Twelve
Chamois and Squeegee in hand, we make our way across the land It’s surprisingly windy, 30 something floors up. The janitor and I are washing windows on a suspended platform that is slowly, slowly descending. We’re dressed in rugged work wear and orange hardhats. The janitor is singing a jolly work song. Oh tell me my frothy one, where doth one lay one’s head to rest? South-by-southwest right next to your chest?
After what seems like a very long time, we take a break. The janitor beckons me to sit down beside him, to listen to the crackle of the intercom and to share his frugal lunch. Between meat jelly sandwiches and pickled gherkins, he leans his forehead against mine and whispers comforting words. I enjoy this moment of unexpected camaraderie.
We finally come upon a window that doesn’t need cleaning, and carefully break it using sharpened ice picks and deformed lead mallets: the huge pane slowly turns milky and finally shatters in a cascade of tiny shards.
In front of us in a narrow corridor lined with broken glass stands a woman in black, her features buried in so many layers of starched cotton she essentially is faceless. For a second I think I'm back at the Victorian boarding school: the high ceilings and dark floors, poor acoustics and chipped tiles.
The janitor leaves us to go drive his machine down endless aisles, stacked with out-of-date TV-dinners, gluten-free candy and recyclable macaroni. The woman (“I'm the housekeeper, bless your heart”) shows me how to carefully cleanse the memory banks using industrial strength solvents: to gently release and pull out the units, connect the hose, choose the right formula and spray them down.
As the room fills up with vapors from the chemical reaction, our limbs start to dissolve and vanish: at some point I see the housekeeper stare at a bloody stump of rapidly dissolving bone and tissue. Is it a leg or an arm? Mine or hers? I can't be sure.