Window Cleaner
By Richard Mark Glover


Peter pulled the squeegee across the glass anticipating a slurp but rather it screeched like a bird. He glanced the six floors below as he deftly wetted the squeegee again. Pedro stood on the sidewalk, looking up, his big black mustache covering his upper lip and his arms raised and hands open, signaling “Ready?” But it wasn’t Pedro. It was the new guy. Peter pulled the squeegee again from the di-water, and made the final sweep. Perfect zing, a good clean window. In Mexico City, where little is clean, a good clean window says something.



The next morning Peter stood with Natasha next to a large alabaster vase between the two sets of lift doors inside the reception area of Clinic 236. The lift doors on the recently completed “West Wing” were clean, large, and fitted with an electronic floor indicator. A brass floor indicator with Roman Numerals hung over the smaller lift of the adjacent original building.



Outside the smog hung thick and gray and smelled like a garage that had gone up in flames and simmered with just enough fuel to keep a hodge-podge of a thousand chemicals smoldering.



“Do you want a coke?” Natasha asked. She had taken off her scarf and placed it across her arm.



“I like that look,” Peter said nodding toward a tall man who stepped into the small lift with roman numerals. The tall man wore a navy blue suit and gripped a wad of cigars with pink bands. He smiled as the lift door closed.



“I’m going to have a coke,” she said.



“Maybe you shouldn’t.”



“Why not? Either way a coke won’t matter.”



Peter straightened a bill and slid it into the machine. A light flashed and went dead. The coke clunked on delivery. He pulled it through the hinged flap of the slot. It arrived cold and wet.



“What are you doing?” she asked.



He had lifted the coke to his mouth.



Natasha turned and looked out where a group of women waited for the airport limousine. Slender and well dressed they did not speak amongst themselves. Some had overnight bags slung across their shoulders.



“Here, I saved you some,” Peter said, holding the coke in his hand.



She waved him away then walked toward the West Wing lift, the one with the electronic floor indicator.



Peter followed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Here.” He held out the coke.



“Do you think you can buy your way out? Do you think you can just buy toys and call yourself a father?” She asked.



She looked at him then at the mold growing on the window.



The blue dot hit “1” on the electronic floor indicator and the clean, large lift doors opened. A slender lady with a chalky white face and a black overnight bag stepped out. The foxtail of her shawl hung down and bounced off her back as she walked across the tiles of the reception area.



“Do you always have to belittle me?” Natasha asked.



“I don’t, in fact just the opposite.” Peter grinned, looking at her mid-section, then added, “We could take a cab and have lunch at Beto’s before you decide.”



Natasha looked outside. A young woman in maternity clothes sat on the bench at the bus stop with her children.



“I’m not hungry. I wanted a coke.”



“There’s some left.” Peter said, shaking the can of cola in his hand.



“I don’t want anything you’ve touched,” Natasha said.



He looked at her then stood aside. An orderly pushed a pregnant woman on a gurney into the small lift. A white sheet covered her from neck down and a little girl in yellow pajamas followed.



Natasha glared at Peter. “Moscovite,” she said.



Peter lifted the coke up. “To all those in Moscow who are not represented,” Peter said. “And never will be.” He brought the coke to his lips and finished it.



A woman with white hair, a cane, and a seeing-eye dog walked through the revolving front door of Clinic 236. She stopped and sniffed as if to smell her way.



“There are things that matter, Natasha,” Peter said.



“They are not essential,” Natasha said. She looked out the window. “Nothing but Russians in Mexico City, Russians and Chinese.”



Natasha pushed the lit button on the new lift.



The lift opened. She stepped in and stood next to three female nurses.



“Floor, please?” One of the nurses asked.



“Floor nine,” Natasha said, “Termination,” her eyes fixed on Peter’s as the lift door closed between them.



Peter looked at the floor indicator and watched the blue dot glide up. Then he dropped the coke can into the rubbish and walked through the revolving doors. The glass was clean and Peter thought about Pedro and all the revolving doors they had cleaned together. Thousands of doors and windows – tons of glass, cleaned and dirtied again, but always dirtied in a new way and then cleaned. Clean enough to matter.



Outside, Peter imagined how the sun must look above the thick skirt of smog. Tomorrow he thought, tomorrow I’ll take the bus and go outside the city and find the sun.



He stepped into a Curio shop on Calle Zaragosa and picked out three straw finger stretchers. He put twenty pesos on the counter.



“Kids love those,” the clerk said.



Peter smiled. He wanted to hurry now and get out of the shop.



“How many kids do you have, three?” The clerk asked.



Peter looked at the clerk and blinked several times. Then a tear dripped down his cheek and soon he cried uncontrollable.



A couple at the magazine rack turned and looked at him.



“I’m sorry,” the clerk said.



“No. It’s OK.” Peter said. He sniffed back the tears.



“They’re for my friend Pedro’s kids. And for the kids on the sixth floor and for all the kids in Russia. And all the kids everywhere. And for the kid being sucked out of Natasha right now.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Right about now, I would think.”


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