The window washer assumed his throne, dangling beside his sullied doppelganger: a bullhide riveted harness, hundreds of meters high, halfway down the 40 Wall Street building, not a voice to be heard. He hung like a denim angel. An embroidered patch spelling "OTTO" was ironed on to his and his reflection's coveralls.
Otto shaved across the windowface with his squeegee, erasing the patina of city grime -- the clotted residue of cloacal precipitation and palpable misanthropy and combustion engines. Otto cleaned off all the filth. The man with the "OTTO" patch looked nicely polished, so he reasoned the window must too.
The windows themselves aren't interesting much at all. Hundred fifty eight panes. But it's just glass, invisible, you know. You got all these people on the inside looking out. And then on the outside you got this wild world, which is where all the people inside think they are. They're looking out all the time, wishing they was there.
But they got me up here, cleaning off all the slop from that there wild world they're so infatuated with. Once a week. But they sure as hell don't recognize good ol' Otto down in the foyer. I can see them in there under that fluorescent light, all incubating and the like. I recognize each of my little flightless chickadees, watching outwards all starry-eyed, every last one.
Otto slackened his line and sunk one floor down. Inside, the broker behind the desk had been staring outside instead of at his cryptic numbers. From his leather glove Otto extracted his impish hand. In capital letters, his fingertip smudged the letters "OTTO". The stock broker behind the desk became the broker in front of the desk. He smudged in kind with a reciprocal "OTTO".
Inside-Otto unhinged the window, defenestrating outside-Otto's reflection far far far to the pavement below -- quite opaque, quite terminal. Inside-Otto saddled his spoils from the coup, the reflection's harness. Outside-Otto grew fond of his last reflection, but they tend to be disposable. Many vie for the few seats outside. The two Ottos rappelled in reverse, defying the gravity that bound inside-Otto to his desk.
1 comment:
This one had me a little confused at the end. From what I read, I was under the impression that it took a twist at the end and dipped into magical realism as the reflection opened up the window and knocked the real Otto down. Hopefully this is a correct observation, because I like the idea, and also I don't want this comment to be worthless.
I wrote a story once that personified a reflection, and I found it very difficult to differentiate the two characters without getting laborious sentences full of tags (Otto looked at his reflection. The reflection looked back. It was when Otto's reflection looked at Otto that Otto's reflection realized that Otto, the real Otto was actually the object be reflected and he, the reflection, was the mirror image. Or something to that effect.)
If it was just a story about the reflector and the reflectee, it might be fine. But I think the twist of interaction at the end changes things. It (the twist) almost requests and requires very simple and clear descriptions.
Beautiful concept though. I enjoy Otto's perspective of a man outside, and his comments on those looking out.
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