Windows

Rhythmical flowing strokes track my progress down these thick sheets of tinted glass, these transparent double glazed walls separating the staff of Geier and Geier, Lawyers, from the society they help to uphold. What could in fact be a meditative ritual of repeating movements, muscle exercises, is in fact extremely tortuous. It is the commitment to a never-ending cycle; a new day up here in my rig, suspended four stories up with my buckets and implements of steel, rubber and sponge. As I am lowered by the electric winch the almost imperceptible layer of grime is caught up in the sweet-smelling liquid and is swept away by the thin blade of rubber I wield with such alacrity. The technique of overlapping strokes in an unending curve, together with the advancement of industrial detergents (specifically those of Ximm window cleaning fluids) have made streak-free cleaning at high afternoon temperatures in the glare of the midday sun possible.

It is here, at this point, freshly equipped and clothed, that I began; the end of the southern wing, closing off toward the street in a circular structure, tapering slightly as it reaches toward the heavens, the base section of an enormous cone. I have come to see it as my point of departure. My work inevitably takes me along the slanting walls of the south wing, these conversely dwindling in dimension down toward the base in defiance of building tradition, on to the main axis of the E-shaped structure, a long rectangular block of glass fixed by simple right angles, and then along the outer surfaces of the north wing, identical in form to its southern correlate. From there my labors take me into the courtyard, bounded by the three inner walls of my legal palace, and open to the street. Completely devoid of vegetation, the sections between the concrete paths leading to the three entrances are sheets of water, approximately 20 centimeters deep. Tiny pumps keep the water circulating in order to avoid stagnation. Chlorine insures sterility. Depending on the weather conditions, these mirrors of water will create a strange effect that greatly enhances the purity of this environment, either unsettled by wind or rain, or calm as a complement to the glass on a calm day.

To enable me to be lowered flush with the inwardly slanting wing walls, my rig is attached to the vertical rails connecting the panes of glass by little bracketed rollers. Thus, even on my most imbalanced days, I am reassured by the stability of this, my cleaner's crib. It will come as no surprise then that the structure I clean has won its architect a number of prizes. I clean, make gleam, prize-winning glass, famous forms. My work is essential for the continuing high regard associated with this wonder of modernity. On the odd occasion I like to think that my work improves the quality of life of those working for Geier and Geier and Associates, the lives of those I observe from my variable vantage points, day after day, month for month, as I move around this building from one section to the next, blazing one vertical trail after the other. It would seem that they have been conditioned to their predicament. They sit in their systematically tidied offices at their centrally positioned desks, amid shelves of ordered ring binders and books of law, exposed to the view of those passing on the street, yet it would seem, impervious to the movement outside.

Ignored by those conditioned souls accustomed to such exposure, I am always thrilled to discover the newly employed members of the staff struggling with their self-consciousness. They are embarrassed when I interrupt the flow of my work to smile and wave, casting their eyes back down at their documents. The experienced, on the other hand, have long ceased to show signs of perturbation. My presence is inconsequential to the extent that they will not be disturbed in the performance of their trivial little nervous habits. I expect it has something to do with the rhythmical nature of my work, that machine like quality in my progression that assures them of my utter insignificance. Why is it, I wonder, that we associate impeccable behaviour with the outer trappings of professionalism? To observe these specimens, dressed so elegantly, moving in their air-conditioned glass environment, abandoning themselves to their little ticks, is truly fascinating. And it is my perspective that makes the appreciation of such displays possible. The pressure of their workload would appear to require diversion in grubby habits, precisely those they would see as signs of ill breeding in others, things they would never dream of doing in the company of others. I, the man responsible for the clarity of their view of the external world, am privileged to the whole range of their common activities. While examining court records, statements, police reports, and correspondence, while sorting documents, writing reports and letters, taking notes, speaking into dictaphones, or telephoning they will all, be it Geier senior himself or merely the secretary of a junior partner, invariably find recourse to some humble form of diversion. They pick noses, ears, teeth, pick dirt from under their fingernails, gnaw at strands of hair, eat ear wax and snot, flick the foraged material about the room, wipe the earwax or nose pickings on note paper or on the underside of their chairs or desks. Depending on how engrossed they are, they may even dispose of the material on the tips of their fingers by smearing it on their laundered clothes. They will scratch their scalps, their faces, and necks, usually examining their fingers for the fruits of their labour. They will claw at their itching crotches, or scratch their itching feet by sliding a finger into the long orifice between shoe leather and sock at the arch, and then sniffing their fingers to determine the extent of their foot odor. There is a strong fascination with smell to be noted in most, the sniffing of fingers being an extremely widespread habit. Apparently they cannot get enough of their own smells, the scent of grime on dead skin, dirt and dead tissue. Many a time have I had the pleasure of observing a professional loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, a secretary tugging at her blouse, puffing the trapped air around the body upwards, to determine the development of body odor. Jerky movements express their unease; a nervous tug at some elastic band here, the impatient readjustment of a strap there. And the tactile ascertainment of flawed skin surfaces, the seeking out of protuberances or damaged tissue is another popular activity. Once located, such imperfections are combated with vengeance. The puss forced from the pimples and the detritus of labial herpes is then ground between the fingertips, destroyed. It as if the one-sided nature of their activities, the imbalance of life devoted to a controlled forty-hour working week in air-conditioned rooms demands compensation in a lewd orgy of the senses, seeking solace in their own waste, convincing themselves that they continue to exist. I press the down switch. A whirring from above signals my decline to the third story. I see it as a ritual; the shades of time experienced in the successive stages of sobering up. The summer months are, of course, the most troublesome. The sun, fighting its way through the city haze flays my head and neck; it would desire to pass through, to cancel out, to destroy my shadow on the gray office carpet that defines my existence. Morning after morning, with the confidence that comes with a sufficiently high alcohol level in the blood from the night before, I am convinced of the importance of abstinence. I face the day with confidence, the first day in a new life. Brain pickled in murky viscous fluids, I stride out to face the bright challenge of the forthcoming day. Seated unsteadily upon my antique black bicycle, I am the hero of a new age, a bright prince ready for battle. In the course of the nine hour venture I will experience all those variations of emotion and physical disease associated with the receding level of detachment and the associated heightening of awareness.

