Homeless Maid: Hotel Toledo 2010

By Homeless T
Rooms start
at $50.00 weekly

10 August 2010. Toledo, Iowa: Inquiring minds wonder: how on earth did Homer Teabury (God protect us from ending up like him) wind up as a stubble-faced Polly Prim, a hoity-toity hotel maid?

Wasn't he a school-marm or some such, out there in--where was it? Montana? Mexiconia? Ohia?--and how did he jump on the housekeeping gravy-train without the proper mopping, scrubbing, and laundry education? What kind of hotel maid would he make, hacking all over the pillows with that tubercular cough of his?

He has no tits, but rumor has it that the old perv dresses up like a French parlor maid when he works! What about it, MM? Has the wanderer taken a job as a hotel maid at the vintage Hotel Toledo in exchange for his bed and Pepsi? Does he really tackle the jobs most hotel maids won't touch? Like ca-ca?

His main incentive to rub, scrub, sweep, toil and MURDER is the carton of mentholated ciggy-butts, Smokin' Hoe's by name, that the owner of the Hotel Toledo keeps in his refrigerator. He doles out a pack for work well-done. Oh, the thrill of it all! Shelter! Work! Smokin' Hoes!

You may reach him by telephone at (319) 429-9991.

In fact, he wants to hear from you before he is catapulted up the karmic ladder in one of those rare promotions awarded by the Virgin Mary and Lucifer, under the auspices of the Goddesshead. Man Maid believes he got skipped-up a lifetime, like a kid gets skipped up a grade (or 2 or 3) in school--but he missed all that healthy socialization. No kidding. He wants to atone for any wrongs he may have done you. And in certain cases, compensate for sexual intercourse declined.

How I Became a Maid 

The homeless shelter gatekeepers all wised up to me, and no longer even afforded me the status of homeless. I was permanently hopeless, and they don't have shelters for that. And cash? I couldn't even scrounge up the $3-a-day rent for an upper bunk at the Mission of Hope Shelter--at least not for more than two or three nights. That would have been way too much milk for me
So old Homeless was feeling pretty grim about his life as a petrifying fossil--deeply depressed of course, and pretty sure he had walking pneumonia and a
dislocated STD living in his throat, too. 

Imagine his delight when an old acquaintance he rarely saw anymore--his new wife--said come on up to Toledo and stay with me at Granny's place, because Granny's gone away. What a lifesaver! 

God bless Granny in her travels for his bouncy young wife was offering not just 1--not just 2--but a princely 3 consecutive nights of slumber in Granny's house, sheltered from life's tempest for a luxurious 72 hours.

But even a best friend tires of neediness in her homeless . . . uhm, spouse. 

First, he had to have that crust of bread under the sofa cushion; and then it was, hey, is anybody going to drink that opened can of Pepsi sitting out in the back yard? May I?

And he needed a cigarette. Anybody saving these big shorts in the ash-tray?--and a blanket and a pillow, for Chrissake--one thing after another.  Jesus Christ! What didn't he need?

After a few hours of listening to her husband wheeze, cough, sneeze, snore, and cry in his sleep on Granny's couch, his wife's taxed-to-the-limit sympathy took a break and let her personal irritation drive. I've gotta get out of here, she swore, and did. 

So as of 10 August 2010, Homeless is in hell--a high-ceilinged, granite-floored hell, well over a century old--but he's only there temporarily, to work off some bad karma. (When you get to hell, you little stinker, it will be for eternity. So call him now, before you lose your phone privileges eternally). Atonement nonetheless will be paid and extracted in its due time and dimension, all with the ironic affect of past perdition seen in light of budding wisdom.

Teabury Harangues Regarding Assumptions

Maid costume? Hell no! I work in the nude! As for TB, there's no more good shows since they cancelled the Munsters, so I don't look at it much anymore.

See how the stiff scrub-brush of fate moves? Now that I am paying down karmic debt by cleaning up after other drifters, I've started to feel better about myself. So downright cheerful that I wrote a little song about it. I sing it to hotel guests while I am scrubbing their bathrooms back to the sanitary, snow-white condition expected in better hotels. It goes like this, sung to the "Mr. Clean" jingle:

Homeless maid gets rid of grease and grime

and you're the slob who did it
Homeless maid will clean your toilet bowl
and shove your head right in it!

Homeless Maid! Homeless Maid! He's a man!

When I have finished cleaning up their rooms, I tie the little mess-makers up, and ransack their possessions. Of course, I only jest. The truth is that the good-hearted owner of the Hotel Toledo threw me a life-line. I had hit the bottom pretty hard--several times in fact, but the trap-doors just kept opening under me, sucking me dangerously down below the peg-line. Br-r-r-r.

Hither and yon had I wandered, too engrossed in the realm of invisible things to pay attention to the clearly posted, non-profit shelter signs. All of them were written in legalese terms like "maximum number of allotted nights," "antisocial behavior," "regular showers," "prohibited substances" and so forth. I piled up so many infractions that at some shelters, my homeless benefits are denied 3 - 4 years in advance.

Soon, Man Maid was wandering the streets of this charming small town Toledo, Iowa, once more at the mercy of fate, municipal law-enforcement, and the grim croupier of karma, who threw in the ball on another life-or-death spin of the Cosmic Roulette Wheel. Look! His number came up! 000--but there was no spot on the felt to place his wager.

Homeless T explains how He Lucked into the new him,
The Superstar Toilet Technician:

I arrived at the Hotel Toledo two years into my homelessness. Three years before, looking for a new place, I had considered renting a room there. I vowed at that time never to encamp at the Toledo. The room I was shown still had shreds of the rope the last tenant had used to hang himself hanging from the ceiling. It was the most depressing place I ever had the good sense to run away from, screaming 'never'! Small and dinghy with no pillow-mints, the hotel would never do for a proud bum like myself.

Never say never. Here I was back again at the Toledo, this time with no money. I threw myself at the mercy of the owner. Well, Homeless, he growled, I might need someone to help out. The maid run off with a cashless Casanova, and as luck would have it, she was just about my size; her uniform fit just fine. He had a place where I could inter my suitcase and besotted remains.

As you of ironical mind have already guessed, the room I had years earlier rejected, screaming never--yes, it became my room. That's right, I had been granted a dorm room along with my scholarship for a crash course in humility.

See you soon, you smug bastards.