Being so high up above the glass city with a bucket of soapy water is a bad idea he knows. But he has a wife and three hungry children at home to say nothing about his widowed Mama who now walks with a cane. All depend on him. Some days, when he’s strapped into his harness, wiping the grit away, one window to the next, he tries to think about anything other than the hard cement below. His body in free-fall. The sidewalk waiting patiently to greet him. On cloudy days, he can peer through the windows and watch the important people moving what he imagines to be truckloads of money from corner to corner or country to country. The men in their crisp suits and women in impossibly tight dresses never notice him. Rather than picture his death, instead he concentrates on the possibility of being noticed. The important man stands by the window weighing the dilemma he’s facing. The businessman speaks fluent Spanish and so holds up a sign against the glass detailing the mess he’s in and asking for advice from a simple and honest man. The specifics however of how our window-washer conveys the simple advice that changes the businessman’s fate when he’s dangling miles above the ground with squeegee in hand remain vague.