Pittsburgh respects a hard day's work -- even if the long turn at the steel mill has become overtime at the office or a double-shift on the retail floor. Today, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review begins a weekly feature that spotlights working people.
Standing on the roof of a six-story Green Tree office tower, A.J. Lopata throws one leg over the side and climbs off.
Even strapped into harnesses with two climbing ropes, it seems an act of faith. Yet Lopata makes the leap routinely, often rappelling from high-rise buildings more than a half-dozen times a day to clean windows.
"It's an adventurous job," said Lopata, 44, of Carrick. "Once you're over the side, it's just you and the building. Nobody's there looking over your shoulder, saying, 'Get busy.' "
A small fraternity of window cleaners scales Pittsburgh's skyscrapers, low-rise office buildings and retail shops with the simple goal of helping people see more clearly.
Cleaning windows -- almost everyone has done it, although professionals would argue few do it well.
The cleaning is the simple part. Getting there is the challenge.
Ride a lift high over the mirrored spires topping PPG Place's 1 million square feet of glass. Swing upon a wooden board on a 250-foot drop from the face of a Mt. Washington condominium. Figure out a way to reach windows tucked behind narrow slats wrapping the North Side's Alcoa Building.
"Architects are trying to one-up each other," said Keith Pipes, vice president of American National Skyline Inc., the city's largest window-cleaning company. "(Alcoa's sun screens) look nice and they serve a purpose. But nobody thinks about how to clean it."
Do all that while trying to stay alive. Five to 10 window cleaners die in the United States each year, said Sam Terry, president of the International Window Cleaning Association, a trade group.
A window cleaner died in November after falling 10 stories from the roof of UPMC McKeesport hospital. A Braddock window cleaner died in 2001 when he dropped three stories after leaning out a window.
"If the proper safety procedures are followed, it's not dangerous at all," Terry said. "If they're not followed, it's extremely dangerous."
Starting out, local window cleaners make $10 to $12 an hour; experienced workers can make more than $25 an hour. In many large cities, window cleaning has become a business for young people and immigrants.
Cleaning a 25-story building can cost $100,000 a year for two or three cleanings, Pipes said. A smaller office building that takes three days to clean can cost about $4,000.
Preparing to drop off Building 8 in the Foster Square complex, Lopata said he thinks a lot about not falling and worries little. He tied an orange safety rope to a steel anchor on the roof, clipping his harness to it and another descent rope before climbing down.
"For something to go wrong," he said, "I've really got to be doing something bad."
Discovered as a 22-year-old gas station worker when he cleaned the windshield of a man who owned a window cleaning company, Lopata has been running his own four-man crew since 1990.
Lopata wears a thin goatee, wire-rimmed glasses and a blue-and-white striped shirt with his name embroidered over the right chest. Tattoos of fish cover his arms; a window washer is inked on his right calf.
With the sun still rising on a crisp early summer day, Lopata and two employees meet before 6 a.m. at their home office -- the former Spencer Bar, around the corner from Lopata's home (where, he said, storm windows make cleaning a hassle).
Cleaning equipment lines the walls in neat rows: metal and wooden ladders; 14 helmets in red, green and orange; poles ranging from 2 to 40 feet long.
Like firefighters, each worker lines up his gear at night as if preparing for a streaked window emergency: a 5-gallon bucket, a strip washer or mop, a squeegee with a brass handle and removable rubber edge, and one or two natural sponges, preferably Mediterranean.
A picture of Jesus hangs with a wooden cross over the art deco bar. Posters of Tony Soprano, Indiana Jones and Kurt Angle look out from the walls. The bar has beer taps but no beer, and a small refrigerator holds only nightcrawlers and fishing bait.
This ultimate man-space goes practically unused for leisure. Lopata's not a teetotaler but has other priorities, such as his wife, Amy, and their children, Jody, 6, and Adam, 12.
Dropping down the sheer face of a glass-and-concrete wall, Lopata said he thinks more about getting his daughter to soccer practice, helping his son with magic tricks and making out payroll than whether he'll make it to the ground alive.
His employees said they put up with the job's mundane tasks, such as cleaning interior windows, for the thrill of descents. Shawn Reese, 29, trained to be an accountant but longed to be outside. Randy Augustine, 31, dreams of cleaning ever-taller buildings.
"Every time you step off the roof, it's like freedom," Augustine said. "Nobody's around you."
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