Spitting off tall buildings - By Dan Fante Page 0,21

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 shit.’

‘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 passing me different items; a pail, a brass 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 passed 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 fuck-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 assumed 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 hit 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. ‘Pisser, 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 pisser.’

Our train came.

It wasn’t yet morning rush hour. Flash opened his 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.

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