On Tuesday I had a job cleaning the windows of a cardiologist's office. It was a nice office, near a large hospital and several other offices and other medical buildings. It was a one story building so I didn't need to use a pole or ladders or repel or anything. I worked alone that day and actually figured I would be able to enjoy myself, cleaning windows effectively and listening to the Comic Vine podcast.
This being a cardiologist's office, you can imagine that most of the people there were older, men and women who were starting to have real troubles with their hearts, which is pretty much the death knell for people living in the United States these days. I don't say that lightly, I had heart surgery when I was eighteen to fix a problem that would probably have killed me when I was in my 40's. Whether or not the problem was fixed in time or not I suppose I'll know in about 20 years or so.
Anyway, I got started cleaning the windows of this place. The front entrance was the most window-y, with huge glass sections turning the walls around the front door into giant windows. I started there, working from the right to the left side of the building, listening to people talk about comic books, watching the soapy water stream down the glass, just enjoying work as much as anyone can enjoy a job that requires little thought, physical exertion, and has no relation to the things one is passionate about in life.
As I approached the second to last set of the front windows, I noticed a man sitting on the other side of those windows watching me.
He was an old man, his hair had gone well past gray and into white, sweeping back from his skull in desperate strands just a bit too long. He had a sagging face, lined and creased. He was wearing a jacket in spite of the warm afternoon sun and had khaki pants on--but what I remember the most about him were his eyes.
He had blue eyes, faded like old blue jeans and watery, a sort of sheen glinted from them when he twitched them to follow my movements. And they were so, so sad. At first I thought I had just seen him glancing at me as people do, but as I worked closer to where he was I realized he was watching me intently. His sad old eyes would flicker along the arc of my arm as I slid my brush or squeegee along the glass, would look down as I pulled out a towel to wipe up any excess water. He followed my every movement with a longing and sorrow that I could feel through the transparent barrier that separated us.
He never looked at my face, just my hands, my arms, my movements.
I wondered then, and wonder now.
What was he seeing?
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