Sweeper

Parked not twenty feet from my bedroom window is a gigantic street sweeper. It's been parking there for
the last few weeks. Every morning between six-thirty and seven-thirty it starts up with an awful racket. That's okay, though, because I'm already awake by then and Sonya is either already awake or still sleeping and no little diesel engine is going to get her out of bed.

What's interesting about the street sweeper, though, is the driver. She's Vietnamese, probably in her mid twenties. Petite, long hair, and stylish clothes - halter tops, tight jeans, cute shoes, big shades, and professional grade driving gloves for her big fucking street sweeper.

And the street sweeper says something like "Street Sweepers of Chicago" or something like that.

I think there's got to be a story there. Is she an apprentice street sweeper? A journeyman street sweeper, going from town to town and practicing her street sweeping art? Where do you go to get that job, anyway? Do you just clean a street and swing by city hall with a bill? Where do you buy a street sweeper?

These things keep me up at night. And, sometimes, wake me up in the morning.