The Contract

Celeste tidied the studio and cleaned the bathroom while Ben was gone. She tried to avoid watching the clock. 

“I was worried,” she said when he returned.

“It took me over two hours to get to City Chemical. I bought five gallons of hydrochloric acid and two containers of potassium chlorate. After I lashed them with bungy-cables onto the luggage cart, I hiked back. I thought I’d lose a wheel a few times. It’s like rush hour of the walking dead on the bridge. Some guys helped me lift the cart down the steps on the Brooklyn side.”

“It’s lucky they couldn’t see what you were carrying.”

“Lucky the cops didn’t see what I had. I might’ve been arrested for carrying bombmaking materials.”

“The situation with Tzvi is unsustainable. I’ve checked; he’s gone well over our estimates for materials already. I heard one of the warehouse guys mention someone is sleeping in the back of the third-floor warehouse. It might be Tzvi.”

“You think so? We can’t let him do that. He’ll start a fire or worse. I’ll call Harold.”

“Also, I had an idea that we could make a Plexiglas booth for the acid with an exhaust fan in the window. What do you think?” Celeste showed Ben a drawing she’d done.

“That would be a big help.”

“We can get everything at the hardware store, except for the Plexiglas. How long can the strike last anyway?” asked Celeste.

“It could be a while. I saw Koch on the bridge asking pedestrians, ‘how’m I doing?’ He was yelling like it was a pep rally saying he won’t give in to threats.”

Ben phoned Harold and Tzvi to report he’d bought more acid, but he made Tzvi promise to leave the mixture alone. Tzvi agreed. Harold promised too. The next few days passed peacefully with Tzvi trying to make up for lost time, working in the studio more than sixteen hours a day, apparently living on tea and cigarettes.  On Friday afternoon, Ben and Celeste’s friends picked them up for a weekend on Long Island to help with an installation. Tzvi loudly complained about having to stop his work but left with them at five.

*

When they returned to their loft after the weekend, Ben and Celeste’s eyes burned, their throats stung, and the air sparkled.

Ben coughed. “Look at the chains on the lights, the cabinet handles, the etching press. Everything’s rusted.” 

Celeste lunged for her respirator, gloves, and goggles. “I checked before we left.” She approached the long sink and removed the lids from the two acid trays. “The solution is completely clear. Tzvi spiked it again. He must’ve had a key made and worked over the weekend.”

“That bastard!” Ben pulled his tee shirt over his nose as he rushed to open the windows.  

He joined her after donning his protective gear. “Dilute the acid but don’t let it overflow. I’ll help you siphon it into the waste containers.”

“We’ve got to get rid of him, Ben,” said Celeste. “He’s going to kill us. Acid this strong can explode or cause skin and cornea burns. I read it can cause permanent organ damage.” 

“I’m done with him,” said Ben. “Let’s call a meeting with Tzvi and Harold.”

Celeste dialed the phone. “Tzvi, the shop will be closed tomorrow. Come with Harold on Tuesday about 10am. Good-bye.”  Before he could reply, she hung up.

They left the windows open and spent the night at a neighbor’s place on the fourth floor. 

“What should we say to them?” asked Celeste as they lay in their sleeping bags. “We need to cancel the contract and throw them out. Agreed?” 

She’d never seen Ben so angry. It was the only decision, but she dreaded what it meant to their prospects. Ben had quit his job and hers was just part-time. They had to pay rent and owed money to her father. 

Ben held her all night like they were each other’s lifeline, one unit, one entity more powerful together than apart. Celeste lay awake most of the night listening to Ben’s steady breathing. Since signing the lease on the loft, their lives had been one endless bone-numbing cycle of work. Neither had been able to produce much artwork of their own. She was willing to do whatever was required to get the business started and to build a future with Ben, but she needed to make art too. Ben had promised.

All day Monday they repaired what they could and packed Tzvi’s materials, barely speaking. Celeste wondered if Ben was as anxious about the meeting with Tzvi and Harold as she was. She hoped they wouldn’t back down, too scared about their future reputation to break the contract and send Tzvi on his way.

*

“I still don’t understand why I couldn’t come to the studio yesterday,” said Tzvi when he strode into the loft with Harold following. “I’m behind schedule.”

“You broke your promise, Tzvi,” said Ben, his face turning red. “You snuck in and worked over the weekend when we were gone and spiked the acid again. All the metal in the loft rusted. We could’ve been poisoned, or you might’ve caused an explosion.”

“No, no. That would not happen.” Tzvi lit a cigarette and wandered around the loft looking up at the rust on the light fixtures.

“Harold, we’re putting an end to this,” said Ben. “No discussion. We can’t continue the project.”

“But we have a contract,” said Harold pulling some folded papers from his jacket pocket.

“We’re breaking it. Tzvi can take the copper plates we bought and work somewhere else. After deducting the cost of materials he’s used, we’re in a deficit against the deposit you paid. Celeste has all the receipts.”

“But you’re breaching the contract. I can sue.”

Ben started pacing back and forth in front of Harold. His voice rose to a high pitch that echoed in the space, “We refuse to work with Tzvi any longer. He won’t follow normal safety procedures. He smokes like a chimney. He lies; he wastes materials, and is destroying our studio. We came home from the weekend to a loft saturated with lethal acid fumes because he’s too impatient. He thinks the rules don’t apply to him. We’ve packed up his copper plates. Take them and leave.”

Harold retreated.

Ben appeared like a bantam rooster striding around his barnyard telling the chickens to watch their step. Celeste suspected Ben had an inner strength, but this was the first time she’d seen it. She loved him more than ever. His rage was intimidating Harold, but she could see Ben’s hands trembling behind his back.

Harold was taciturn, staring first at Ben then at Tzvi as if expecting one of them to say something to deescalate the tension. Tzvi avoided his gaze. Celeste stood next to Ben barely breathing. The car horns blaring on the Manhattan Bridge were the only sounds. 

After a couple of minutes, Tzvi pounded his fist on a worktable making everyone jump.

“Come Harold. We leave. These people have no idea how art is made,” said Tzvi. “This is a hostile environment.”

Celeste held the door open while Ben handed Tzvi and Harold each a bundle of the heavy copperplate. He followed them out carrying Tzvi’s backpack and apron.

“Our first big client just drove away,” said Ben as he returned. “What a disaster.” 

“I’m relieved to see him go.” 

“Think he’ll sue us?” Ben looked exhausted slumped at the table, his head in his hands. 

Celeste massaged his shoulders. “At least we’re alive. He could’ve killed us.” 

Tzvi was impossible to work with, but he never wavered from his goal. Celeste admired that. She wondered if she had the passion to be as single-minded and determined as he was, to pursue her own vision. She decided to be a little more like Tzvi.

“What a failure,” he said. “I thought he’d be the first of many.” 

“We’ll know what we’re doing next time. We won’t be such pushovers. We’ll set studio hours with time for maintenance and repairs. And time to make our own artwork and sleep.”

“And let’s build that acid-exhaust booth tomorrow. We need to be ready.”

The transit strike ended three days later when the workers ratified a new contract. Subway trains rattling across the Manhattan Bridge once again provided the sound of waves breaking at the beach.