There is still metal bouncing off the concrete as I assess my wounds. My right thigh stings—probably a gnarly scrape, if I had to guess. My sister runs into the room, alarmed by all the noise. From where she stands, I am visible only from the shoulders up. The rest of my body dangles inside a cold air return, suspended between the first floor and the basement. “What are you doing?” Her question implies that falling through a hole in the floor was a deliberate action. “Can you just get me out of here?” She lifts under my arms, and, as I pull myself up, what’s left of the ductwork crashes loudly into the basement below us. My legs had blown through the whole HVAC system. We stare down at the rubble in disbelief, unsure of what to do next.
My sister and I cleaned houses to pay our way through college; we had a small, steady list of clients in Rochester and made enough money for books and gas. After graduation, a quick stint at an advertising agency solidified that we were not meant for office life. When we cleaned, we moved from one appointment to the next, so the scenery was always changing. We made our own schedule and called our own shots—luxuries not found in an office setting. Ultimately, we decided to open our own cleaning business. We were young, energetic, and game for a little adventure; there was no better time.
Our first years were rocky—a constant hustle to get new clients and a full schedule. Some weeks we only had two jobs, and the blankness of our calendar was overwhelming. Going to the bank was sobering. After taking a percentage off the top for gas, we split what was left down the middle. If that amount came to $100 and some change, my sister substituted a pencil eraser or cough drops in place of the coins, and, as she handed it to me, we’d laugh hysterically. The day she gave me actual quarters, she lauded her generosity. But later, in front of a bank teller, my sister was short on her deposit. She shot me a look. “SOMEBODY took all my change.” I wasn’t having it. “Oh! Half an hour ago I was supposed to be SO grateful but now all of a sudden, I’m a JERK for taking the quarter!” “YOU’RE LUCKY I DIDN’T PAY YOU IN PAPER CLIPS,” my sister fired back. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the bank teller stifling her laughter. If nothing else, our business was pure comedy.
Our schedule built up through word of mouth, and our friends were our greatest champions, telling all their coworkers and neighbors. Just when we thought of giving up, we’d get another client. Soon we had beachfront houses in Webster, new builds in Gates, a law office in Victor. Our business had us crisscrossing the greater Rochester area, and we got familiar with all the back roads and connecting streets to make our commutes more efficient. When time allowed, we stopped to explore. We ate lunch on the shores of Durand Eastman Beach and popped into local flower shops to browse. We also had clients in Buffalo. The monthly trek was a beast, but it was always my favorite day. We were out the door by 6 a.m. and had two houses back-to-back until 5 p.m. We’d take the long way home and look at the fields, listen to music, and eat snacks—perfect decompression after an intense day.
About a year in, we saw a job posting from a realtor who needed cleaners for all his college housing properties, and we applied. Though we’d cleaned together for more than five years, officially we were still a new business, so we weren’t confident we’d get the job. After the initial interview, there would be a trial clean to demonstrate our work. But as the realtor led us through his properties, he stopped midsentence. “I don’t want to do a trial. I’m hiring you two right now.” This contract added five weekly appointments to our schedule; we were officially full. These properties all lay within city limits, and soon we were experts on all the colleges in the area and the best housing options. We had a favorite coffee shop near a university, and every time we stopped, we’d loudly announce that it was time for a “business lunch.” In reality it was just the two of us, but we felt so fancy.
It was on this realtor’s property where my fall happened. For part of a spring cleaning job, my sister planned to vacuum the vents out, so she took all the covers off the floor. My eyes were pointed up as I dusted ceilings. I never saw the open vent before I stepped in and fell through. I ended up with two large scrapes on my leg. (I probably should have gotten a tetanus shot, but you don’t sweat those details when you’re young.) We sent a message to the realtor explaining the incident and offered to pay for any damages. We learned quickly that a large part of running a business is maintaining your reputation, and we wanted ours to be unimpeachable. Another part of running a business involves taxes, and, to this day, I still know the tax rates of every town in Rochester. (The irony of two girls who started out paying each other in paper clips having to learn tax codes does not escape me.)
We ran our business for five years, stopping once we decided to move to Chicago so I could pursue writing. Many people badgered us to hire workers and expand further, but we’d already accomplished our goals. Rochester was the perfect place for us to grow a business and as people. It provided the foundation for our first real adventure as sisters and set us up to tackle our next one in a new city.
This article originally appeared in the May/June 2025 issue of (585).
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