The Shop Window

Their shop window. All washed like that, every damn day. With the ladder. It made me sick. It wasn't good enough to hire the kid to come by on Fridays with his bucket. No, they had to wash that window every single damn day. God forbid someone should come to stare at all that crap and find a smudge on the window.

I hated him and his little round glasses so much. I'd go out there after closing—I mean, after I closed, late, nine o'clock, not after he closed—and smudge his damn window up myself. Drag my hand across it. Once, after I watched him drive his little sedan away, I reached up and patted the window with a banana peel I found in the gutter. Oh, he must have wondered about that the next day, up on his ladder, making everything just-so and perfect. Every day. He should thank me. Giving him something to do up there.

I thought the kid was fine. What's the big deal. Spread it around, that's what I say. Ten bucks a month doesn't sound like too much to me. Kid's got initiative, but Mr. Morton's Fine Jewelry wouldn't know anything about that. All he knows is wash-the-window, wash-the-window. I can see him from behind the counter, every day, noon.

I'm ready to grab a bite at noon. That's what people do at noon, or hadn't you noticed, Mr. Up-on-a-ladder? I have to wait 'til he's done. His window's right between me and Oscar's, where I go, so I have to wait. I'm not walking past him when he's up there. Him and his little lift-his-cap-up when you pass by. The kid always did right by me. And my window's bigger. But every night, I showed him. He wants to climb that ladder every day, and look down on all of us, that's fine by me. I'll give him something to clean up.