WEDNESDAY, 15 DECEMBER, 1999, PHILADELPHIA

The 76 highway from PHL Int’l Airport into Central Phila goes over the Platt Bridge, then makes a left at a light to continue on the highway. This is a heavy “commuter” traffic light, and one I dread because of the “services” offered there. No, not whores. Whores at least have æsthetic sense. Or non-sense, but at least they’re more pleasant to look at. Or amusing. Or something. Windshield Wipers. Usually about 3 black male teenagers armed with soapy squeegies lurking on the dividing island of the road. This is nothing new. Most cities have these people at some busy intersection, eager to soak and scrape off dead bugs from whatever part of your car is afflicted with them. And I wouldn’t mention these boys unless there was something peculiar about them. And there is. They are vicious. They are tenacious. They will clean your windshield and there’s not a single fuckin’ thing you can do about it, Mistah! If you stop several car lengths back, see them approaching, then gun your motor and move forward when they get to your car nearly running them over in the process, they will chase you down and soap up your windshield anyway. They find it very fulfilling. They are evil. Sometimes, when you don’t pay them anything for rendering this unbidden service, they will simply refuse to squeegie away the work they began, leaving you at a now-green light with an opaque, soapy windshield. I once drove home from that point spraying my windshield with the squirty thing, leaving a trail of soapy bubbles airborne behind me. I felt like a very annoyed Lawrence Welk. They continue to infest this intersection because white people are such pussies. I’ve seen the trembling finger push a dollar or two through the 1 mm of space they allow themselves to roll down the window, quickly retracting their fingers in case the intimidating black man may have some criminal thoughts in mind. The tell-tale tremor of their hands belies the true nature of the payment. It is not “Thank you for cleaning my windshield,” money; it’s a, “please let me escape with my life,” payoff. Anyway. The point of this harangue is that yesterday, it rained. All day. Heavily. Rivulets of water gushing down streets, sidewalks, everywhere. I could hardly see out of the windshield driving home the rain was so heavy. And there, on the Philly side of the Platt Bridge, at the fateful traffic light was one, lone, die-hard guy, washing and (heh-heh) squeegie’ing “dry” someone’s windshield. And yup, wouldn’t ya know it, there’s the trembling, white, pasty finger poking out of the crack in the window shooting off a couple of $1’s, as if to say “thank you so much for cleaning my windshield. It was looking a little dusty…” WHAT the hell!?