For as I know myself and would tell you about myself, I would never quite do justice to the experience of me in mere words. You, however, would stammer, trying to describe me. The best you could do is to repeat, "He's just so.... he's just so..." and they would be able to hear the italics in your voice, trying to stress the "so," because in all things, am I so whatever it happens to be. I am no half-ass, me.

Your stammering would betray you, or reveal you, or perhaps even save you, as your fellow interlocutor would finally grasp how your inability to describe me would end up doing the very perfect job of describing me. And not just the way I wash windows. I earn more than minimum wage. I have seniority over almost everyone, except Fat Constance, the owner's niece, who has worked here since before she was old enough to drive and since before she was fat. I started soon after. I wash the windows with a large sponge, a natural thing, and the suds are picturesque, and the glass catches the light just so here at sunset, but washing windows is the least of me, and my inability to describe how awesome I am has almost nothing to do with this meager but undeniably beautiful activity.

It's the way I walk, you might finally be able to say, the way I always seem to moving in slow motion, how my leather duster, beaten by winds and rains and Lord knows how many extraordinary adventures, how it dances behind me, a cowboy's cape, the wings of a dark angel, forbidden and foreboding and other excellent vocabulary words.

I have bedded many excellent women, known of whom you've ever know or will ever know. My tastes run the gamut: vagina and breast, asshole and inner-thigh. I delight in all female parts. I do things to lips that make their toes crunch and then to their toes things that make their hair curl. Don Juan? Allow me to say, politely, fuck Don Juan, fuck him with a dirty rake.

I have been a criminal and a spy, a champion for good and a reluctant mercenary for dirty justice. I have beaten men until they cried, and cried myself as I held dying children in my arms, not dead because I killed them, or failed to save them, but dead because I embraced the beautify of my own humanity, it's necessary limitations, and where lies justice if not in the vengeful hands of a man holding sickle and scythe, rifle and rapier? But I wear no mask. I want all who fall before me to see the face that mocks their own briefer mortality.

After I wash the windows I will go inside and have my break. I'll sit in the plastic chairs and sip a diet Dr. Pepper and stare with ironic satisfaction at a half-eaten dinner roll. We get them for free if they've been under the heat lamp too long. I'll touch the pocket where I used to carry my cell phone, and wonder what presidents might try to call it, emperors, admirals, men of state. Queens. If I had a dollar for every queen that called me begging for succor, I'd be able to afford AT&T's shitty rate plan.

And then I'll go into the back and do something about the grease traps. I'll meditate on political theory and nuclear science, nuclear medicine, and maybe something else nuclear. Philosophy. The music of Chopin, Mozart, and an anonymous blues piano player named David Answell who, though nearly blind, still plays guitar better than any saxophone player in any drum and bugle core. I'll recite Pi quietly to myself, thousands, hundreds of digits, then work the industrial cleaners to foam and try to rinse the stink of burnt vegetable oil and onion rings out of my olive skin. Skin that would be olive if I had a tan. A tan I would get if I had weekends off. Today is Saturday.