The Window Washer
Orit Yeret
Every shift begins at 4:00 a.m. As if the windows need to be crisp and clear as soon as the hotel guests open their eyes. They should not see me—they are not supposed to—that’s why I have to finish the four residential floors in record speed. That’s a must. That’s what they told me when they first hired me; that they needed someone fast, someone who can glide through, almost without being seen, to protect each and every guest’s privacy.
By 7:00 a.m. I’m allowed to take a break. That’s when I go up on the roof, and when, most mornings, the light hits perfectly between the old church windows, rising up ever so gently over the faraway mountain top. On a bright spring day you can almost see the waterfront; on a wet summer day you can even smell it and feel the cool water bubbles evaporate on your skin.
But it’s not the higher I go that excites me. I’ve traveled for years—I dedicated two decades of my life for this thrill, climbing the greatest mountains in the world: the wind in my hair, in my arms, my heart beating fast—like the way it does when I’m on this ledge, strapping myself up for another day of work, another day of adventure. These days, a vagabond no more, I have a stable job, a house, and a mortgage. But no one who truly needs me.
Through these windows I gaze into people’s lives. And, for what it’s worth, it makes me forget my own troubles for a few hours each day. See, when I am up there it’s the totality of things, not quite the horizon, but the top of a mountain, the ocean, sunrise, sunset. Down here, at street level, I am no one. They all pass by me, in and out of doors, sliding, sometimes smiling, wishing me a good day, but mostly in a hurry. Always in a hurry.
Today, around 8:00 a.m. I’m already downstairs, prepping my gear to wash the large first-floor windows—maybe the most important ones, since they cascade all the way down the street. They are the first pieces of glass you see as you approach the building—the first impression, the excitement. Since they are several steps higher, people walking up and down the sidewalk can’t recognize the figures moving inside. They are protected that way, partly seen but never exposed. Inside, the lobby and the restaurant are quiet.
As I mount the squeegee on the pole, adjusting it to the proper height, I see the waiters in the restaurant prepare for the breakfast crowd. They spread the freshly pressed white tablecloths on each table, neatly placing forks, knives, and cups for each guest. I turn my head to dip the sponge in the bucket of soapy water and smile to myself, remembering the times in my travels I was refused service at such an upscale restaurant because I didn’t look right, or maybe didn’t smell right…when, after spending days out surrounded only by nature, all I wanted was a taste of civilized life. And now, standing so close to the plate, I can almost hear the first sound that the cutlery will make as it brushes against the china. Yet I am still on the other side of it.
I press the wipers against the window, up and down, up and down, and the water descends like a waterfall. As the reflection clears, I see a couple sitting down at a table in the back; the woman is pregnant; the man looks familiar--Have I seen him before? I wonder. Another roll and then a quick dry wipe. I’m sure I have, but where? Here, maybe? With her, maybe? Or…a few weeks ago, yes, with someone else, another woman? I can’t put my finger on it…but I know that I know him; somehow I know he is not who he pretends to be.
I bend down now to wipe the outside frame of any water remains, before mounting up another squeegee. At a different table an older couple just sat down; they stare at the menu for a long time without talking. Finally, they order their meal and ask for the daily newspaper. Not to solve the crossword puzzle together, I assume and am proven right—they split it equally, and then sit and read to themselves until their meals arrive.
Pressing the wipers against the second window, I see the wait staff fussing over old man Charlie. He always gets the best table, and a seat is cleared for his wheelchair. He was wounded in the war. I can’t remember which one, but he comes to this hotel every year to celebrate Veterans Day with the ones who are left. Perhaps fearing one day he might be here all alone. His comrades soon join in. Weren’t there more of them last year? I count the bodies without seeing their faces. Their backs are all turned against the window; Charlie is the only one looking in my direction—not at me, but beyond me, toward the distance.
The restaurant is getting busy now. Two boys, six-year-old twins, are running between the tables as their parents call them over, begging them to cease and behave themselves. They stop for a minute near the window, look down at me, wave, and smile—I smile back and push down the wipers; when I look back they are gone. I dip the squeegee in the water again.
From the corner of my eye I notice a young woman is being seated at a corner side table near the window. She must have requested it specifically since the other guests seem to center in the middle of the room. She pulls out a notebook and starts writing; a cup of coffee is being poured to her left. She looks up at the waiter, thanks him, and then puts down her pen and takes a long sip. She does it so gently I can practically smell what she is smelling—as if the aroma of coffee beans was on the tip of my beard. For a split second, we exchange a brief look as she stares out the window, but I can tell her eyes are not focused on me and her thoughts are miles away from here, miles away from me. She sighs and then goes back to her notebook. I wonder what kind of writing she does. I wonder if she is going to look at me again. I wonder, What can I possibly offer her? I move the clean water bucket farther away.
Outside, the seasons change. Inside, people come and go. As I prepare for the final wipe down, I take a break for a second to admire my work. Out on the sidewalk I can see a man standing near the hotel entrance; he is wearing a long navy wool coat and looking into the distance, as if he was just about to pull out a cigarette for a quick smoke. He looks around but does not seem to notice me. I pull up some paper towels to wipe the outside frame. I turn for a second and see a woman running across the street, an oversized green scarf around her neck.
