The Adventures of Squeegee Bob Square Pants
Sam Yeldham braves social ignominy to bring you an expose on the world of window washing.
The last time I had my car windscreen cleaned by one of Sydney’s fine traffic light custodians, the outcome of our transaction was not at all positive. My continual objections to his craftsmanship aggravated the custodian to such an extent that he squirted my screen with his suds, spouted more inappropriate remarks than John Brogden on a bender and had the audacity to leave my window wipers up.
As I proceeded to drive down Parramatta road with my upright wipers flailing in the wind, my mind was flooded with curiosity. Why was he so aggressive towards me? Surely the job of window washing is not so intense that to be rejected by a potential customer would send you into such a rage. Surely window washing is quite an easy job, with the only down sides being a susceptibility to sunburn, the occasional bad customer and the possibility of being tasered by bored police officers who have tired of chasing skyline driving P-platers.
As I pulled over to reset my wagging wipers and clean off the suds, which were beginning to inhibit my visibility, I was overcome by a burning and, in hindsight, rather stupid desire: I wanted to find out for myself what that job is like. I wanted to be a window washer.
The first step towards beginning any new occupation is the acquisition of appropriate tools. Just as a lawyer buys a new briefcase or a pimp imports brass knuckles, I too had to possess some fundamental objects that would guarantee me a successful start in the new job.
An empty plastic bottle with a hole in the lid was easy enough to attain by rummaging through my neighbour’s trash, but getting hold of the cleaning tool most commonly referred to as a squeegee, would turn out to be a far more difficult task.
A friend expertly informed me that most window washers steal their squeegees from petrol stations, alluding to the type of people that would soon be my co-workers. My friend also argued that in order to be an authentic window washer, I too had to steal my squeegee, much like the Jedi who must make their own lightsaber.
So, at eleven thirty on a Friday night I strolled casually to my local BP and committed my first crime. Displaying a total lack of understanding about how to steal something I forgot to “case the joint”, which resulted in my failure to notice that an attendant was restocking the ice fridge a few feet from where my new tool was located.
As soon as I grabbed the squeegee and turned to leave the mere sound of the attendant’s voice spooked me so much that I ran in front of oncoming traffic, screeching lines from the movie Gallipoli. My legs were indeed steel springs and I was as fast as a leopard. Although he only pursued me to the edge of the petrol station, the mere fact that he bothered to try marked my first experience with the rather nasty and pervasive social attitude held about my chosen profession.
Almost as vital to an occupation as having the correct tools is the adoption of suitable uniform. Like a fireman’s jacket is protective or a pimp’s coat has many pockets in which to hide his brass knuckles, the attire of the window washer is equally as practical.
A singlet with at least three tears in it is vital for two reasons. The first is to expose the washer’s beautiful, gangly, sun bleached arms, and the second is to ensure correct ventilation of the more body-hair dense regions: the armpit, chest and of course stomach. In addition to a singlet, a hat – preferably promoting an 80s rock band – is a necessary condition for correct clothing. Luckily I have a Duran Duran baseball cap in my possession. Although Duran Duran, with their unique brand of romantic synth pop are not quite the hard rock supported by most washers, I am new and therefore will be forgiven.
Around this glorious city there are some infamous cross-sections where it is an unfortunate reality that if you stop at the lights, you will have your window washed. Military road has some fantastic old stoplights that take forever to change over, and therefore provide washers with ample amounts of time to work.
On Oxford St, about two blocks from Taylor Square there is a right hand turn lane that is almost always congested. Although you have to be quick to wash the main two lanes of traffic, it is still a very busy and workable spot. For my new work environment I decided that I needed a space that I was both familiar with and knew had an established and consistent roster of washers. After all, I was not ready to start my own franchise in uncharted territory.
The intersection of South Dowling and Cleveland is one of the most notorious locations in Sydney. The green light that allows cars to travel through the artery that is Cleveland street is very short, meaning that typically the lanes are crowded, which would be perfect for my new office space. I had seen many washers on this intersection and so I hoped that I would perhaps meet a friendly veteran kind enough to become my new mentor: the Plato to my Aristotle, Mr Miyagi to my Daniel-san or O.J Simpson to my criminals across the globe. With my squeegee, uniform and location sorted I was now part of a very small and particularly detested section of society. I was a stoplight window washer.
Rarely in life does a person learn an absolute truth, but five minutes into trying to be a window washer I had had one in my grasp. Certain as I am that the world is round, space is curved and sailing is for wankers, I know that no one actually wants their window washed. After half a dozen green light cycles, I had not been asked once to clean someone’s windscreen.
Every single driver had dismissed me with the conventional shake of the head or wave of the hand. Desperate to find out why nobody wanted me to wash their windscreens, I went directly to the consumer. Although I did not catch his name, I took my case to a gentleman in a blue Mini-Cooper who put it to me plainly and simply. “Mate, no one actually needs their window washed, but if you just do it anyway, people will feel obligated to pay you.” Was the gentleman in the blue mini correct? Could I gain my first client by disregarding the fundamental rule of salesmanship, the customer is always right? Was the customer in fact always wrong?
