The Squeegee Boy

The squeegee boy comes closer, dirty wet rag in hand, aimless distant light-brown eyes and a smile that proclaims innocence, heartbreak and desperation. He looks at me but I know his gaze is turned inward, focused solely on the paradise inhaled with the cement fumes. His coffee-and-milk skin is lusterless and scaly, hard to believe its former richness; his black hair, cropped closed to his head, is dirty, full of little white specks, perhaps his scalp peeling off bit by bit; his clothes are worn and streaked with dirty water. Though young, he is a veteran of these streets. He has worked this corner for many months, with a group of his street friends. They are proud of their organization, their cleanliness (they take turns sweeping the sidewalk on their corner! they are careful not to spill water from the buckets they use for their work!). They pool their profits each day to reach paradise together.

The squeegee boy is not aggressive. He doesn't throw his rag on the windshield, he doesn't hang onto the car, he doesn't scream loudly and menace with his eyes, to intimidate the driver. His inhaled paradise keeps him meek and mild. When I shake my head softly, rejecting his service, his gaze turns outward and focuses on me, for a second, then his eyes empty out again and he is far, far away, an angelic smile all that's left, a testament to his fantasy life. He moves away from the car and I drive on.

Copyright Karina Sang 2008