Concrete Gods

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"Whoa! You've got to be kidding."

Andy Scanlon closed his eyes and gripped the ropes holding the platform in place as the universe twitched and trembled. What the fuck was that, a gust of wind? He'd been washing windows for more than six months, but still hadn't gotten used to the intense feeling of vulnerability. Andy's cousin Barney seemed to love dangling twenty stories up, but then Barney was known to be a couple of cans short of a six-pack.

Andy swallowed his fear, forced his eyes open. If he squinted, he could see past the reflected sunlight and into the crowded office on the other side of the window. An obese woman wearing a telephone headset stared back at him; eyes popping, jaw dropping, chocolate pudding girth shaking uncontrollably. Christ, she felt it, too!

He shaded his eyes, peered inside. Several confused men wearing slacks and white short-sleeved shirts with cheap ties had dropped their stapled papers, manila files and Styrofoam cups of coffee to seek the perceived shelter of a doorway. Andy felt his bowels loosen. He reached for the pulley, saw that his hand was shaking badly. He started lowering the platform. The large plastic bucket of detergent began to slosh back and forth in bubbled waves.

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