Freddy The Wiper

 She saw him sitting in his usual spot on the back steps.  Freddy the Wiper; Irish immigrant.  He was in his mid sixties at least, and got his nickname from the con he ran.  Freddy was one of the bums that walk up to your car when you are stopped at a light and start to wash your windows.  He wore an old Army jacket over his "work attire" which as a stained work shirt and dirty brown trousers, but Faye knew he wasn't a veteran.  He would pull his gig near real automated car washes.  He would wipe the window, and when the driver complained, he would say "and if you would like the rest of the car, I'll put the coins in for you (indicating the carwash as if he were an employee).  Only two more dollars for a wax at the end!"  Funny thing about him is that even if they said no to the wax, he'd still put the coins in for them. 

    She pushed the strand of hair away from her eyes and said "Hi, Freddy.  Hitting it a little early today aren't we?" when she saw the half empty bottle of cheap Vodka in his hand.

   "That I am.  Drank too much last night, and need a bit of the Hair o' the Dog to cure what ails me." he said with a wink.  His voice was high pitched and his brilliant blue eyes were threaded with red veins but full of vigor.  It was a game they always played, everyday.  Faye wasn't sure he had slept since she'd known him.  Today, however, her head was throbbing fiercely.  She bit her soft, pouty lip.

   "Yeah, me too.  Does that really work?"  she asked, digging for her employee key.  When she looked back at him, he was obviously staring at her legs.  She blushed a bit, but it wasn't like he hadn't leered at her before.

   "Deary, I've drank a 5th of Vodka a night, every night, for 12 years, and half a 5th for another decade before that.  Have you ever seen me to be holdin' me head and lookin' glum?"  he said, wagging the bottle in her direction.