Every
other Sunday comes the Sweeper. Its arrival is announced by the
pneumatic whine echoing up the ramps. The inmates grab their baskets and
sprint excitedly across the shiny concrete. The long waterfall sound of
the rotating brushes. Finally, a battered white whale with yellow
headlight eyes, the sweeper rises into view. Its cockpit windows are
mirrored. The wide eyes of the filthy lotdwellers ripple and flash in the
glass.
It's an awe-inspiring
sight, no matter how many times you see it: in the
Sweeper's wake, twinkling everywhere on the clean concrete like bits of
sugar cookies, lie small heaps of manna. Unlike the Jehovah brand, this
stuff doesn't turn poison in the morning. Properly sealed in airtight
containers, it'll last until the next time the machine comes round.