Since no one seems in the least interested in the actual progression of my journey around the palace, I determine my own work schedule, a plan I do my best to follow: I begin work at seven and work through till nine thirty, take a fifteen minute break, and then work till twelve when it is time to take thirty minutes off for lunch. Working till two, I take a fifteen minute break before resuming work for the final burst which takes me to knock off time at four. It is an order I can depend on. These are the hours of self control, discipline. They are concrete. Such seemingly simple points of orientation bear a far greater significance than the movement along the surfaces, an abstraction I must disregard for reasons that have to do with the preservation of my sanity. It is, after all, all about clarity, clear freshly cleaned glass. Nothing, I assure you, is as pure, as true. Indeed, it represents my truth. My function as upholder of this integrity is indisputable.

Coated in a film of delicate grime enveloping detergent foam by my sponge, the smooth hard sheets are exposed anew by the curved configurations of my strokes - the keen rubber blade of my wiper - an immaculate reconception. With each reappearance of my reflection I am created anew, reminded of my presence for the hundred thousandth time, and it is for this reason that I prefer to focus on points beyond the surface of my devotion, the subjects within; cleaning to view them with greater clarity, it would seem. I work on my own terms. These are my sole dictates.

Chewing my cheese sandwich, drinking from my water bottle, the sound of the traffic, the passage of cars and trucks in their own asphyxiation, reaches me with greater clarity. The ASS tablets, those saviours of a nation, are doing their job. I know it well, so aware. And again, back and forth along the rig's platform, a sure-footed dance, my steps are true. Shuffle on the gray steel. Forget the Pogo, this is style, but if I'm Astaire, where's my rucking Rogers? Oh yes, my audience appreciatively surrenders to my style, little brightly dressed men on the barges going with the flow or battling upriver through the beige current of the slimy Rhiney. Look at me now, Mama. Salami lunch on rye, warm sandwiches and a deep draught of Quelle Acht mineral water, riding it out, playing it cool. It's fine, it's fine, man. I know it's not gonna last, but I'm cool. come on sun, give me all you've got! sock it to me, I'm up again: take me down rig buzzing whirring, hell I don't care all a matter of nerves losing the style bearing presence confidence movements jerky quick accuracy still there they'll have no cause for complaint these gibbons baboons in blue and gray keep that head up the curves smooth the foam thick full must be 90' up here somebody some rucking divinity put up the blinds? no? work fast don't want the last drops steaming away from you nerves hold on baby distraction yes think of something good something a universe away Janette for example enough money saved to afford her ass for a night see her tonight eros center fluffy bright gaudy room yeah get if off babe show me your ass all there yes sirree! drinking at home no bars save that cash jesus don't stop for the break put her up slowly past the old bald fart now the sweet little wench black dress white blouse button covered nipples mistress oh yes you have what it takes arrived clunk me in take me one step along the line to the next column of love and down slowly and dance little boy blue to the rhythm more of a rock 'n' roll number heading nowhere fast with a gun at my head take me in space to another time endure pride no shame what a drink would do for me now if all my friends could see me now friends? at the swilling trough low fattened tarts full of that hot wind no one loves you why should I could be worse after all Ethiopian in the desert with worms and a dead mother no milk world war 3 with I0 Stalins and I5 Hitlers far worse grip wiper hold on yes boy the strokes are all still there haven't lost it yet damn equilibrium not heights not the low warm dizziness of morning no no circulatory trouble on deck five sailor scrub that cabin marathons of anguish ahoy life on life's terms and solitary repercussions lean against that pane hold it together firm grip on yourself I hold it up the rucking exquisite Geier and Geier and Geier corporate executive porm show with red knobs save those unworthy false principles of law oh for a drinky dinky drink they're dancing with me Geier and the maid secretary couch lioness the paper chains torn from the ceiling decor for the pulsating shiny bodies if it wasn't for the likes of us gone with the sun and bleating dogs showing little I not respect for the masses why did she take my little girl of four years disgusting slob she screamed as if today now cringe pliers on my heart tremble take shake me down hype smelly excrement of language interminable pails vessel usually of cylindrical or truncated obconical shape made of wooden staves hooped with iron, or of sheet-metal and provided with a bail or hooped handle used for carrying milk water curse the trip to the tap room pour it the sum foreseen drain heavy strange negotiating swerving the path bordered moat woooaaaaaah fuck boots filled water rucking postmodem ponds fashion ponces in with the swing one million curses on them and their sheets of water now life in the fast lane screams toward lives of the cleaners and light and heat and purpose and sweat and love.

"What'll it be, Julius? Lookin' a bit peaky there!"

"Double Jagermeister."

My wise friend serves the liquid in a large tumbler to prevent spillage.

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