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“Always,” he says. “And I was happy to see your truck wasn’t out here when I went to bed.”
A minute passes. Laurie comments, “Rikki says you’re doing well in Studio Art.”
“I’m spending three times as long on that class as everything else, just praying to get out of there with a B.”
“She says you have an interesting mind.”
“I have the least interesting mind in there.”
“What makes you say that?”
I tilt my head toward the sandblaster. “This kind of stuff is easy for me. Machines, problems, figuring out one step after the next. But Rikki wants me to be creative, and I’m not.”
Lau
rie seems to accept this. He’s quiet for a while. Then he asks, “You ever use a wheel to grind glass?”
“No.”
“Want to try?”
I do.
I want to see the kiln, too, and find out what it costs to run it for a week. Ask what happens when you scale it up—what kind of logistics problems does he mean? How’s he going to cast a giant hammer? Can he make it in pieces?
“I’d better get back to my reading,” I say.
I draw my hands out of the box and turn the art back over to the artist.
He takes the hammer and holds it lightly with his fingertips, flipping it one way and the other.
“How’s the factory?” he asks.
“I’m giving notice. I need to find something where I’ll be home more with Frankie.”
“You want to work for me?” he asks. “I need an assistant. Flexible hours. Decent money.”
“What kind of work?”
“Stuff like this. Finishing. Polishing. Answering email or phone calls. Whatever I don’t feel like doing, to be honest. I’m behind on this commission. I could use the help.”
“Shouldn’t you hire an art major?”
He waves the hammer in dismissal, making me worry he’s going to drop it. “I’ve been trying, but I can’t find any who know fuck-all about tools. You seem like you know tools. And like I said, Rikki thinks your mind is interesting.”
“I guess—yeah. I would. As long as you know what you’re getting. You need references or something?”
He laughs. “You’re twenty-one years old, you’re raising your kid sister, studying your ass off, doing night shifts at a window factory. You could be an ex-con and I’d still probably hire you. Under the table, though, okay? I don’t want to deal with taxes.”
He holds out his hand.
I shake it.
I mean, fuck, of course I shake it. Even if the money’s only so-so, the job’s perfect.
But when his fingers grip mine, I’m not thinking about Frankie or the paycheck. I’m thinking about what’s inside that workshop.
Compressors and welders and kilns, polishing equipment, all kinds of shit I don’t know the names of. Tools to learn how to use. Systems to work out.
