A Glint of Light

“I heard about you two from Jake Berk and Paul Robinson. You’re in the loft behind that squirrely architect and his whiny painter girlfriend.” 

I knew who they were though not their actual names. As the first tenant in the building, I made it my business to keep track of the comings and goings in my own way, like a small-town sheriff. And like folks in all small towns, the tenants in the building were unabashed gossips. News traveled fast in DUMBO, our isolated little enclave in Brooklyn. The current tenants speculated about the new people and told tales about everyone already here. The stories ranged from work to finances – who’d been picked up by a gallery or had a show coming up to who had money, who needed some, and who knew how to make more. Nobody had a single job. We were all artists/writers/actors plus something else that generated enough cash to make our ends meet.

“Pretty judgmental.” Celeste gave me a steady look that made me like her.

“What? I love them. I’ll spare you my assessment of the ones I hate until I know you better.”  

In the summer of 1979, it seemed a new tenant moved in every week or so. The place was getting too crowded too fast for my taste. The half-block long factory building I inhabited with the other lofties consisted of five interconnected five-story brick mill buildings, as well as a six-story concrete structure located mid-block. The word was out – there was cheap space to be found. The neighborhood was still rough. It wasn’t SoHo and probably never would be, though we could hope. Most area inhabitants had been mugged, at least once. Large dogs were favored as companions for evening walks; cats were welcomed to discourage the mice inside.

I dug into my breast pocket. ”Making any progress with your fixtures? I heard you nearly drowned yourselves doing a bit of Sunday plumbing last week.” 

Ben reddened. “Yeah, that was awful. But we figured it out.” He squeezed Celeste’s knee.

I lit a Camel, crossed my legs, and leaned back in my webbed aluminum lawn chair. “What can I do you for?” 

“We’re starting a fine art print atelier in our loft and we need some tables built. Our etching press is being delivered soon, and we want to be able to start working as soon as it arrives. We have two editions on contract.”

I waved my hands in the air to cut Ben off. “Too much information. I understood the work tables part. What size and how many?” I turned up my pant cuff to form a pocket and tapped my cigarette ash in. They watched me like I’d picked my nose and eaten it. “Normally, I just flick the ashes on the floor, but I’m in my job interview mode, trying to make a good impression on potential customers, such as yourselves.”

They laughed like I knew they would.

“Have any more lawn chairs?” Celeste looked around my loft. 

My half of the fifth-floor loft faced Manhattan with four windows flashing million-dollar views of the skyline, but my space was largely empty with a workbench on one side, a fold-up cot, and a battered metal shelving unit stuffed with hand and power tools. A mound of leftover paint, varnish cans, and assorted wood scraps were stacked against the opposite wall. It was a Spartan retreat beyond spare, the way I wanted it. 

“No, just the one. I can only sit in one chair at a time and, as you can probably guess, I’m not much of an entertainer.” I pointed to some orange crates near my tool bench. “Grab a couple of those if you want to sit down. Watch for splinters.”

They each grabbed a crate and sat across from me, their hands clasped together like it was story-time at the public library.

“So, we need four tables, eight feet long, three feet deep, and thirty-two inches high. They should have a full-size shelf about a foot from the floor.” Celeste handed me a nicely done scaled drawing. She was sort of cute, petite with dark curly hair, the kind of woman who’d look like a girl until she was an old lady.

“The tables must be able to take a lot of weight and be sealed so ink can’t sink into the wood.” Ben had a Che Guevara beard and tortoise shell glasses, a blend of rebel and prepster. He perched on his fruit crate, leaning away from my cigarette smoke.

“So, nothing fancy, am I right?”

They nodded.

“You’d use ¾” utility-grade plywood for the tabletops and shelves and seal it with a couple of coats of oil-based paint. And use 2×4 studs for the legs. Let’s see, materials, fabrication, painting, will run you about two hundred a table.” I looked up after scribbling the numbers on the margins of Celeste’s drawing.

My visitors sat slack-mouthed. 

“Eight hundred dollars is a lot of money. Maybe we can manage with one to start.” 

“I’ll do four for eight, but one will cost you three hundred. But you know you can build the tables yourself with a few basic tools.” I lit a new Camel off the prior one still burning. “You’ll need a circular saw, a drill, a tape measure, and a little common sense.”

“We have the saw and tape measure. Why would we need a drill?” 

“That’s where the common sense comes in. A screw is better than a nail to keep two pieces of wood together.”

They bobbed their heads like a couple of chickens. I joined in for solidarity.

“I guess we could make them. How much would the wood cost?” 

I handed Ben the drawing with my materials costs totaled in pencil. 

“Eight sheets of ¾” plywood: $75 plus 8 ten-foot studs, $18. We can afford that.” Ben turned to Celeste who seemed skeptical.

“Tip of the day – build the legs first and put the top on last.” I could see the gears moving about in their little arty brains. “That way all the legs will touch the floor. This isn’t fine furniture you’re building. You’re using studs which are never perfectly straight and utility plywood. Capisci?”

I stamped out my cigarette under my work boot, no longer in job interview mode.

“Thanks, Max. We really appreciate this.” Ben’s smile peeked through his beard. “So how long have you lived here?”

“Oh, is this now a social call? And here I am with no caviar to serve.”

“Got it.” Celeste stood and placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Thanks again.” 

They returned the crates to the same haphazard positions they’d found them and filed out. It was too quiet after the kids left. I should’ve answered Ben’s question. What a dipshit I am. I didn’t bother to latch the door and left it open a crack in case they returned with questions and smoked another Camel watching the dust motes slowly settle to the floor. Ben and Celeste were probably in their mid-twenties. They would’ve been babies when I quit law school after One-L.

“Max.” A raspy voice whispered from the stairway.

“That you Paul Robinson, you skunk. You hiding from your wife again?”

“I need a little down time.” He eased the door open, dragged a fruit crate over to the window, and dropped down on it hard. When he pulled his bandana off his head, it created a white cloud that gradually settled on his shoulders. Oblivious to the dust, Paul busied his fingers unlacing his work boots, which he took off and placed against the wall, side by side. I was relieved he didn’t disrobe any further.

“You doing a little taping in your place?” I roused myself and grabbed two beers from the mini-fridge. “Hell. It’s five o’clock somewhere by now.” I held out one can to my guest.

“Thanks. Your generosity is legend.” Paul popped the top and took a long draw. “The baby’s due in two months and she wants the nursery done. Nobody’s told her, the baby won’t notice. I know from my first marriage, all infants want to do is eat, shit, and sleep. They do smell real good at the top end though. I love that.” Paul wriggled his toes and rubbed his instep.

“I hear you.” I drank most of my beer in one pull. “Another?”

Paul nodded. “Her fucking hormones are driving us both nuts. I hope I survive the birth.”

“Yeah, well she’s got the hard part. All you’ve got to do is hold her hand.”

“As if.”

We both drank our beers in silence watching the Chrysler building sparkle in the sunshine across the river and the motorized Matchbox-sized cars zoom up and down FDR Drive like it was a cartoon show. 

A woman’s booming voice shook the stairway. “Paul Bernard Robinson, you son-of-a-bitch. You think I don’t know where you are? Get home now.” 

“Time’s up.” I hoisted myself out of my lounge chair and handed Paul his boots. “Wouldn’t want to keep the mother of your progeny waiting.”

“See you around, Max.” Paul wiped his face with his bandana making chalky stripes on his cheeks and padded out in his socks. 

*

(Click on number 3 to continue reading the story.)