Sweeping

Eric used to play steel band, now he does a little bongo. He gets up early, goes to work, breaks eleven to twelve, works. At three he has tea, works. At seven he goes home. He cleans a few cars when he can.


Eric doesn't talk much now. His head isn't lowered but you don't catch his eye. Call Eric, say Eric, hey Eric, how's it going, he says going. He takes a chamois from a pocket, screws it up, puts it in another pocket. He looks away without looking away. He can't stop he says.


Eric and Millie go back forever, they met in school. He was a buck then, shiny, gorgeous, into Bob Marley and ska, not so hot in classes but reading Tennessee Williams on the QT – she was skinny, pale as a dove's belly, was going to make jewellery, sell it from a little stall, a little shop.


They danced out nights, chilled, smoked, they had a baby and Eric got a job cleaning cars. The baby was Celeste, gonna be gorgeous like her Dad, tall and skinny like Mum, catwalk her way past guys, be something.


Way back, when Celeste was four and they'd had Gemini and Dream, Eric set up on his own, cleaning cars. Eric was good, the eye and hand – part-exes came back new, new like they were from another planet. He got contracts. When he went out nights playing in the band he smelled of polish, when he came back, ganja, smoke, nights, man.


Then the band was given half a chance. Go to Manchester three months, cruise another three, they could make it. But Eric stayed with Millie, Celeste, Gemini and Dream – four girls his lights, he couldn't go away. He worked hard, played a little steel nights, but then he put the cans away, worked harder.


When Dream was five years old, Eric lost a contract. He bought the bongos, played soft, tap-tap, and kissed his girls. Millie got a little job helping at the school, lunches, then breakfasts, too. Then another contract went. Eric advertised. He'd come to you, or clean your car while you shopped. He got in the paper, on the radio. But it didn't catch. People were rushing. What if Eric hadn't finished when the groceries were bought they said, should they stand and wait? What if it was raining, you don't clean cars in the rain.


I saw Celeste last week, my, she is tall, she should be a model. She has beads in her hair, her teeth are fine and white, she walks good, smiles, and her face is full of light. She told me where I could find Eric now his business was closed.


I went to the bottom end of town, the arcade between Boots and McDonalds. At first I didn't think he was there. Some twenty-something guys – beer-bellies, Man United shirts – were making some noise and one of them spilled something from a can, then Eric came round the corner with a brush, a mop, a bucket. The guys barely looked at him.

Eric looked shorter, does that make sense? He didn't look up so I didn't call out. He took his chamois from a pocket, put it in another pocket, flapped the mop into the bucket, squeezed it with a twist, and mopped up the beer. Then he picked up the broom, and started following: dust, bits of paper, a can. Just another black guy, sweeping.

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