I have some time, so I go into the Toy Room.
The way I work when I build a miniature is to draw a blueprint first, though it's not blue. Then I focus on each part of the item I'm making. Legs, drawers, tops, frames--whatever it might be. And I go in order of the most difficult task to the easiest. Carving eighteenth-century legs, for instance, is so very hard. Spindly yet complex, with swells and knobs and sweeps, angular. I coax them out of blocks of wood. I smooth with the blade and sand carefully. Then comes assembly. The one I'm now holding is an Edwardian bed for an American Girl client, the father a lawyer in Minneapolis. I know because his check to my company includes the triplet "esq." after his name. I almost didn't do the job because Alicia told me of the trouble she had with lawyers after the situation with her husband. She was innocent of any wrongdoing; you'd think all would have gone well for her. But no. And it was the lawyers to thank. But I need to make a living and she wouldn't care, I don't think. Anyway, I didn't tell her.
Peering through the magnifier, I ease the dowel joints together, knowing they'll fit since I've measured twice. A joke. The old expression. Actually I measure a dozen times before cutting.
Furniture, as lessons for life.
In an hour the bed is nearly done and I look at it for some time under the ring of light on the business side of the magnifier glass. I tend to want to do some more finishing work but restrain myself now. Many pieces are ruined because the artisan didn't know when to stop (a life lesson, I was saying). But I know when to stop. In a few days, after the varnish is long dried and rubbed smooth I will pack it up in bubble wrap and foam peanuts and ship it off.
As I study the piece and make a few final touches I click on the tape recorder. I just listen now. I'll transcribe this entry of the diary later.
Quite the interesting spring. Helped them with calc, though they were pretty smart, I was surprised, for athletes. Frank and Sam. Prejudice to say, like people say I'm really smart because I'm a beanpole and geekish which I'm not. I'm okay smart and math comes easy. Science. Computers. Not other things, though.
And we are having pizza and soda at Sam's house and his father comes in and says hi to me and he's pretty nice. He asks if I like baseball, which I don't, of course, because my father sits and smokes and watches games hour after hour and doesn't talk to us. But because our father sits and smokes and watches games hour after hour, especially if it's St. Louis or Atlanta, I know enough about the game to sound
like I'm not an idiot (and I know how to throw a knuckleball, ha!!! Even if not very well!). And I can talk about some players. Some stats.
Frank comes over and we start talking and Sam says let's have a graduation party, and at first I think this is a mistake that he's said this not thinking because I'm here, since I've never been invited to any party at the school, but the math club party and the computer club party, but they're not really parties. Also, I'm a junior. But Frank says that's cool, a party, and then turns to me and says I'll be in charge of the music, and that's it. Which means not only am I invited but I have an important thing to do.
Music could be the most important part. I don't know--because, yeah, I've never been to a party before. But I'm going to do a good job.
I click off the recorder, inspired to get cracking. I sit down at my computer, log into several virtual private networks serially, then head to Bulgaria and one of the Shitloadistans for a proxy.
I sit back and close my eyes. Then, channeled by the People's Guardian, I begin to type.
Nick Carelli's mobile hummed.
His lawyer.
When he'd gone into the system, caller ID was in its infancy. Now it was everywhere and, he'd decided, the most important thing invented in the past hundred years.
"Hey, Sam."
"Nick. How's it going? You adjusting well?"
"As can be expected."
"Sure. Well. I've got a place for you to check out. I've emailed the address and the deal sheet. It's preliminary so we'll still have a lot of due diligence to do. The place is out a way so the asking isn't going to give you a coronary. You get closer to the Heights and hipsters, there's better revenue but you couldn't afford it."
"Great, man. Thanks. Hold on. I'll check it out now."
Nick went online and noted the address--solid, working-class and striving neighborhood in BK--and the name of the owner. "Is he there now?" Nick was feeling the electric prods again. Impatience. He recalled Amelia's slogan: When you move they can't getcha...
"Yeah. He's there. I just talked to his lawyer." Then Sam fell silent. "Listen, Nick, are you sure you want to do this?"
"You gave me the lecture before."
"I did, yes. It would've been nice if you'd listened to me."
"Funny."
"Restaurants're one of the biggest money sucks in history. This one, okay, it's got decent cash flow and a loyal clientele. I know it. I've been to it. Been around for twenty years, so it's got serious goodwill. But still, you've never run a company before."
"I can learn. Maybe I could hire the owner to stick around, be a consultant. He's got an interest in making sure the place stays open and's successful." The proposal was the owner would get the purchase price plus a cut of the action. "He's gotta have a sentimental attachment to the place. Wouldn't you think?"
"I'd guess, sure."
"It's late in the game for me, Sam. I need to get going with my life. Oh, but the other thing I asked you."