Sometimes I see him at the rubbish bin, genially approving of my flipping of cardboard into the large woolsack meant for CARDBOARD ONLY. He chortles when I tip the rest of the recycling into a giant pile of glass and tin.
He floats around the complex, spindly legs whirring and propelling his large motor around from point A to point B and back again. He is in charge. I think he likes it; but I bet he wishes we had more time for talk.
My smalltalk is very small. Rain? Norain? Sometimes it fails altogether, though I can always muster a smileandnod for the man at my apartment building. I wonder what he takes care of that I don’t know about. Is he secretly watering my rubber plant? It seems unlikely. Its leaves are sooty with exhaust. Does he keep an eye on that window I leave ajar so that fresh air wends its way into my apartment and infiltrates the bedsheets? He might; none of the cats have ever managed to get in, as far as I’m aware.
I wonder if he speaks to Oscar, Burmese Prince of All He Surveys in our building? I talk to Oscar more than the man at my apartment building. Somehow its easier; Oscar does not care for my attention. I am drawn to that which is not given lightly. I am a cliché.