M A U R I C E
Maurice is wearing a ‘bad-boy’ hat and waving a two-fingered peace sign at passing cars when I meet with him. Boasting of past media attention, he gladly agrees to be my subject and shakes on it with his little finger while apologising for dirty hands. Peeling off his yellow reflector vest and wrapping it around my shoulders, he cites a few safety rules before getting back to work. ‘Now, I’ll do my job, and you do yours.’ Away from his island median strip, he is quick to warn me when the lights are about to change.
Once a stage-hand, Maurice used to work behind the scenes in the local music industry. Although watching him at this intersection, it’s hard to imagine him anywhere but on the stage itself. He is a true showman, a public performer with a crateful of costumes by his side. Changing outfits between red lights, he is at once a cowboy, a clown, a detective in disguise, all smiles and funny faces, peace signs and poses. It’s hard to catch him between acts, to stop him still for a second, which means that my questions and his answers are confined to rare moments between shows. When I ask him why he switched from stage-work to window-washing, he tells me he ‘just wanted a change,’ then hides his eyes behind a pair of oversized star-glasses.
While his job is as much about entertainment as it is about washing windows, Maurice prides himself on doing the best clean around: ‘You won’t get any [windscreen-washers] better than me. This is my business.’ And with a practically permanent set up, complete with decorated witches-hats and streamers for the street poles, it’s clear that Maurice’s median strip is as good as his personal office. But business isn’t always so light-hearted. Within ten minutes of first meeting him, a twenty-something P-plater yells out the window as his sports car whips around the corner: ‘Get a real job!’ I am immediately embarrassed by the behaviour and ask if this happens often. Maurice nods pointedly: ‘All the time, sis, all the time.’
Abuse from passing windows isn’t his only experience of ill sentiment from the community. Only weeks before, he tells me, an official complaint was made with the police stating that Maurice’s activities hamper the flow of traffic. He is now at risk of being moved on, at least. Beyond that, he could be fined. But Maurice is a determined fellow. Proudly thumbing a stack of signed petition papers, he shows me that he’s up for a fight. He’s been collecting signatures since the complaint was made, washing windscreens for signed customer support. And with the numbers clearly on his side, I suspect he’s here to stay.
Exhausting his supply of guises, Maurice asks me for the time. I sense that his show has come to an end, that the audience is due to go home. When I leave him, he is wearing a Vietnamese conical hat and waving a two-fingered peace sign at passing cars.
Once a stage-hand, Maurice used to work behind the scenes in the local music industry. Although watching him at this intersection, it’s hard to imagine him anywhere but on the stage itself. He is a true showman, a public performer with a crateful of costumes by his side. Changing outfits between red lights, he is at once a cowboy, a clown, a detective in disguise, all smiles and funny faces, peace signs and poses. It’s hard to catch him between acts, to stop him still for a second, which means that my questions and his answers are confined to rare moments between shows. When I ask him why he switched from stage-work to window-washing, he tells me he ‘just wanted a change,’ then hides his eyes behind a pair of oversized star-glasses.
While his job is as much about entertainment as it is about washing windows, Maurice prides himself on doing the best clean around: ‘You won’t get any [windscreen-washers] better than me. This is my business.’ And with a practically permanent set up, complete with decorated witches-hats and streamers for the street poles, it’s clear that Maurice’s median strip is as good as his personal office. But business isn’t always so light-hearted. Within ten minutes of first meeting him, a twenty-something P-plater yells out the window as his sports car whips around the corner: ‘Get a real job!’ I am immediately embarrassed by the behaviour and ask if this happens often. Maurice nods pointedly: ‘All the time, sis, all the time.’
Abuse from passing windows isn’t his only experience of ill sentiment from the community. Only weeks before, he tells me, an official complaint was made with the police stating that Maurice’s activities hamper the flow of traffic. He is now at risk of being moved on, at least. Beyond that, he could be fined. But Maurice is a determined fellow. Proudly thumbing a stack of signed petition papers, he shows me that he’s up for a fight. He’s been collecting signatures since the complaint was made, washing windscreens for signed customer support. And with the numbers clearly on his side, I suspect he’s here to stay.
Exhausting his supply of guises, Maurice asks me for the time. I sense that his show has come to an end, that the audience is due to go home. When I leave him, he is wearing a Vietnamese conical hat and waving a two-fingered peace sign at passing cars.