Scene: The Northbourne Ave/Antill St traffic intersection. I'm in the right hand turn lane, the only car at the intersection so far, and the full cycle of light changing is ahead of me.
The scraggy window-washer approaches. I have my window down, but the music up (Nirvana was on the radio, playing 'Heart-shaped Box'. I'm singing along). He says something.
I turn the music down. 'Sorry, what was that?'
He waves his squeejee thingy.
'No thanks!' I say.
'Yeah, it looks pretty clean already. Did your husband wash it?'
'Um, no. It rained yesterday. That usually helps.'
'Ohhhh. Yeah. Huh.'
'I guess you don't get many takers when it's been raining. Bad for business and all that.'
'Ohh, yeah, I guess so.'
'Don't worry, everything will get dusty again soon.'
'Ohh, yeaaah. Huh. Hey, I just wanted to show you that I bought this new squeejee, brand new. But the rubber's got a dent in it, so it doesn't work well already. Pretty fucked, eh.'
'You should take it back to the shop.'
'Huh? You reckon? I think I've still got the receipt.'
'Absolutely you should! Tell them it's bad for your business. It's your professional tool, after all.'
'My prof... yeah! Huh! I should do that!'
'You go nuts, mate. Good luck.'
The arrow changed to green, and I took off, leaving him looking thoughtfully at the dent.