As the lights changed red I raised the squeegee that I had recently nicknamed squeegee bob square pants, and moved into the traffic. Car engines growled like Chinese tigers as I moved through the parallel queues. Drivers eyeballed me from beneath their sun visors. I could smell the fear. Finally I saw my prey typing a message on his mobile phone, before he had time to say “no” his wipers were vertical and his screen was covered in suds.
Suddenly I was overcome, a new persona came surging to the surface and forced me to yell in a stereotypical accent “oh mate it’s such a beautiful day, I can’t be letting you drive around with a dirty windscreen.” Once the final lines of suds were wiped clean and the driver dumped a dollar fifty’s worth of shrapnel into my awaiting hand. I was shocked. It had worked, and what’s more it was extremely satisfying. It seemed that my new persona’s up beat banter had disarmed the driver’s anger and forced him to contribute to my retirement fund. This was going to be easier than I thought.
Guilt is a powerful tool, within a few cycles I had earned over four dollars. No matter how much a person refused my services, I used my new persona to manipulate the driver’s negativity. If they said something like “I told you, I don’t want my window cleaned!” I would say, “Oh but love, I am simply performing my duties as a public servant, take it up with the city.” Or if they said “didn’t you hear me, I don’t have any change” I would reply “Sir, I cannot let you drive with such a dirty windscreen, if you crashed it would be my responsibility.”
Although I would never expected money for my efforts, many people did indeed feel obligated to dip into their ashtrays. Times were good, and the change continued to trickle in, I could practically smell the service station sausage roll. Sure there were a few bad customers, a gentleman in a Ute stated that people like me are a “public nuisance” and should “get a real job like everyone else”, but my skin was tough enough to weather such comments. Or so I thought.
Around forty minutes into my shift I approached a silver Toyota occupied by two sweet looking old ladies, aka easy prey. The driver’s window was down so I could clearly hear all forms of objections to my services as I raised their wipers.
Instantly my persona began to put words in my mouth, but just as I was about to explain to the ladies why they needed my services the driver leaned out the window, and stated firmly in some kind of foreign accent, “You! You need to find Jesus!” Obviously sensing my confusion the driver clarified herself, “You know, the man on the cross?” Instantly my persona took control and forced me to remark, “Oh yeah I’ve read all his books, pretty cool dude.” But no matter how witty my persona’s remark was, the assumption behind the old lady’s comment began to bother me. “I don’t need to find Jesus, I am working hard for an honest living” I thought to myself.
As it turned out, the senior citizen was not alone in her assumption. A few moments later as I sprayed his windshield, a man in a BMW rolled down the window and remarked, “Probably need the money for drugs don’t you, you fucking loser”. Strolling back to my island in the middle of the road, a car full of P-platers bellowed a similar opinion to that of the BMW driver whilst also attempting to squirt me with some sort of energy drink.
My attitude began to shift from confident, to frustration to downright aggression as more and more people began to speak their mind. Where once I would wash someone’s window because I thought they would not mind, I began to do so purely out of spite. The more the driver said no, the more inclined I was to spray their windscreen with suds. Indeed, I was beginning to see why the washer who left my wipers up was so aggressive – you have to be in order to survive.
By the hour and a half mark I had fully transformed into a window cleaning monster. But as I slithered over to a white Mazda convertible with the intention to disregard the driver’s wishes and take control of his window, I was once more confronted with a harsh reality.
As I positioned myself beside the windshield ready to raise the wipers with a slimy smile the driver said, in a tone that can only be described as sympathetic, “Aw mate, don’t worry about the windscreen. Here, take some change.” Shocked, I extended my hand as the Mazda driver dropped a small cold coin into my palm. As our golden Queen stared up at me and the traffic began to move through the intersection, I stood totally stunned. Was I no better than a beggar?
My aggression slowly began to subside as regret gently rested his icy hand upon my reddened shoulder. I felt guilty. Not because I had to force people to let me clean their windows, or even because I had accepted money without performing this simple service.
I felt guilty because I had not realised what that red light custodian was trying to do when he cleaned my window a few days back. Instead of demanding it, expecting it or even stealing it, he was giving me the opportunity to let him earn my charity.
Regardless of whether or not I felt that I should have given him any money, the least I should have given him was my courtesy. Now I am certainly not advising that we should all roll down our windows and give automobile window cleaners a big hug, although a lot of people would shake hands with politicians and most of them are actually criminals (I’m looking at you, Turnbull). I am, however, advising that for the most part we should put down our prejudices, stereotypes and assumptions, and for the few seconds that a window washer is at our cars be happy that these people are doing us a service, instead of stealing our VCRs.
Disclaimer: The editors of queer honi, QuAC, and the Executive and council of the SRC do not endorse the views and opinions expressed in this article.