the window
man
settles into my house
with his
notebooks and diagrams,
his plans,
his choices for me to look
at. he's wearing
loafers, which he slips off.
a bad sign.
i put on a large pot
of coffee.
i only have seven windows
to be replaced,
but the price
varies
from twenty thousand
to six thousand dollars.
i don't understand
the variance, so he explains.
tells me the story of the first
window they found
in a cave
in northern Africa.
some guy's wife gave him
the idea, saying
to her husband,
we need a view and some
air in here. so the cave guy
took a sledge hammer
and banged out an opening
in the side of the cave.
voila, the first window.
i nod and say, hmmm.
interesting.
it's all about parts and labor,
materials used, he says.
the price has gone up because
of the supply chain,
the war,
and covid of course.
our company only uses
the highest quality
steel, or vinyl, plastic and
space age polymers,
etc. etc.
it's a lot of mumbo
jumbo.
three hours go by.
finally he asks if i'd like
to see one of his windows.
i say yes.
exhausted.
he goes out to his car
to bring in a small window
that's in his trunk.
a display model.
he pulls the window up
and down, shows me how
to lock it, unlock it,
he demonstrates
how to pull it inside
so that they can be cleaned.
he takes out a small bottle
of windex and spays the window
then takes a handkerchief
to wipe it in small circles.
see he says.
state of the art.
i look out my old windows,
to the trees and stream,
the bare woods.
i feel the wind and cold
coming in through
the old glass and creases.
it's getting dark out.
where do i sign,
i ask him, broken and tired.
give me the middle priced
ones, i tell him.
are you sure, he says.
are you absolutely positive
you don't want to go with the
platinum windows.
no, give me the bronze, please.
the bronze.
