Spitting Off Tall Buildings Part 5

You're not from New York either, are ya?'

'Los Angeles.'

Another sneer. 'Oh, Hollywood?'

'I was brought up in L.A.'

'Everybody in the city would give their d.i.c.k to get to the sunshine. And you go the other way?'

I didn't answer.

'Okay,' he said. 'I talked to Braddie. Braddie says you're okay, that you'll give me a day's work. It so happens I may have an opening.'

'I appreciate Brad's recommendation.'

'A lot of men apply here, Hollywood.'

'Anyway, I'm appreciative.'

'You are, huh?'

'Correct.'

'Ever do gla.s.s before, Hollywood? High-up work? Forty, fifty, sixty floors up?'

'No. But it'll be okay.'

'Did Braddie tell you about how it gets when you're up there?'

'We didn't discuss how it gets. What Brad told me was what you just said; that some of your buildings are over fifty floors. He mentioned that he worked for you for a while.'

'Yeah, for about fifteen f.u.c.kin' minutes. Braddie ain't cut out for this deal. Did he tell you about cleaning the outside gla.s.s?'

'You mean about using the belt to hook on? I know about that. We talked about that. I've seen it done.'

'You scared?'

'Scared? No. I need the work.'

'I start my new guys off on the state contracts. Smaller jobs. Smaller buildings.'

'Heights don't bother me.'

The fat fingers of Murphy's hands came around from the top of the desk and knitted themselves behind his neck causing his gut to thrust toward me like a charging sandbag. 'Not yet, Hollywood,' he cackled. 'You ain't eighty floors up in five degrees temperature with the wind up your a.s.s yet, either. I pay good. I bet he told you that, didn't he?'

'Right. That's what peaked my interest.'

Murphy was a true a.s.shole. 'Peaked...your interest? Peaked?'

'Is there something wrong with wanting to make money?'

'I pay by the pane; inside and out, up and down. A full window. Three bucks a pane. Sometimes we get more depending on the size of the windows. Four bucks, sometimes more.'

My mouth now said something stupid. I regretted the words immediately and wanted them back. 'So we earn by the pane. That's how most people learn, isn't it?'

The fat man's instincts were prehistoric. What amused him most was another human's discomfort. 'How tall are you,' he sn.i.g.g.e.red. 'Five-four, five-five?'

'Approximately.'

'What does that mean? Approximately. Then approximately how much do you weigh? Approximately?'

'One fifty.'

'Approximately?'

'One fifty...How much do you weigh?'

Suddenly two ma.s.sive, moist fists were clasping my wrists, effortlessly flipping my arms face up. I struggled for a second but realized I was pinned. 'Let's see your hands,' he snarled.

After inspecting my palms, seeing no calluses, Murphy sneered again. 'Small hands! This is a hard job, Hollywood. You gotta bust your a.s.s here. We ain't chauffeuring people in an airport van...or seating guests in the loge...This ain't a f.u.c.king clerical employment opportunity.'

I freed myself and yanked my arms back against my body. 'Am I hired or not?'

'My new guys top out at thirty to forty panes a day. That comes out to roughly a hundred bucks, your end. Take home.'

'I'm ready.'

He glanced back down at my application. 'Yeah, well, I ain't there yet...Tell me something; what's the "S" stand for? The "S" here in your name on the paperwork? Bruno S. Dante?'

'Just "S."'

'"S" what? A letter in someone's name stands for something. What's the "S" mean?'

I completely despised this p.r.i.c.k. 'The "S" stands for Smart.'

A new sneer. Murphy crossed his arms and rocked back in his boss's chair, his fat body oozing over the arms, his bulk popping out between the slats on the sides. 'What's a Smart?'

'My grandfather's name was Smart. It's an English name. Look...'

'Smart?'

I got up. I had had enough.

'We're not done. Sit down.'

'I'm done. I don't need this s.h.i.t.'

'You got the job, Dante. Sit down.'

I sat down.

Murphy picked up a red-leaded pencil and made a check mark at the top of my form. Then he swiveled his chair around to face the wall and began pa.s.sing me different items; a pail, a bra.s.s squeegee with extra blades, several sponges, a pole for the squeegee, a heavy-smelling can of soap concentrate, a thick window cleaner's leather belt with straps fastened to the sides. Rags.

After each item was pa.s.sed he made a check on a box on his form.

Then we were done.

'Be in front of the building at four forty-five tomorrow morning. You're working the early shift. See Ben Flash.'

'Ben Flash.'

'The first time your count goes under thirty panes a day, Dante, or you miss a day without calling in, you're fired. I pay on Fridays. Every other Friday.'

Our eyes locked. He was smiling now. His best f.u.c.k-you smile. 'Have a nice day, Hollywood,' he said.

I was by the door with the equipment and the pail hooked in the vee of my arm. I smiled too. 'Okay, Bronx,' I hissed. 'Over and out.'

Chapter Twelve.

I WAS A few minutes late the first morning because of the trains. And it was freezing waiting underground on the platform. The Times Square Shuttle only runs every half-hour at 4 a.m., which I hadn't expected. Then, after I took the shuttle, I transferred to the uptown IRT Lexington Avenue Express which took more time.

As I came up the stairs of the Eighty-sixth Street station, I saw a tall guy that I a.s.sumed was Ben Flash leaving the ticket booth on the southbound side. He saw my cleaning bucket and harness at the same time I saw his.

'Hey,' his words cracked the frozen air, 'you the new guy?'

'Yeah, Bruno...You Ben Flash?'

'Ya late, Bruno. Let's go. Let's. .h.i.t it.'

