Windshield

I’m overwhelmed with numbers. 500 for a beyond past due phone bill, 436 for the car payment I have yet to make, 1400 for a mortgage on a house I don’t get to sleep in two days a week, because I have to travel 120 one-way to work in St. Louis on the weekend. I shuffle through a stack of ones in my car to determine how much to put in my gas tank. In the old days, I’d fill ‘er up. “Well, I need gas,” I’d say.

            The gas nozzle is covered in a hard plastic sheath, making it difficult to shove it into my tank. and because I had to prepay with cash – my debit card would definitely yield no debits at this point—the gas pump hums a slow tricking of gas into Kip (Yes, my car is named Kip) in an effort to prevent my going over the $40.00 limit. And the whole time all that rolls though my mind is how much bullshit it is. Why does everything have to be so hard? Wasn’t EVERYTHING so much easier when I had money? My general disposition is in direct correlation to how much money I have, because that’s the marker of how secure I feel. How free from fear I can pretend to be.

            A man darts into my peripheral vision—shabby clothes, unkempt. He’s carrying a bucket. I’m still watching the pump, the slow accounting of gallons expended, the dollars spent in order to move from one place to another. And I don’t want to look at him, this man moving closer to me, for reasons I can’t even consciously register, but they race through my mind so quickly I can’t linger on just one long enough without losing focus minding my gas pump, but it sounded something like this . . .“You’re a girl and obviously distracted and utterly alone. Keep it under $40. Don’t pay attention to the black man that’s coming directly at you. If you look at him suspiciously, if you look afraid, he might think you’re a racist. But what about the $600 in cash in the wallet resting on the front seat of your unlocked car? Shouldn’t you be cautious about that? This IS St. Louis, the most dangerous city in the United States. Stupid people get robbed because they leave large amounts of cash in the front seat of their unlocked car, and you CAN NOT afford to get robbed right now!”

He rounds the front of my car.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?” He’s going to ask me for change. He wants money, though he’s not going to steal it, but he wants money I don’t really have. And almost worse than robbing me—he’ll ask if I can spare some, and the truth is that I really can’t. That $600 is only a fraction of what I need, but he doesn’t know that. I feel like an asshole.

“Ma’am, I’m not tryin’ to bother you or nothin’. I just wondered if you’d like me to clean the glass on your car.”

I AM an asshole. A racist asshole. I look this guy in the eyes and know immediately that he means me no harm, but wouldn’t look at him until now to confirm it.

Still I ask, almost incredulously: “You wanna clean the glass on my car?” He doesn't want to rob me, or even beg me for money. He’s asking to perform a service, one he’s prepared to provide. He does the exact same thing I do every night. I probably don’t need my glass cleaned, just like most people don’t NEED a lap dance. But for whatever reason, people pay for this service and it’s what I rely on.

            “Yeah,” I tell him, “yes, you can clean my windows.” Before I can grab five dollars from my wallet, he’s spraying away, using his squeegee to pick off specks of dead bug and bird shit. When I hand him the money, he looks pleasantly surprised, like he’s accustomed to only one dollar, maybe two, and he pulls a rag from his pocket to polish spots he missed on the side mirror. And I feel guilty about the amount of energy I spent all day fretting over the thousands of dollars I need to catch up on my unforgiving debts . Still, that five dollars, I can make back in just a few minutes at work, and that five dollars isn’t going to appease any of the wolves at my door. Here I am—trying to make two grand just to feel comfortable and five stupid dollars makes this man’s day. I’m ashamed I didn’t give him more.

            “Hey man, do you smoke?” I ask, grabbing the last of my old pack of cigarettes, just three lone smokes left inside.

            “Yes, I smoke.” I hand the cigarettes over to him, tell him to keep the pack. “Oh lady, I thank you so much. And they say there ain’t angels in the world.”

            “Oh, I’m no angel.” I want to tell him I’m actually a stripper. I’ve made all the wrong decisions and now I’m paying for it. I’m the asshole that thought you might rob me two minutes ago.

            “What’s your name, sir?” I ask.

            “Windshield,” he says, pinching a cigarette between his lips and pulling it out. It’s not right for me to call him Windshield, he’s at least twenty years older than me.

            “What’s your real name?” It’s a question I hate, and as soon as it exits my lips, I think to all the times I’ve been asked the same thing and felt really annoyed at the inquisitor. But the circumstances make me understand, at least maybe, how important names are.

            “George White.”

“Mr. White, I hope you have a good night.” I extend my hand to him. His rough hand reaches up and finds mine, he gently squeezes it. I squeeze back, just thinking . . . “Me, too, man. We’re all just trying to make it through. We’re all just fryin’ in the same old pan*.”

**Credit for this last line, of course, extended to the venerable Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show and Shel Silverstein.