Dan Fante - Spitting Off Tall Buildings

‘Your name’s Dante?’ he asked.

‘Correct, Bruno Dante.’

‘You don’t look like a Dante. You don’t look like no I-talian.’

He was right. But he was being too pushy with his authority. He twisted his gelatinous neck around the side of the desk to see the rest of me. Because of my shortness my legs barely touched the floor when I sat upright in the chair. Murphy noted this and grunted. I watched his big lips curve downward and form a sneer. Hating him instantly was no problem.

‘My mother’s people are English-German,’ I said. ‘I get my light coloring from her side.’

You’re not from New York either, are ya?’

‘Los Angeles.’

Another sneer. ‘Oh, Hollywood?’

‘I was brought up in L.A.’

‘Everybody in the city would give their dick to get to the sunshine. And you go the other way?’

I didn’t answer.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I talked to Braddie. Braddie says you’re okay, that you’ll give me a day’s work. It so happens I may have an opening.’

‘I appreciate Brad’s recommendation.’

‘A lot of men apply here, Hollywood.’

‘Anyway, I’m appreciative.’

‘You are, huh?’

‘Correct.’

‘Ever do glass before, Hollywood? High-up work? Forty, fifty, sixty floors up?’

‘No. But it’ll be okay.’

‘Did Braddie tell you about how it gets when you’re up there?’

‘We didn’t discuss how it gets. What Brad told me was what you just said; that some of your buildings are over fifty floors. He mentioned that he worked for you for a while.’

‘Yeah, for about fifteen fuckin’ minutes. Braddie ain’t cut out for this deal. Did he tell you about cleaning the outside glass?’

‘You mean about using the belt to hook on? I know about that. We talked about that. I’ve seen it done.’

‘You scared?’

‘Scared? No. I need the work.’

‘I start my new guys off on the state contracts. Smaller jobs. Smaller buildings.’

‘Heights don’t bother me.’

The fat fingers of Murphy’s hands came around from the top of the desk and knitted themselves behind his neck causing his gut to thrust toward me like a charging sandbag. ‘Not yet, Hollywood,’ he cackled. ‘You ain’t eighty floors up in five degrees temperature with the wind up your ass yet, either. I pay good. I bet he told you that, didn’t he?’

‘Right. That’s what peaked my interest.’

Murphy was a true asshole. ‘Peaked…your interest? Peaked?’

‘Is there something wrong with wanting to make money?’

‘I pay by the pane; inside and out, up and down. A full window. Three bucks a pane. Sometimes we get more depending on the size of the windows. Four bucks, sometimes more.’

My mouth now said something stupid. I regretted the words immediately and wanted them back. ‘So we earn by the pane. That’s how most people learn, isn’t it?’

The fat man’s instincts were prehistoric. What amused him most was another human’s discomfort. ‘How tall are you,’ he sniggered. ‘Five-four, five-five?’

‘Approximately.’

‘What does that mean? Approximately. Then approximately how much do you weigh? Approximately?’

‘One fifty.’

‘Approximately?’

‘One fifty…How much do you weigh?’

Suddenly two massive, moist fists were clasping my wrists, effortlessly flipping my arms face up. I struggled for a second but realized I was pinned. ‘Let’s see your hands,’ he snarled.

After inspecting my palms, seeing no calluses, Murphy sneered again. ‘Small hands! This is a hard job, Hollywood. You gotta bust your ass here. We ain’t chauffeuring people in an airport van…or seating guests in the loge…This ain’t a fucking clerical employment opportunity.’

I freed myself and yanked my arms back against my body. ‘Am I hired or not?’

‘My new guys top out at thirty to forty panes a day. That comes out to roughly a hundred bucks, your end. Take home.’

‘I’m ready.’

He glanced back down at my application. ‘Yeah, well, I ain’t there yet…Tell me something; what’s the “S” stand for? The “S” here in your name on the paperwork? Bruno S. Dante?’

‘Just “S.”’

‘“S” what? A letter in someone’s name stands for something. What’s the “S” mean?’

I completely despised this prick. ‘The “S” stands for Smart.’

A new sneer. Murphy crossed his 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.’

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.