Spitting Off Tall Buildings Part 6

By six o'clock I was on my own.

Watching Flash do so many sets of gla.s.s had taken away my nervousness about falling. He'd told me the secret. It was simple: never look down and keep at least one strap hooked on at all times.

I filled my bucket and started on the eleventh floor. Flash filled his and went down to ten.

Right away I realized that window was.h.i.+ng was a tall man's deal. I was inept by any comparison. b.u.mbling.

I knew that I would never be able to match my partner's level of competence but, until I was outside on the sheer, frozen concrete landscape by myself, I hadn't fully grasped what I'd be up against.

Flash was an aerialist, he'd bounded along easily on the ledge. Not me. My runty, short legs would scarcely stretch the distance between window frames. To compensate, instead of swinging out I had to push off the ledge I was on, grope and grab for the top of the next window with my fingers, dangle momentarily by one strap, then flip myself and the bucket on my arm to the next sill in one lunge.

For a while in the beginning I told myself that I was doing okay because what was motivating me was tallying up another three bucks in my mind after completing the outside of each set of the up-and-down panes.

But there was another awareness. Fat Johnny Murphy had warned me; the real problem was the cold. My right hand was constantly numb. As I'd be swabbing a pane with my sponge extension, the cleaning solution would flow down along my pole and soak the sleeve of my jacket. I was wearing heavy rubber gloves but the liquid ran past them. As a consequence, when I'd put the hand down the other way to re-dip the sponge into the bucket, the freezing chemical goop would drip inside my glove and numb my fingers. I tried switching hands but the problem just duplicated itself.

The result was that it took me three or four times as long as Flash to do a set of panes. And moving from window frame to window frame became even slower going too because of having to contend with the unsureness of my numb fingers. An hour into my first a.s.signment I was frozen stiff and exhausted. I was unsuitable for the occupation. I hated the deal.

Each time I made my way back inside from the ledge to change my cleaning solution in the maintenance closet sink, I'd have to thaw my hands under the tap, gradually increasing the water temperature until the sensation in my fingers returned.

It was just after eight o'clock. I'd completed about half the outside windows when I decided it was time for a break - an interlude to settle whether I should go on working or walk off and leave the f.u.c.king job.

After I thawed out at the sink, I walked the inside perimeter of the floor, examining my gla.s.s. It seemed to me that the windows I'd done were no improvement over the unwashed panes. Murky serpentine vertical squiggle blotches divided the clean sections on each of my panes. I felt disgusted. Beaten. A complete, d.i.c.kless, abysmal failure.

I couldn't make up my mind what to do so I decided to walk around. I made my way down the hall until I came to a door labeled 'Employee Room.' Inside, I found a table and sat down after helping myself to a cup of coffee and a free donut. The donut was the last one in the box - a gay, preposterous-looking multi-sprinkled reject. Perfect for me.

I had lighted a cigarette and begun reading the discarded Employment section of the Times Times when a squench-face-looking female state employee, stopping at the coffee urn, tapped me on the shoulder to point out the 'No Smoking' sign on the wall. when a squench-face-looking female state employee, stopping at the coffee urn, tapped me on the shoulder to point out the 'No Smoking' sign on the wall.

I drank down the last of my coffee then made the decision to go back out by the elevator, smoke some more, and finish the want-ads.

The admin floor I was on seemed to be the hub of the building's activity. People getting off the elevator and getting on, going into the office, reporting or punching-in or whatever government workers did, then coming back out and taking the elevator down.

I sat on my window sill observing the activity through the gla.s.s door of the office, watching and smoking, forming dislikes and opinions about the faces that entered and came out. One woman going in looked a lot like Vanessa del Reo, the old p.o.r.no star. I remembered the movie where Vanessa gave a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b to a three-foot-tall midget.

The next person leaving the admin department was a heavy-set black lady wearing a business dress and carrying a briefcase. Important-looking. Definitely a supervisor or manager of one of the battalions of laborers.

She was getting into her furry winter coat, pressing the 'Down' elevator b.u.t.ton. When she saw me sitting on the sill wearing my harness with my bucket at my feet, she smiled, then made small talk to avoid the awkwardness. 'Cold this morning,' she said, 'isn't it? Out there...outside.'

I nodded. 'Anti G.o.d.'

'What time do you fellows start?'

'Before dawn. Arctic Circle Standard Time.'

She was big, standing at least six feet in her heels, with even teeth and a friendly way about her. 'So,' she went on, noticing the crushed-out cigarette b.u.t.ts by my feet, 'by now your day must be about half over.'

'I need an opinion,' I said, half surprised at myself for speaking the words. 'Will you answer a question for me?'

She folded her arms then smiled again. 'An opinion? That depends, doesn't it?'

'Not expert a.n.a.lysis. Just your point of view. About windows.'

The smile was still there. 'Building maintenance isn't my field.'

'This'll only take thirty seconds. Okay?'

The big lady chuckled then looked up at the number displays above the three elevator doors. None were within four or five floors of the eleven numeral. 'Okay,' she said, 'Thirty seconds. What do we do?'