“I’m here,” she says with a smile as her feet touch ground. The man grabs hold of her hand and they kiss gently. I smile to myself as I watch the scene unfold right beside me, picturing it in slow motion—the coat, the scarf, the kiss. If only everything were that simple…If only life were that simple…
As I start breaking apart the large pole they disappear. It was a mirage, I tell myself, a vision from a past life perhaps? something that was never supposed to be seen. Or a hint into a future? a distant future; something that is yet to be told.
I look up at the crisp and clear windows. I look up at the restaurant crowd. I see people chatting away, laughing, exchanging stories, living their lives. I gaze at my own reflection and can only see my upper body—unshaven, long-haired, forty-something fool. Dark circles around my eyes from lack of sleep, lack of yearning. Sometimes I can’t believe years of soul-searching have led me here.
In the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse from the direction of the young woman in the corner, a sunbeam. I squint and see she is looking straight at me now, with a curious stare in her eyes.
I turn my eyes away—I am not supposed to be seen—and continue to pack up my gear. I watch as the excess water drains and mixes with the sidewalk. People passing by tread carefully to avoid getting their shoes wet. I look up and see her staring still, holding her pen in her mouth.
Like a game of shadow and light, she stares. I notice. I look away. A waiter comes over to clear her plate now; she asks for another cup of coffee. He pours the coffee and she takes a long sip again, her eyes still fixed on me though I pretend I’m not paying attention. I place the last of the wipes and turn to walk back, through the service entrance, when I hear what sounds like a light tap on the window. I brush it off for a second but then hear it again.
I turn around. She is knocking on the window from inside, signaling me to come closer.
I hesitate; What is this? But she smiles and waves me over. I stand still for a moment, holding my gear, wanting to go on but fearful of the outcome. When did I become so afraid?
I pace lightly in her direction, looking sideways, making sure no one is watching.
When we face each other, on opposite sides of the glass, she backs away from the table and lowers herself down, almost kneeling, so we are at the same eye level. She pauses for a second, looks at me, and just smiles. I stand there, motionless, for some reason unable to move; everything about her captivates me. She pulls out her notebook, opens it to one of the pages, and sticks it against the glass.
I can feel my mouth becoming wide and a flash of heat running to my cheeks, as she shows me a black-and-white drawing—of me holding up the pole, pushing the wipes down, surrounded by a cloud of soap and water. In the corner she had written in block letters “The Window Washer.”
Orit Yeret
Every shift begins at 4:00 a.m. As if the windows need to be crisp and clear as soon as the hotel guests open their eyes. They should not see me—they are not supposed to—that’s why I have to finish the four residential floors in record speed. That’s a must. That’s what they told me when they first hired me; that they needed someone fast, someone who can glide through, almost without being seen, to protect each and every guest’s privacy.
By 7:00 a.m. I’m allowed to take a break. That’s when I go up on the roof, and when, most mornings, the light hits perfectly between the old church windows, rising up ever so gently over the faraway mountain top. On a bright spring day you can almost see the waterfront; on a wet summer day you can even smell it and feel the cool water bubbles evaporate on your skin.
But it’s not the higher I go that excites me. I’ve traveled for years—I dedicated two decades of my life for this thrill, climbing the greatest mountains in the world: the wind in my hair, in my arms, my heart beating fast—like the way it does when I’m on this ledge, strapping myself up for another day of work, another day of adventure. These days, a vagabond no more, I have a stable job, a house, and a mortgage. But no one who truly needs me.
Through these windows I gaze into people’s lives. And, for what it’s worth, it makes me forget my own troubles for a few hours each day. See, when I am up there it’s the totality of things, not quite the horizon, but the top of a mountain, the ocean, sunrise, sunset. Down here, at street level, I am no one. They all pass by me, in and out of doors, sliding, sometimes smiling, wishing me a good day, but mostly in a hurry. Always in a hurry.
Today, around 8:00 a.m. I’m already downstairs, prepping my gear to wash the large first-floor windows—maybe the most important ones, since they cascade all the way down the street. They are the first pieces of glass you see as you approach the building—the first impression, the excitement. Since they are several steps higher, people walking up and down the sidewalk can’t recognize the figures moving inside. They are protected that way, partly seen but never exposed. Inside, the lobby and the restaurant are quiet.
As I mount the squeegee on the pole, adjusting it to the proper height, I see the waiters in the restaurant prepare for the breakfast crowd. They spread the freshly pressed white tablecloths on each table, neatly placing forks, knives, and cups for each guest. I turn my head to dip the sponge in the bucket of soapy water and smile to myself, remembering the times in my travels I was refused service at such an upscale restaurant because I didn’t look right, or maybe didn’t smell right…when, after spending days out surrounded only by nature, all I wanted was a taste of civilized life. And now, standing so close to the plate, I can almost hear the first sound that the cutlery will make as it brushes against the china. Yet I am still on the other side of it.
