S T E V E
Steve, who usually works an even-level intersection in full sun, is hunched and struggling up the steep incline of a hilly intersection in permanent shade when I meet with him. Having previously been told by his workmate and cousin, Toby, that Steve is allowed the sunny spot on account of his osteoporosis – which is clearly visible in the bowed stature of the man – I am confused when I see that the two of them have switched locations. His explanation is a familiar one. Apparently Steve has given up the better, flatter, sunnier spot on account of his cousin’s condition: his bad leg. ‘The hill’s no good for him,’ he tells me, and then, ‘I wouldn’t do it for just anyone, you know, but he’s my cousin.’
Like Toby, Steve is an old hand at the job. He’s been at it for many years and can see himself persisting for the foreseeable future. He considers himself unemployable for most other jobs, and the few he’s attempted haven’t been good for his health. He mentions heavy lifting and fiddly engraving work as examples, which have bothered his bones. Windscreen-washing, he believes, is the best option because he can do it in his own time when he’s well enough, and it’s not so hard on his physical condition.
During the hours I am with him, Steve manages to score as many cigarettes from drivers as he does jobs. He lights one after the next, often smoking while he works, but he is mindful of his cousin and makes sure to save a handful to give to him later. He asks me if I smoke, and when I tell him ‘no,’ he looks relieved. ‘You good girl. Don’t start. It’s the hardest addiction to kick. Cigarettes and alcohol.’
Steve goes on to tell me he’s taken a few ‘wrong turns’ in his life. ‘Everyone has,’ he adds, and then, as if needing the reassurance, ‘Toby has too.’ Once a hopeful and engaged twenty-year-old, Steve enrolled in a fine arts degree. He wanted to work with images and clearly still has a curiosity for the subject – he takes a keen interest in my cameras and tells me how much he used to enjoy print-making and working in the dark room.
Sadly, he tells me, he later flunked out, which he believes to have been the result of taking on too many subjects. The ensuing story of his life he runs through quickly, without time-frame or detail. After university, he worked for his dad in road construction – until his father died. Without qualifications to run the business himself, he then worked odd factory jobs – until his mother died. At that point, he inherited his mother’s house, and with a sudden newfound wealth, got himself into what he vaguely describes as ‘financial difficulties.’ He is regretful when he tells me he became a gambler. It caused him to lose the home and his inheritance. ‘I lost everything,’ he says, walking away from me. ‘Hard lesson to learn late in life.’
Like Toby, Steve is an old hand at the job. He’s been at it for many years and can see himself persisting for the foreseeable future. He considers himself unemployable for most other jobs, and the few he’s attempted haven’t been good for his health. He mentions heavy lifting and fiddly engraving work as examples, which have bothered his bones. Windscreen-washing, he believes, is the best option because he can do it in his own time when he’s well enough, and it’s not so hard on his physical condition.
During the hours I am with him, Steve manages to score as many cigarettes from drivers as he does jobs. He lights one after the next, often smoking while he works, but he is mindful of his cousin and makes sure to save a handful to give to him later. He asks me if I smoke, and when I tell him ‘no,’ he looks relieved. ‘You good girl. Don’t start. It’s the hardest addiction to kick. Cigarettes and alcohol.’
Steve goes on to tell me he’s taken a few ‘wrong turns’ in his life. ‘Everyone has,’ he adds, and then, as if needing the reassurance, ‘Toby has too.’ Once a hopeful and engaged twenty-year-old, Steve enrolled in a fine arts degree. He wanted to work with images and clearly still has a curiosity for the subject – he takes a keen interest in my cameras and tells me how much he used to enjoy print-making and working in the dark room.
Sadly, he tells me, he later flunked out, which he believes to have been the result of taking on too many subjects. The ensuing story of his life he runs through quickly, without time-frame or detail. After university, he worked for his dad in road construction – until his father died. Without qualifications to run the business himself, he then worked odd factory jobs – until his mother died. At that point, he inherited his mother’s house, and with a sudden newfound wealth, got himself into what he vaguely describes as ‘financial difficulties.’ He is regretful when he tells me he became a gambler. It caused him to lose the home and his inheritance. ‘I lost everything,’ he says, walking away from me. ‘Hard lesson to learn late in life.’