I climbed the rest of the stairs then crossed over to the southbound side.

We waited together for the downtown local.

Flash wasn't much for small conversation. He sipped from a coffee container and nervously kept his eyes on the subway tunnel to see if he could make out the head beam of the next train. Finally he turned to me. 'Ya new at windows, right?'

'Right.'

There was silence for another couple of minutes. Then, 'Meet Johnny Murphy?' The words startled me and stabbed through the cold expanse of the platform.

'Yeah,' I said. 'Yesterday. He interviewed me. He's the one that hired me.'

Flash considered my reply. After another long interval he spat down at the tracks then clenched his jaw. 'p.i.s.ser, ain't he?'

I didn't answer right away. I wasn't going to say something about fat Murphy and have it get back to him and cost me the gig. So I just said, 'Yeah. A p.i.s.ser.'

Our train came.

It wasn't yet morning rush hour. Flash opened his Daily News Daily News and began reading. He didn't speak for the rest of the ride downtown. I was left to stare at the faces in the subway. Faces that clashed against the orange hard plastic seats. Old people. Homeless. A transit cop. Night faces. and began reading. He didn't speak for the rest of the ride downtown. I was left to stare at the faces in the subway. Faces that clashed against the orange hard plastic seats. Old people. Homeless. A transit cop. Night faces.

I'd only slept an hour or two so I closed my eyes too. My brain was resting, pleased to be earning money again.

When we arrived at our stop Flash stood up and shook me awake. When he got off I got off too.

We followed the length of the dark underground platform along the block to the Twenty-fourth Street exit. He was staying below street level to avoid exposing us to the icy sidewalk and the biting air outside.

Once up the steps and on the street, steam funneling from our faces as we shuffled along, Flash talked again. He didn't like talking but he did it as he appeared to do other necessary things: thoughtfully, with effort.

He went into what for him was a complicated deal, an explanation about his last partner. The guy had left the job to run an errand during lunch one day and never come back. When Flash got to the part about his not coming back he half surprised me by suddenly halting on the sidewalk, raising his palms and rolling his eyes, as if to say, 'I couldn't believe it.'

Then we walked on. Flash wanted to say more words about why the guy had left, perhaps advance a theory, but his syllables began mixing with the steam coming from his mouth, then stopped, cautious to interrupt the stillness of the early-morning air.

New York State's deal with Red Ball was that no disburs.e.m.e.nt would be authorized until the whole job was complete. Flash and the last guy, Lawrence (he p.r.o.nounced the name Low-rinse), had spent three days on the building but, before they'd finished up doing all the gla.s.s on the administration floor, Lawrence had done his disappearing thing. Now, in order to receive the eight hundred dollars that the company had technically already earned, to get paid, Flash had to complete the admin windows.

It was still half an hour before dawn. Ben Flash tapped with his keys on the building's gla.s.s entrance door until the night security guy, who knew him, heard us and let us in. We took the service elevator to twelve.

We got off and I followed Flash down the hall to a door labeled 'Maintenance.' Inside, the room had a deep sink and mops and a shelf of tools and two or three aluminum ladders and more cleaning equipment and overalls for the other service people working in the building.

Whatever Flash did he did in ponderous slow motion, as if he were an imbecile who'd rehea.r.s.ed himself again and again to avoid error. He turned on the hot tap full blast, then stood for a long time staring hypnotized at the running water. Then, with his pail in the sink, he measured out and poured in what looked like way too much ammonia and stinky cleaning solvent.

As the bucket was filling he explained about the proportions. Using this strength mixture, he said, the solution would take longer to freeze when we began doing the outside gla.s.s. I was instructed on the best way to tighten a cap on a plastic bottle, the way to wipe the excess ammonia off the container, what rag to use. On no account should I ever fill past the third mark from the top on the bucket.

When he'd completed his, my bucket was next. We repeated what we'd just gone through, including the stuff about the plastic caps and the ammonia bottle. I knew the lesson was important because Flash had used up at least a hundred words.

Finally, we rolled our buckets single file over to the exterior access window where we would begin work. Flash stared at the window for a while, then looked at me, then back at the window. I was beginning to be able to read him. I could feel when he was preparing to speak. 'Your job,' he said, 'for the first hour is to watch me and pick up what I do. Okay?'

I nodded. 'Okay. Sure,' I said.

He climbed out the window onto the ledge. It was an older building and the windows were tall and sealed. Each pane was five feet by three feet, one on top of the other.

Window washing was where Flash became an artist. An acrobat.

First, to get to where he'd left off, he had to work himself a quarter of the way around the outside of the building in the frozen air. He glided from window to window with the bucket hanging from the crook of his arm. Like a gymnast he hooked his belt onto the thick spiked nipples protruding from the sides of each window frame and bounced effortlessly along the ledge.

In less than a minute he'd vaulted his way to his leave-off spot. Then he clamped on and pushed backward as far as possible to take the slack out of his harness. His body was almost at a right angle to the building. A spider on a wall.

Then he began cleaning, swaying, like the sax player in the old Johnny Otis Blues Band, washing two sets of the up-and-down panes at a time. For the top sections he used a six-foot wooden extension.

He'd squeegee the gla.s.s on the left, then unhook and flip himself to the next frame while the panes were still wet, bouncing out and clamping on in one fluid motion. Window ballet.

He did the next two panes and the next two after that until he had to hop back around the building because the cleaning solution in his pail was dirty.

Arriving back at the access window he motioned and I handed him out the second bucket, my bucket, and watched him bound his way back and start cleaning again. In less than an hour all the exterior panes on the twelfth floor were clean.