I press the wipers against the window, up and down, up and down, and the water descends like a waterfall. As the reflection clears, I see a couple sitting down at a table in the back; the woman is pregnant; the man looks familiar--Have I seen him before? I wonder. Another roll and then a quick dry wipe. I’m sure I have, but where? Here, maybe? With her, maybe? Or…a few weeks ago, yes, with someone else, another woman? I can’t put my finger on it…but I know that I know him; somehow I know he is not who he pretends to be.
I bend down now to wipe the outside frame of any water remains, before mounting up another squeegee. At a different table an older couple just sat down; they stare at the menu for a long time without talking. Finally, they order their meal and ask for the daily newspaper. Not to solve the crossword puzzle together, I assume and am proven right—they split it equally, and then sit and read to themselves until their meals arrive.
Pressing the wipers against the second window, I see the wait staff fussing over old man Charlie. He always gets the best table, and a seat is cleared for his wheelchair. He was wounded in the war. I can’t remember which one, but he comes to this hotel every year to celebrate Veterans Day with the ones who are left. Perhaps fearing one day he might be here all alone. His comrades soon join in. Weren’t there more of them last year? I count the bodies without seeing their faces. Their backs are all turned against the window; Charlie is the only one looking in my direction—not at me, but beyond me, toward the distance.
The restaurant is getting busy now. Two boys, six-year-old twins, are running between the tables as their parents call them over, begging them to cease and behave themselves. They stop for a minute near the window, look down at me, wave, and smile—I smile back and push down the wipers; when I look back they are gone. I dip the squeegee in the water again.
From the corner of my eye I notice a young woman is being seated at a corner side table near the window. She must have requested it specifically since the other guests seem to center in the middle of the room. She pulls out a notebook and starts writing; a cup of coffee is being poured to her left. She looks up at the waiter, thanks him, and then puts down her pen and takes a long sip. She does it so gently I can practically smell what she is smelling—as if the aroma of coffee beans was on the tip of my beard. For a split second, we exchange a brief look as she stares out the window, but I can tell her eyes are not focused on me and her thoughts are miles away from here, miles away from me. She sighs and then goes back to her notebook. I wonder what kind of writing she does. I wonder if she is going to look at me again. I wonder, What can I possibly offer her? I move the clean water bucket farther away.
Outside, the seasons change. Inside, people come and go. As I prepare for the final wipe down, I take a break for a second to admire my work. Out on the sidewalk I can see a man standing near the hotel entrance; he is wearing a long navy wool coat and looking into the distance, as if he was just about to pull out a cigarette for a quick smoke. He looks around but does not seem to notice me. I pull up some paper towels to wipe the outside frame. I turn for a second and see a woman running across the street, an oversized green scarf around her neck.
“I’m here,” she says with a smile as her feet touch ground. The man grabs hold of her hand and they kiss gently. I smile to myself as I watch the scene unfold right beside me, picturing it in slow motion—the coat, the scarf, the kiss. If only everything were that simple…If only life were that simple…
As I start breaking apart the large pole they disappear. It was a mirage, I tell myself, a vision from a past life perhaps? something that was never supposed to be seen. Or a hint into a future? a distant future; something that is yet to be told.
I look up at the crisp and clear windows. I look up at the restaurant crowd. I see people chatting away, laughing, exchanging stories, living their lives. I gaze at my own reflection and can only see my upper body—unshaven, long-haired, forty-something fool. Dark circles around my eyes from lack of sleep, lack of yearning. Sometimes I can’t believe years of soul-searching have led me here.
In the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse from the direction of the young woman in the corner, a sunbeam. I squint and see she is looking straight at me now, with a curious stare in her eyes.
I turn my eyes away—I am not supposed to be seen—and continue to pack up my gear. I watch as the excess water drains and mixes with the sidewalk. People passing by tread carefully to avoid getting their shoes wet. I look up and see her staring still, holding her pen in her mouth.
Like a game of shadow and light, she stares. I notice. I look away. A waiter comes over to clear her plate now; she asks for another cup of coffee. He pours the coffee and she takes a long sip again, her eyes still fixed on me though I pretend I’m not paying attention. I place the last of the wipes and turn to walk back, through the service entrance, when I hear what sounds like a light tap on the window. I brush it off for a second but then hear it again.
I turn around. She is knocking on the window from inside, signaling me to come closer.
I hesitate; What is this? But she smiles and waves me over. I stand still for a moment, holding my gear, wanting to go on but fearful of the outcome. When did I become so afraid?
I pace lightly in her direction, looking sideways, making sure no one is watching.
When we face each other, on opposite sides of the glass, she backs away from the table and lowers herself down, almost kneeling, so we are at the same eye level. She pauses for a second, looks at me, and just smiles. I stand there, motionless, for some reason unable to move; everything about her captivates me. She pulls out her notebook, opens it to one of the pages, and sticks it against the glass.
I can feel my mouth becoming wide and a flash of heat running to my cheeks, as she shows me a black-and-white drawing—of me holding up the pole, pushing the wipes down, surrounded by a cloud of soap and water. In the corner she had written in block letters “The Window Washer.”
