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We hop out and walk up the fractured sidewalk to the entrance. I wince as I unlock the skull-design metal door, made by said blacksmith guys.
I lead us into the hulking space, like the inside of a Klingon warship. And of course the first thing we see are the potters and blacksmith guys in the lounge area couches around a table loaded with empty beer bottles and some kind of sculpture that might be made out of part of a tractor.
I smile and wave at them. “Lively today.” I grab his hand and pull him in toward the more subdued side.
“What exactly is this place?” he asks.
“Southfield Place Makers Studio. It’s a makers co-op.” We pass the welders and the collective hardware area where tattooed urban beardsmen argue over the schedule for a circular saw. “You have to sign up for some of the larger tools,” I explain. “They’re shared.” I lower my voice. “That guy doesn’t always follow the rules, but things usually go really smoothly.”
He doesn’t reply.
My mood fizzles as we go deeper, because I don’t see Latrisha’s bright red hat over the plywood partition of her space. This was a bad idea.
“You do your jewelry here?”
“Well, I need venting for soldering. I think I’d get evicted from my apartment if I tried it there.”
“Damn,” he says.
Miserably, I lead him onward, past rows of messy workshop tables made of raw plywood. Why did I think he’d like this?
It’s not just the scene here, it’s him, too. He’s dressed down, but he’s a different species than we are, like he can’t wash the rich off, no matter how hard he might try.
“It seems a bit low rent, I know,” I say, “but it’s a great deal and the tools here are really good.”
He doesn’t reply, seeming stunned by the decrepitude.
I keep going. If nothing else, he can see some of Latrisha’s furniture and maybe hire her, and that would be great. Whatever else he thinks about this place, Latrisha’s furniture is amazing.
“And it’s not like we let just anyone in, much as it might look like that. People have to pay monthly and we can kick them out if they’re assholes. I mean, it’s hard to do this kind of stuff in the city; it’s not like we all have sheds in our yard, or even yards, and when you look at the start-up capital for like, a woodworker or even someone like me—”
“Vicky,” he says in his laughing way.
I turn and walk backward. “We all have lockers for our personal stuff over there,” I say.
“Watch out.” He grabs my arm just in time to keep me from backing into a couple rolling a cart.
He smiles down at me, and it’s one of his fake smiles. And that’s not okay. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“It’s nothing.”
“Tell me,” I say.
He lets me go. “It’s a wealthy guy complaint. Trust me, you don’t want to hear it.”
“I know it seems a little shabby.”
“You think that’s the problem?”
“Or…low rent.”
“Vicky,” he says. “You’re seriously apologizing for the state of the place?” he says. “It’s utterly amazing.”
Shivers swirl over me. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
“I worried you’d think it’s…I don’t know.”
