother," I told her, smiling. "He's described what your bedroom looks like. What was it he said? A room that no self-respecting pig would dare enter."
I turned back to Cheryl.
"I assume from your remarks about cleaning that your room is similar."
Both girls were giving me looks intended to turn me into a greasy, smouldering, spot on the floor but they didn't work. Smiling, I reached down for the rubbish bin, only to finding Cheryl giving it a swift kick, smiling the content across the floor.
"Oh, so sorry," she cooed. "My foot slipped. Still, it'll give you a chance to practice your cleaning."
She was standing right next me, wearing that abbreviated cheerleaders skirt, or wide belt as my mother calls it. It was the work of a moment to flick her skirt up, grab her pants and yank them down.
"Oh, so sorry," I said, trying to imitate the way she spoke. "My hand slipped. Still, it'll give you a chance to practice your fucking."
"Dear me. Such language from a nicely brought up young girl such as yourself. You should be ashamed of yourself. Ah, how old are you exactly?"
"Eighteen. Let go my dress."
"Oh, sorry. I hadn't realised that I was holding it up." The hell I hadn't. I was looking on with interest. "Eighteen, you say. That's unfortunate."
"Why is it unfortunate? Let it go."
