The lights stayed red. The gas station looked like an island lit up but abandoned in
the silent night. He thought he saw something move in the dark, near the concrete
columns supporting the overpass. The homeless man in the ripped-out car seat had
stirred.
He'd spotted the car idling at the lights; he was moving toward Radix in a deter-
mined manner, meaning to get to the car before the lights turned green; squeegee
stick in one hand, a bottle of glass cleaner in the other, wanting to clean the car's
windshield.
No problem. Radix had no objection to simple honest labour; his coin box was
usually ready with quarters; the fellows worked fast, seemed harmless, and they
could use small change.
When the man was about ten strides away, squeegee stick raised as if hailing a cab,
the lights turned green. Since his windshield really didn't need cleaning Radix shot
across the roadway and drew up beside the gas pumps. As he got out the car he
noticed the man still coming his way. He walked over to the cubicle, shoved his notes
in the steel tray and shouted his order. Waiting for his change he looked back at the
car.
The man had got to work on his windshield, squirting glass cleaner or water, making
vigorous circular movement with his arm; lifting the windshield wipers…squirt, squirt,
squirt…wiping, wiping…squirt, squirt, squirt.
Radix came back, saying not a word; unhooking the pump, unlocking the gas cap. He
was about to insert the nozzle when the man came around to the rear, smiled broadly,
and said in a hearty voice that filled the night,"Yes, boss…I fixed you real good…now
you can see from here to eternity."
Had he been sitting in the car, say at the lights, his reaction would have been
simple: reach for the coins pass them through the window…Thank you!…on his way.
Standing face to face with the squeegee man, whose smile revealed missing front
teeth, who seemed in his thirties; whose voice had an aggressive, not necessarily
menacing, tone that compelled Radix to clear his throat and match the decibel level
mano o mano - all this now rattled him.
His hand on the gasoline pump froze; the squeegee man looked directly into his
eyes. His face beneath the hair and grime was an ordinary human face, needing a
shower and a shave, but a fellow human face. "Got you ready to hit the road again,
boss," the man said, removing a soiled baseball cap and scratching his head.
Radix shoved his hand in his pocket, felt coins, gathered and pulled them out -
quarters, nickels, dimes, when did he put them there? – and with some urgency he
passed them into the man's palm. The man looked at them; he looked at Radix; his
face became a mask of creased incredulity.
Radix felt his heart pounding a little faster. For seconds neither man moved. The
hand remained extended.
Radix could hear the grinding rush of traffic on the highway like a stampede of cars
pounding its way to the bridge. He threw a glance toward the cubicle where the
attendant, an Indian fellow wearing a turban, was watching the encounter.
Then Radix said, half-apologetically, but firmly, "Look, that's all I have on me right
now." He was about to insert the pump nozzle when the man exploded: "What da fuck
is this?" Each word distinct and aggrieved, What…da…fuck…is…this?
The sound of that voice, clear and sharp, pinned Radix to the spot. This fellow was
seriously vexed. Radix reached deep down in his gut for a response, for anything to
break up the confrontation. Nothing, nothing but bubbles of fear rising.

60; He stood there, the gas pump in his hand, feeling helpless, hoping he didn't look
helpless; and the squeegee man, sensing weakness, craning his neck forward and
dropping his voice now to a knife-blade clean hiss, said, "I fixed you up good…you
could see from here to eternity…Whaddafuck you saying to me, man?"
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 