The Art of Life

Boston, South Station Bus Terminal, Peter Pan Bus Line, August 15, 2024.

Anxious, tired, embarking on an unfamiliar journey. I sit—rolling suitcase parked in front of me, heavy backpack drooping from my thin shoulders, iPhone in hand with QR code for boarding queued for use—trying to take up as little space as possible in the waiting area and the world. My fellow travelers are as silent, anxious, and self-absorbed as I am—our noses all pointed towards our screens, lost in texts, music, or internet searches, earbuds contributing further to our intentional isolation.

I look up as a dark-clad figure passes the window before me, separating the waiting area from the boarding dock, where the bus will arrive in minutes. The man lopes gracefully, quietly pulling a large utility cart behind him. He pays no attention to the passengers waiting on the other side of the window, and none of us pay him any mind either.

I’m only vaguely aware of his presence until he removes a long pole from the cart and attaches a dripping, soapy white window scrubber, which he draws from the bowels of the cart with the dexterity of a magician pulling a bouquet out of a hat. What rivets my attention in these first moments is the fluidity with which he attaches the scrubber to the pole. He presents himself to the first in a row of grimy windows, and, with a well-rehearsed and measured flourish, swishes the plush tool back and forth on the dirty glass, his body flowing with the movement of his arm, the bubbles on the panes lining up in precise rows each about twelve inches wide.

I am watching an artist at work, and now I cannot look away. He dances along the row of windows, spreading suds over the top half of each, covering the entire set in under a minute, pausing briefly to examine and correct his work here and there with another stroke or two. From my side of the window, I can’t imagine what flaw in his artistry he has detected and repaired. Then, plop goes the scrubber back into a bucket in the innards of the cart, and out from behind him, a pocket perhaps, he draws a squeegee, flips it in the air, and catches it with precision. 

Almost before the bubbles on the windows burst, his arm sweeps, with delicate pressure, back and forth across the surface of each pane, creating a clarity I would not have believed possible. He brings the blade to the exact edge of the glass and deep into each corner so that no drip or smudge remains. He stands back and examines his work with the refined eye of an art critic, seems to judge it satisfactory, and then repeats the entire process with the bottom half of each windowpane, his laser attention, poised relaxation, and complete dedication to excellence not wavering for a single second.

I sit, mesmerized by this performance, feeling that I am in the presence of a master who has studied his craft intently with an innocent dedication to excellence. No one else lifts their head from their phone.

The incoming bus arrives, the driver emerges, and a few passengers debark. They retrieve their luggage from the underbelly of the still-humming giant, and the outgoing passengers crowd the door to the boarding platform. The window artist gently places two tall yellow hazard pillars on the concrete platform to alert wayfarers to wet pavement. He adjusts them several times, looking around carefully to judge where an oblivious traveler might place an unwary foot. Then he steps aside, at ease in his invisibility.

I’m in the middle of the line of those embarking, and in the bustle of QR code scanning, luggage stowing, and seat choosing, I lose track of the window artist; my anxiety about decision-making and getting things right blinds me again. But once we pull out of the station onto the southeast expressway, I take a few deep breaths, reconjure the window washer image, and secretly smile behind my N95 mask.

I feel the gods have smiled on this journey, fortuitously begun by watching another human give his very best to an ordinary act of labor, transforming it into a labor of love, a dance of dignity, and an icon of respect for self and others.