T O B Y
Toby works on a steep hill, which he manages slowly. He hobbles down the incline, raising his squeegee to traffic during the red light, then limps more laboriously back up during the green. Exhaustion tugs at his breath when he reaches the top. Then he does it all over again. I get the feeling he doesn’t mind having an excuse for a rest – a number of cars stop and then pass us by while we talk.
Looking beyond me and into the distance, Toby mentions he was once a motocross champion. It was the late 1970s and he was just a young man in love with the sport. ‘Got all me trophies at home,’ he says, before offering to show me if I’d like to see them. His limp is perhaps a more obvious and accessible trophy, one that he carries around everywhere. The result of an accident, it occurred when five bikes piled on top of him, crushing his leg. The incident happened at the start of a race and, despite reconstructive surgery, marked the end of his motocross career. And while windscreen-washing might appear to be a safer career choice, it hasn’t always turned out that way – the same foot required further medical attention when it was recently run over by a car.
Quietly full of surprises, Toby reveals that he is a locksmith by trade. When I ask him why he’s washing windscreens instead of cracking locks for a living, he explains that when working for somebody else, it’s too difficult to earn a decent wage. While he continues to do odd jobs independently from home, it’s not enough to get by. ‘Gotta do something,’ he says, chuckling. Then more seriously: ‘I’m not a bludger.’
Toby has been washing windscreens for twenty years, but whatever happened after his days of bike-racing and during his transition from locksmith to windscreen-washer isn’t made clear to me. When I dig a little deeper he works a little harder and then chooses to talk about his cousin, Steve, instead – who incidentally works at the adjacent street corner. ‘He earns more up there,’ Toby tells me, nodding to his cousin’s post while appearing to be a little miffed about the injustice. He goes on to explain that the sun works in Steve’s favour, shining through everyone’s windscreens and exposing the dirt – the result being a more consistent flow of jobs. In contrast, Toby works the shady corner where the sun doesn’t do him any favours. He justifies his generosity by telling me it’s on account of his cousin’s ill-health, that Steve has osteoporosis and that working in the cold, shady spot is bad for his condition. It seems it is as much a reminder for himself as an insight for me.
At three o’clock, Toby calls Steve in for a break. Together they empty their pockets and organise their earnings into neat piles of silver and gold. Toby counts while his cousin munches on a handful of jaffas. Taking off his hat, his face opens up to me. He is tired. And they have earned enough for the day. Together they leave, hunched and limping, off to feed Bam Bam, their cat.
Looking beyond me and into the distance, Toby mentions he was once a motocross champion. It was the late 1970s and he was just a young man in love with the sport. ‘Got all me trophies at home,’ he says, before offering to show me if I’d like to see them. His limp is perhaps a more obvious and accessible trophy, one that he carries around everywhere. The result of an accident, it occurred when five bikes piled on top of him, crushing his leg. The incident happened at the start of a race and, despite reconstructive surgery, marked the end of his motocross career. And while windscreen-washing might appear to be a safer career choice, it hasn’t always turned out that way – the same foot required further medical attention when it was recently run over by a car.
Quietly full of surprises, Toby reveals that he is a locksmith by trade. When I ask him why he’s washing windscreens instead of cracking locks for a living, he explains that when working for somebody else, it’s too difficult to earn a decent wage. While he continues to do odd jobs independently from home, it’s not enough to get by. ‘Gotta do something,’ he says, chuckling. Then more seriously: ‘I’m not a bludger.’
Toby has been washing windscreens for twenty years, but whatever happened after his days of bike-racing and during his transition from locksmith to windscreen-washer isn’t made clear to me. When I dig a little deeper he works a little harder and then chooses to talk about his cousin, Steve, instead – who incidentally works at the adjacent street corner. ‘He earns more up there,’ Toby tells me, nodding to his cousin’s post while appearing to be a little miffed about the injustice. He goes on to explain that the sun works in Steve’s favour, shining through everyone’s windscreens and exposing the dirt – the result being a more consistent flow of jobs. In contrast, Toby works the shady corner where the sun doesn’t do him any favours. He justifies his generosity by telling me it’s on account of his cousin’s ill-health, that Steve has osteoporosis and that working in the cold, shady spot is bad for his condition. It seems it is as much a reminder for himself as an insight for me.
At three o’clock, Toby calls Steve in for a break. Together they empty their pockets and organise their earnings into neat piles of silver and gold. Toby counts while his cousin munches on a handful of jaffas. Taking off his hat, his face opens up to me. He is tired. And they have earned enough for the day. Together they leave, hunched and limping, off to feed Bam Bam, their cat.