What's My Line?

Yesterday I had a Van Morrison song in my head. This was notable for two reasons: It wasn't a Bruce Springsteen song, and it was a song to which I am more than a little vague about the lyrics. I do know the refrain: "What's my line? I'm happy cleaning windows. Take my time. I'll see you when my love grows. Baby don't let it slide. I'm a working man in my prime. Cleaning windows (number a hundred and thirty-six)."
It's that last little bit that has stuck with me over the years. All that other stuff about listening to the blues and love is nice, but the idea that this guy knows how many windows he's cleaned rings true to me. Yesterday I was using a high pressure hose to clean the steps and patios at my son's school. It was a pre-Earth Day event designed to get parents and kids up together to tidy up one little corner of the planet. I was pleased and happy to be using this machine with all of its hoses and two-stroke engine. At home I would be accused of polluting the atmosphere and wasting water. Here I was performing a valuable service.
The noise of the spray combined with that of the pump kept me fairly isolated, and so I had time to meditate on things like the age of the gum that was stuck to the concrete underneath my feet. I soon discovered that this machine was capable of removing ancient Juicy Fruit and Bubble Yum as well as years of accumulated middle school footprints. Number a hundred and thirty-six. And more.
Probably not for the first time, but I did have a distinct moment of clarity in which I realized that I was standing in a spot that my son has and will continue to walk past as part of his everyday routine. On his way to math. On his way back from lunch. This was the path he has taken for the past seven months, and for the next two years.
After a few hours of spraying and moving and spraying and moving, the machine died. It ran out of gas. That's when I looked around me and realized just how much concrete I hadn't hosed off yet. Number one hundred and thirty-seven.