I pointed down the hall at the last set of upper and lower panes I'd cleaned. 'Those windows over there. The ones in the corner, I'd like you to walk over to them and tell me what you think.'

'What I think?'

'If they're clean.'

She studied my expression. 'Okay,' she said, then walked the fifteen feet to the set of gla.s.s. I followed.

'Now what,' she asked, after quickly checking the two.

'Clean?' I asked.

'They look okay. I'd say...satisfactory.'

'Yeah but, what about the streaks? Don't you see streaks?'

She examined more closely until she seemed to make out the dark snaky blotches that, in my opinion, disfigured each pane. 'You've cleaned these? Correct?' she asked.

'Twenty minutes ago.'

Her smile was back. 'Soo...how long have you been doing windows?'

'My first day.'

'Well, to be honest...'

'You're right,' I said. 'Screw it! The h.e.l.l with it!' I began unhitching my belt.

'You're quitting?'

'Thanks for helping me to decide.'

Just then an elevator car arrived, clunking to a stop. The big lady hurried over, picked up her briefcase, then looked back. 'I have to go.'

I watched the doors close. She smiled goodbye, shaking her head from side to side. I smiled back.

Less than a minute later, an 'Up' car arrived. I was back sitting on the sill. Smoking. A group of employees got out and headed toward the gla.s.s office doors. Flash was behind them.

He saw me and walked over, saw my equipment and harness in a heap on the floor. I could tell that he wanted to say something but it took several seconds for him to a.s.semble the words. 'So, what's up?' he asked finally. 'On a break?'

'Yeah.'

Flash lit his own cigarette and sat down on the sill a few feet from me, then worked himself into another question. 'So...how many'd ya do?'

'Those,' I said, pointing to the bank of windows along the wall.

He considered the information. 'Insides too?'

'No. Only the outsides.'

Another pause. He flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the floor, stepped on it with one work boot, then the other, then searched his s.h.i.+rt pocket for something that wasn't there, then checked his watch. 'I'm done downstairs,' he announced finally.

Not knowing what else to say, I said, 'Oh.'

What he had been looking for in his right s.h.i.+rt pocket turned out to be in the left pocket; a used toothpick.

He probed a gap in his bottom front teeth until he was ready to talk again. 'We're okay,' he said. 'We're still on schedule.'

I looked at him, watched him suck at the stupid sliver of wood. 'Hey look, man,' I said, 'I quit! I'm done. I'm no good at this deal.'

He considered my declaration for several seconds. 'Huh?' he said.

'This.'

'What? Gla.s.s?'

'Yeah.' I pointed at the line of windows. 'Look...look at the G.o.dd.a.m.n streaks.'

Flash looked. He even stood up and walked over to the windows. After checking a few he returned to the sill and sat down. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Okay. So what?'

'So what? So what is those windows! They're still dirty!'

'Ya know...' he said, then stopped, spitting his toothpick at the floor, looking from me to the line of streaked panes then back to me '...what happened is you forgot to wipe your squeegee...After you swiped you have to wipe. Wipe the squeegee with your rag. The rubber. If you don't wipe the rubber you get streaks. Ya know?'

I didn't care. 'Yeah, well, they're f.u.c.ked! All of 'em. You can see they're f.u.c.ked!'

'Okay...Well, so what?'

'What do you mean, so what?'

He thought again. 'I mean so what?'

'It doesn't matter? You're saying that me not cleaning those windows correctly doesn't matter. Is that what you're saying?'

Another interval for word a.s.sembly. More silence. Then, 'Look Dante...like I told you...remember? This is a state contract job. Ya know...it's what I said before...we get paid by the building...'

'I don't care.'

'Okay listen...What I mean is you could p.i.s.s on all the gla.s.s on this floor and on the floor above and then take the elevator down two floors and p.i.s.s on those too, ya know, and it wouldn't make any difference. Ya know? Understand? What matters is that we finish all the floors and get the Building Maintenance Supervisor to sign off. Understand? He don't check windows...he signs forms. Period.'

'It doesn't matter. I don't care. I hate this f.u.c.king job. Understand?' I held up my raw hands. 'Look,' I said. 'They're just now thawing out. It's fifteen f.u.c.king degrees outside on that ledge.'

Ben Flash stayed calm. He stared down at his shoes, then at the elevator doors, then back down at his shoes.

Finally, he got up. I watched as he walked to the other end of the hall to the emergency exit door. He pressed the bar and opened the heavy plated entrance to the stairwell. Then he looked back toward me, motioning me to follow. 'Over here, Dante,' he called, half-whispering. 'I want to show you something.'

I'd had enough. Whatever it was, I didn't want to see it. 'Look Flash,' I called back, 'let's forget it, okay? I'm going home.'

'Hey,' he said, 'I'm still the boss on the job, right? I'm your supervisor, right?'

'Right.'

'Okay, ya know...I said come here. Okay?'

I got up and paced my way down the hall to him.

Once we were both inside the stairwell, Flash let the heaviness of the door hiss it shut.

'What?' I said.

