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I believe I might blush when I catch myself—and Eric catches me—staring at his fly curious to know if, like the rest of him, it too was created in the golden ratio.
“Do I have something on my pants?” He wipes his hands downward from his groin.
“Take off your boots,” I demand, powering on the digital tape measure and setting it to read in millimeters.
Eric stands with his shoulder pressed against the brick wall of the studio and, without moving his head, watches the red laser line as it slides from the floor up his full height.
I press a button to lock in the digital number. It reads one-thousand-eight-hundred-ninety-three millimeters. My calculation is three millimeters short and Eric’s is almost two full centimeters—just under an inch—too tall.
I pass him the tool and he stares at it without saying a word but his collapsed shoulders and hunched back say it all.
“Tweet, tweet,” I laugh.
“I’d like a professional reading. And a flat wall.”
I shrug. “I’m fine with that. It’s going to take a couple of days to get this installed on site. And for your costume to be delivered.”
“I am not wearing a fucking Big Bird costume.”
“Of course not,” I coo. “Big Bird is a giant canary. You, sir, will be somewhat taller and about as colorful as an average, emu-like bird.”
I get back to weaving the final pieces of straw into the nest before we need to have it moved to assemble and install.
Eric busies himself with something at the far end of the large studio. I look up every now and again to see what he’s doing. Hard to tell—meditating? Fantasizing about all the ways he can toss me fromNestrogenonce it’s been suspended fifteen feet above the floor in the lobby of the Power Brothers’ building?
Proven wrongEric has an entirely different energy thannormalEric. I thought I’d like it more than I do. But Eric-the-bet-loser has lost a good deal of his appeal.
“Eric?” I call from my end of the building. “Can I get your help, please?”
“Busy,” he barks.
Unfortunately, I need him now more than ever, since without his signature on the safety documents, my nest won’t fly in a public space. Time to dial up the charm.
7
ERIC
I can’t believeI lost the bet. Catherine’s eyeball estimate was actually short by five millimeters, but mine was over by a full centimeter.
She won fair and square and no matter how many times in the last four days I’ve apologized for my snarky math comments, she won’t budge on the forty-three days I’ve been condemned to eat, work, exercise, and sleep in her damnedNestrogen.
Oh, did I mention that my nesting habits will be broadcast on YouTube from cameras that capture all but one small area of the nest’s interior?
I remind her that I was the only man in the boardroom that day who would have voted for her project, if I’d had the right to vote.
She reminds me that I lost the bet.
I offer to make a huge donation to any charity she wants.
With a wrinkled brow, she tells me that my privilege is showing. Worse, she accepts the donation offer, but says my money won’t replace my lived experience.
I appeal to her compassionate side to reduce my nesting time from six weeks to six days.
She asks me how much time my ex-wife took off from her career when our son, Taylor, was born. And then how many days I stayed home from work when Taylor was sick in elementary school.
I accept that I am about to become a living, breathing, suffering fool of a case study in what I am certain will be the most talked about installation of Catherine Clay’s career. And likely mine, too.
“On the upside,” she chirps, “once you’re set free, you will be the most desirable egg daddy on the planet.”
