[Marxism] That Dan Barry squeegee men article

[Louis Proyect <lnp3@xxxxxxxxx>]

NY Times, June 24, 2006
About New York Squeegee Men, Still Around, Still Relentless
By DAN BARRY

THE intersection of West 41st Street and Dyer Avenue ranks among the least 
attractive corners of Manhattan, all bus exhaust and Lincoln Tunnel 
traffic. The surrounding concrete-and-fencing motif creates a sense of 
temporary incarceration, with only a sluggish green light to grant parole.

Lingering there Thursday were those simply trying to make a buck. The 
forklift operator unloading watermelon with balletic turns at the back of 
Stiles Farmers Market. The construction worker dabbing his trowel like a 
paintbrush on a canvas of wet cement. And the two men wielding a different 
kind of utensil with similar aesthetic intent: a squeegee.

"There's an art to it," one of the men, Rodney, confided as a green light 
liberated potential customers. "The faster you are wiping the soap and 
water off the window, the gooder you are. The fastest can get two or three 
a light."

He and his partner, Timothy, referred to themselves as window washers, 
which might offend those who risk their lives for the viewing pleasure of 
penthouse dwellers. They both claimed to have been practicing their craft 
since 1980, which, if true, would entitle them to some kind of squeegee 
pension, if not a city proclamation for audacious endurance.

Squeegee men? How, how, so last century. It was as if they were unaware of 
their own extinction: a dodo's fate that began more than a decade ago with 
the eradication efforts of an annoyed Mayor David N. Dinkins and then a 
zealous Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani, who somehow made them the symbol of a 
city slouching toward ruin.

Few recall them fondly (squeegee men, that is, not necessarily former 
mayors). At red lights they violated the space of your Ford or Toyota, 
slapped gray water on the windshield, interpreted frantic pantomimes of 
"No, no" to mean "More, more," wiped away most of the gray and then waited 
for the pressed buttons of undefined guilt to eject a dollar through a side 
window's slit.

They were the city's unofficial greeters, standing at its portals with 
squeegees for flags and buckets of dirty water for confetti ­ until, 
suddenly, they vanished, dispersed by persistent policing of what the 
city's administrative code calls "certain forms of aggressive 
solicitation." One or two practitioners resurfaced a few years ago, just 
long enough to stir some silliness that their presence signaled a crime 
spike, a lax City Hall, Armageddon.

Amazement, then, rather than nostalgia, prompted a noontime pause to watch 
Rodney and Timothy in the execution of their rounds. Their retro street 
theater included acts of traffic-dodging contortion, clownish spills of 
water and facial expressions that ranged from puppy dog to attack dog.

"We don't rob, we don't steal, we don't sell narcotics," said Timothy, a 
sleepy-eyed reed of a man wearing a Yankees jersey. "We wash windows."

The light turned red and he hustled out to splash soapy-soupy water onto 
the windshield of a cherry-red sport utility vehicle. His efforts prompted 
a series of crazed hand gestures within the car that perhaps he interpreted 
as applause.

Moments later there came fluttering from a side window a small flag of 
surrender the color of green.

Then Rodney, as brawny as Timothy is thin, took his turn with a gray Honda, 
only to come away with a sulk suggesting that the driver had failed 
humankind. "If they say no, don't do it," he advised. "You know what? 
There's more than one car."

Soon a white S.U.V. with New Jersey plates found itself being blessed with 
New York water by Pastor Rodney. "A buck for good luck," he said, smiling, 
as the driver pulled away, not.

Rodney and Timothy both reeked of something potent, perhaps an especially 
bad batch of Old Spice. Now Timothy, swaying slightly, was standing in the 
middle of Dyer Avenue, directing the traffic that raced desperately to 
avoid a red light and thus his squeegee.

A blue Grand Cherokee lost the race, and Timothy tried to soothe it with 
strokes of his slobbering squeegee. The driver, though, wanted no part of 
Timothy's cheap comfort and told him so with gesture and word.

"Come on, man," Timothy shouted, his sleepy eyes awakening with anger.

Soon, though, he was washing another car's window, oblivious to the green 
light and the sounding of horns. That was when Rodney ran over to help 
finish the job. "That's called teamwork," said Rodney.

For each window sullied and unsullied, these squeegee throwbacks received 
one dollar: way too much and yet not enough, it is a toll collected at the 
intersection.

Email: dabarry@xxxxxxxxxxx
 


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