From the interior pocket of his coat he pulled a long, brown paper bag. He folded the lip of the bag back to expose the neck of a bottle, then he unscrewed the cap and took a long slam. When he was finished he pushed the bag against my chest. 'Hit this,' he said.

'What is it?'

'It ain't Windex. Take a hit.'

I grasped the bag, tipped it back and took a deep gulp. It was sweet and good. I knew right away; it was Mogen David Wine. Mad Dog 20-20. I took another long hit.

When I returned the jug Flash sucked back a deep draw. 'Ya know,' he said, then stared at the floor, getting ready, acquiring syllables; 'Ya know...I know it gets cold up here. I know that, ya know...Some days up here I hate the f.u.c.king cold...Some days I hate f.u.c.king G.o.d, ya know?...Some days I hate the f.u.c.king President of the United-f.u.c.king-States. Some days I wish I could park a f.u.c.kin' U-Haul truck loaded with a f.u.c.king fertilizer bomb and a fuse in front of the emba.s.sy of every dark-skinned minority turban-headed sandn.i.g.g.e.r Middle Eastern c.o.c.ksucker that ever mooched a f.u.c.king welfare check in this town, ya know...And some days, most days, I hate that fat f.u.c.kin' c.o.c.ksucker Johnny Murphy. Most days. I could easily kill that c.o.c.ksucker; squash his a.s.s like a f.u.c.king bug for the nasty s.h.i.+t that comes out of his arrogant, mean-a.s.s mouth! Ya know? I can hate that c.o.c.ksucker real bad! Ya know!...But, ya know, like I said, some days are worse then others...'

He reflected, took another long pull at the Mad Dog bottle, then decided to go on. 'See Dante,' he said, 'here I am, ya know, I'm up here slammin' my d.i.c.k against the frozen gla.s.s day after f.u.c.kin' day and one f.u.c.kin' Friday a couple a month ago I stop by the f.u.c.kin' office to pick up my f.u.c.kin' paycheck and guess what I find out? Guess? I'll tell you. I find out that that Murphy c.o.c.ksucker and the other guy, his boss, I refer to that c.o.c.ksucker as c.o.c.ksucker number two; well, these two c.o.c.ksuckers have conspired together to shave my f.u.c.kin' hours because of some f.u.c.kin' chickens.h.i.+t clever new loophole they have found out that they can get away with using. See Dante, as of a month ago, c.o.c.ksucker number two, that other mick f.u.c.kin' c.o.c.ksucker that employs that fat c.o.c.ksucker Murphy, don't have to pay traveling time no more to the employees because, all of a sudden, both c.o.c.ksuckers have decided together that they can put all of us on f.u.c.kin' independent contractor status, see. So now, everybody loses four hours off their check. Four hours, ya know! Sixteen hours a month!'

He pushed me the bottle and I took my turn. A long pull.

Flash went on. Nothing could have stopped him. 'Oh,' he said, 'but here's the juicy f.u.c.king part, ya know; they still take f.u.c.kin' deductions out. Cute, huh? They've just changed the name of what they call the f.u.c.kin' deductions. See? So now, because we're IC status, independent contractors, they can bill us for supplies and s.h.i.+t where before they had to give it to us automatically as part of the job. Now they can f.u.c.k us twice instead of once. Ya know, its like a f.u.c.kin' art form. Ya know? I mean, you gotta admire real professional loophole c.o.c.ksuckers...Cleaning supplies, ya know. Even rags. Believe that! The c.o.c.ksuckers now charge us for rags! It's right there on my check stub in the Deductions Column. "Rags," three dollars. No bulls.h.i.+t. "Rags." Grand, ain't it? Ya know...The two mick c.o.c.ksuckers! They're like a couple of f.u.c.kin' Northern Ireland hit men. That f.u.c.kin' fat Murphy f.u.c.kin' c.o.c.ksucker and the owner, that f.u.c.kin' Benjamin Moriarty, mister f.u.c.kin' Red Ball c.o.c.ksucker himself! Benny Moriarty. I hate 'em! They're both c.o.c.ksuckers, ya know? Know what I mean?'

'Yeah,' I said, 'I know what you mean.'

Flash took half a dozen long pulls at the bottle then pa.s.sed it back. 'Take a drink, Dante. Hit it! Take a good one!' he said.

I did. Then pushed it back.

'So now, because I opened my mouth and complained about their chickens.h.i.+t tactics with the paychecks, Murphy's new thing - the d.i.c.ksuckin' f.u.c.kin' sc.u.mbag c.o.c.ksucker - Murphy's new thing is to stick me with every new guy who signs on. No offense, Dante. But, ya know, it's like my f.u.c.kin' penance for standin' up for myself. My punishment. I'm on the fat p.r.i.c.k's s.h.i.+t list. See?'

I did. I saw.

'Hit it again, Dante.'

I did. I took long pulls. Boom! Boom! Boom!

'Every day around this time I take my break, ya know. I take a full half-hour. Sometimes the full hour. f.u.c.k 'em, ya know? They ain't payin' me for my breaks any more. So I say, f.u.c.k 'em! Ya know?'