And it’s as simple as that, I think to myself—“Oh, puke.” A completely unremarkable part of the job; we even have a big stack of cushions on hand to swap in and out of backseats.
But that doesn’t make it any more pleasant to deal with. Nor does the 50 dollars I charged the guy, which doesn’t do much more than cover the time I have to take off cleaning up the mess. It’s a big one—some dissipated alcoholic spewed all over the interior door panel, the backseat and her boyfriend.
He was at least chill enough to fork over the money without complaint, even as she adamantly insisted that she hadn’t thrown up at all.
So I stopped by a grocery store to pick up some more intensive cleaning supplies than the Simple Green and air freshener I keep in the trunk, and drove back to the garage. I shampoo and vacuum the backseat, pull it out, and throw a new one in.
The panel is the real problem. The vomit’s down in all the tiny crevices around the door handle and power-window switch. I dry heave a couple of times myself as I delicately maneuver paper towels into tight places. Then I hit it hard with the air freshener, wash my hands for five minutes, and get back to work.
None of my fares seem to notice a thing.