J O H N
John has a quietly polite manner and a well-kept appearance that would not be the slightest at odds with a job behind the bar or in customer service. Shirt tucked in and stubble closely shaved, he appears strangely placed in the thick of exhaust fumes at his busy intersection. When I ask him, ‘why windscreen-washing,’ he tells me about his first day on the job. It was six years ago. He had just moved out of the Cross, was staying with a mate, and needed to start earning a living. His friend occasionally worked an intersection for extra cash and encouraged him to give it a try. Recalling the day to me, John chuckles to himself and says he remembers being nervous. ‘But then I did this guy’s windscreen and he told me it was the best job he’d ever seen.’ He was hooked and has been washing windscreens ever since.
Brought up in a middle-class family by parents who did well for themselves in the horse-racing industry, John has been unlucky and lucky with unconditional support. He tells me his parents unknowingly funded unhealthy habits in his past, and that they weren’t aware of it until he had given up. Now that he has a girlfriend and a son of his own to look after, their continuing support comes as a blessing – they help him out with a loan on occasion if he’s struggling to pay the rent. John tells me it can be particularly tough in winter, when the rain does his work for him, but he is ever reluctant to accept anything more than a loan.
The only windscreen-washer I have met who has actually been fined for the job, John feels misunderstood by the police. He considers his activity a means to an honest living and makes sure I understand that he’s not on the dole: ‘If I didn’t earn it, I don’t wanna know about it.’
And while he displays an obvious sense of pride in earning his own living, I get the impression that John also carries around a sense of shame. He asks that his real name not be used, and tells me that there are people in his life who are unaware how he makes his living. When I inquire how that’s possible and what they believe he’s doing each day, he shrugs his shoulders: ‘Casual jobs. And I change all my coins at the pub.’ I ask why he feels the need to do this, but he just shrugs again and takes a drag of his rollie.
I’ve only taken a few shots when John asks me if we’re done with the photos. I want to stay and take more, but it’s clear that my lens is getting in the way. ‘Of course,’ I reply and pack up my gear. When I leave he tells me he’s always there… if I would ever like to come back and talk. But when I return, he has already moved on.
Brought up in a middle-class family by parents who did well for themselves in the horse-racing industry, John has been unlucky and lucky with unconditional support. He tells me his parents unknowingly funded unhealthy habits in his past, and that they weren’t aware of it until he had given up. Now that he has a girlfriend and a son of his own to look after, their continuing support comes as a blessing – they help him out with a loan on occasion if he’s struggling to pay the rent. John tells me it can be particularly tough in winter, when the rain does his work for him, but he is ever reluctant to accept anything more than a loan.
The only windscreen-washer I have met who has actually been fined for the job, John feels misunderstood by the police. He considers his activity a means to an honest living and makes sure I understand that he’s not on the dole: ‘If I didn’t earn it, I don’t wanna know about it.’
And while he displays an obvious sense of pride in earning his own living, I get the impression that John also carries around a sense of shame. He asks that his real name not be used, and tells me that there are people in his life who are unaware how he makes his living. When I inquire how that’s possible and what they believe he’s doing each day, he shrugs his shoulders: ‘Casual jobs. And I change all my coins at the pub.’ I ask why he feels the need to do this, but he just shrugs again and takes a drag of his rollie.
I’ve only taken a few shots when John asks me if we’re done with the photos. I want to stay and take more, but it’s clear that my lens is getting in the way. ‘Of course,’ I reply and pack up my gear. When I leave he tells me he’s always there… if I would ever like to come back and talk. But when I return, he has already moved on.