Chimney sweeps were here today, working in the building where I...

Chimney sweeps were here today, working in the building where I live, scraping out the soot and tar, relining the chimneys with shining metal throats. Loud work: sledges bashing, screaming saws through metal, drills through brick, and the deep percussion of their coughing. Their lungs, the tarry shoots where smoke turns solid, the residue in bodies, on brick. Their concern was elsewhere. The sweeps were in the basement, yelling back and forth.

      “You got it?”
      “Yeah I got it.”
      “Okay push.”
      Grunting.
      “You pushing?”
      “Yeah I’m pushing.”
      “What?”
      “I’m pushing!”
      Grumbling.
      “Anything?”
      “Nothing.”
      “You want me to screw into it?”
       “That’s what I told you from the start!”
      “What?”
      “YES.”
       Drill noises. Hammering noises. Clangs. Muttering.
      “Okay.”
      “Okay. Turn and push. YES. YES. Right there. Don’t move.”
      “There?”
      “Right there.”
       “It’s slip– oh fuck motherfucking son of a goddamn bitch.”
      “Hey easy with the language over there!”
      Muttering.
      “Ready to try again?”
      “Okay.”
      “Okay. Push.”

The rhythm of their conversation, so familiar. The back and forth. The trying, failing, trying. The simplicity of the communication. M. and I have likely had a thousand of these conversations, more or less verbatim. “You holding?” “Yeah I’m holding. Do you want me to push?” “Push.” “Nothing’s happening.” “Are you twisting it?” And so on, over and over again.

I liked listening to them today (I worried for their lungs) and I felt cheered when they finally got it right.
     “All good.”
     “All good?”
     “All good.”

[Painting: Bill Flood, the Chimney Sweep by Harold Riley, 1970]