The industry wasn’t what it used to be, that was for sure. As Arthur dunked his squeegee in the bucket and set his automatic platform for the 32nd floor, he decided the problem was that the glamour was all gone.
He could take the uniform changes. Sure, the dapper suit and the jaunty whistle had added a certain credibility to his profession, but the inner-city smog obscured most of his appearance anyway. And, if he was honest, he liked the updraught he caught in the new company-issue shorts.
No, the real issue was that the view
had changed.
The worst bit was the tracksuit pants,
he thought, as he removed a particularly nasty bird poo from the
penthouse bay window. When he’d started, it was all gloves and twin
sets. Perfectly coiffed hair. Aprons over full, pressed skirts and
dinner in the oven. Pinstripes and whiskey.
He sighed. These days, even the sex
scenes lacked grooming. Without the champagne and negligees, the
slicked hair and cigarettes, it was just human flesh and animal
instinct. Nobody kept up appearances. Nobody courted home-front
glamour.
And worse, nobody knew how to behave.
People used to do him the courtesy of
pretending not to notice him – now they stared, or tried to smile.
Last week, a woman with badly dyed hair had actually come over to the
window. Her mouth had moved with words he couldn’t hear, and she’d
pressed her hand against the window.
When she took her
hand away, there was a smudge on the inside of the glass. They both
stared at it for a long time, before he shrugged and moved to the
next level. There was nothing he could do. The smear was on the
inside, and he couldn’t reach it.
0 kommentarer:
Post a Comment