Quent Cordair
The Whistler
First published by The Atlantean Press, 1994.
In the middle of the plain, as though hewn from a mountain of crystalline quartz, rose sun-dazzled facets of towering glass. From the top of the tallest came a sound, a sparkling cascade of notes. The window washers were preparing their scaffolding for the day's descent. One was whistling a symphony. The other two engaged in conversation.
"First day, huh, kid? What's your name?"
"Bobby. And yours?"
"Walt. So what did you do to deserve this? Parents finally kick you out of the house?"
"No, I'm saving money for school next fall. And besides, I like the view."
"School? Hmmf. I've got a degree in psychology, and look where it got me."
"Who's the guy on the other end?" Bobby asked.
"You don't recognize that face? Well, it's been a while, I guess. See that gold-colored building over there?" Walt pointed to the city's second tallest. "He used to sit in a plush office on the top floor. That man was the president of his own bank—and now he's washing the windows on one. He's the biggest failure this side of the Mississippi."
"Damn."
As the platform was lowered over the edge, a melody that had once serenaded cattle on the rolling prairie below lofted into blue space.
"So what happened to him?" Bobby asked.
"He made a bad decision, and the bank went under."
"Oh."
Three floors later a bird landed on the platform's railing, cocked its head at a Viennese waltz and flew off in search of less formidable competition.
"Why didn't he start over or go into some other line of business?"
"With what? Every penny he had was backing that bank. Look up on the Northside, past the interstate where the trees are. He had a twenty-room mansion up there, four cars, a yacht, and a summer home in the mountains. Now he lives in a room between that burned-out factory and the tracks, he walks to work, he hasn't so much as a bathtub to play in, and he hasn't taken a day's vacation in the two years he's worked here."
The waltz shifted into a lilting ragtime tune that carried them down the next seven floors.
"Doesn't he have family?"
"His wife took the kids, and the relatives who once basked in his glow now dodge his shadow."
A series of intricate canons and fugues accompanied the floors to the halfway point, which was marked by a soulful slave hymn.
"Surely he has friends, and if the decision was just a mistake, he still has the respect of his peers."
"People want his company like they do a black cat's. If whoever's in charge of this place ever bothered to read the applications for window washer and discovered that bad luck incarnate is hanging on the side of their bank, they would cut the ropes we dangle from."
A march reverberated from the surrounding buildings. The afternoon passed, and the sidewalks began filling with people on their way home. A lullaby floated down, and a few glanced up appreciatively.
"Well, at least he seems happy," Bobby said.
"I thought he had taken this job to have a good place to jump from, but then he started that infernal whistling—and I knew he'd lost his mind. The only future the man has is the hope of being back on top of this godforsaken pile of glass tomorrow morning."
An Irish ballad set them gently on the sidewalk.
"Hey, you—the whistler." A man in a rumpled business suit beckoned from a bench with his finger.
"Here, this is for the music," he said, holding out a five-dollar bill and patting the spot beside him. "Sit down, sit down....
"Nobody whistles like that anymore, you know. My father was a whistler though. God, could he whistle. When I asked him to teach me how, he said, `Son, you have to start with a clean conscience....' It took me a long time to understand that, but he was right. He was the most successful man I've ever known.
"I'll never forget, when I was seven-years old, a tornado destroyed the house and the farm. My father led us up from the cellar, took a long look around, and as he tossed a twisted piece of our plow aside, he started whistling. It was one of his favorite tunes. I only remember a little of it—it went—La, dah dee dee, la dah, dah dee la..."
The whistler picked up the melody and carried it high into the glass canyon.
"Yes!...yes, that's it..."
The next morning there were two window washers cleaning the panes on the top floor.
Walt exclaimed, "Come here, kid, look at this! Now I know what happened to him—he got himself fired. That man he was talking to last night is the bank president!"
Bobby went and looked, and returned to his own side in a thoughtful melancholy. He wiped a swath through the dust on a window and stopped, peering into the office inside. The man sitting at the desk was wiping a smudge off the glass top with his handkerchief. On the front of the office door, someone was lettering a name in the space above "Vice President." The only sound was the wind, but the man at the desk was undoubtedly whistling. Recognizing Bobby, he waved. Bobby waved back and finished the window. As they dropped to the next floor, he shaped his mouth in the form of an "O" and blew.
