A Glint of Light

I spent the next few days in Manhattan framing a bathroom for a long-time friend/contractor who kept me busy enough to eat regularly. On Friday morning, I noticed a flatbed truck from the lumberyard outside the building. Ben chatted with the driver, but I couldn’t hear anything. It looked like they’d ordered extra studs and a dozen sheetrock panels, no doubt to build some dividing walls. I intermittently monitored the unloading from my fifth-floor vantage point as B & C took most of two hours to carry the building materials up to their second-floor loft. The building owner, a cheap bastard, wouldn’t let the tenants use the elevators during the day. I could’ve helped, but they had younger knees than me. An hour or so after the truck left, I walked down two flights of stairs from my place and zig-zagged across the warehouse we used as a corridor connecting the two sections of tenant lofts. It was full of boxed file cabinets and metal lockers fabricated in the factory on the lower floors. At the end, I descended one more flight and pulled the massive sliding fire door open letting it bang closed to announce my arrival before knocking at their door.

“I figured check on you guys. Soon to be nine-fingered do-it-yourselfers are a potential source of new business.” I strode in and studied the pile of building materials. “Well, lookee here. What’s up? Handy Andy’s workshop?” 

The big square room was mostly empty. There were four concrete columns and a wall of windows on the far end. The window glass was frosted, so there was no view, just an overall glow that was pleasant. I walked over and tipped a window open. A one-story factory roof was connected to the outside wall and a set of grimy windows from the adjacent building loomed fifteen feet away. Clear glass would’ve been depressing. I did notice the Empire State Building was visible when I hung out the open window and looked sharply to my right. Unlike my loft, their Manhattan facing wall was bereft of windows. 

Celeste waved hello. “We’re starting the tables today, Max. Also, we decided to build a dividing wall. We’ve got an echo that’s really annoying. It should help, right?”

“Interesting.” I continued my tour of the perimeter. “Functioning kitchen. Basic bathroom, not bad for newbies.” The faucets even worked.

“How about a beer?” Ben asked. “We have a few in the cooler.”

“I never turn down beer. What, no fridge? You ecologists or something?”

“No. We discovered our floor shares one ty-amp circuit with the third and the fourth-floor tenants. We go to bed when the fuses blow, which is almost every night.” 

Celeste handed me a can. “Have a seat.”

“Nice, three chairs. You guys are regular party hosts. Mind if I smoke?” 

“Here’s an ashtray.”

“Well, if you insist.” I took a swig of beer. “Oh, by the way – two years.”

“What?” asked Ben.

“You wanted to know how long I’ve been in the building. I was the first person to approach the owner about renting space in 1977, so I’m the culprit if anyone’s looking for the instigator.”

“You’re our hero. We could never afford a loft in Manhattan,” said Celeste. “We need a place with concrete floors for the presses.”

“Good to hear. Where are you planning to put the wall?” It’s funny how people search for a big open place and then proceed to cut it into little rooms.

“We figured a Z formation would work with a wall between the two center columns, one perpendicular section going to the outside wall between the first and second window and a third diagonal one to connect the two. They’ll be about eight feet high to allow for air circulation. This side, away from the windows, will be our living space. The far side is where we’ll place the work tables and the printing presses.”

“What are your ceilings?’

“Twelve feet to the beams.”

“You’ll cut all the light off, since all your windows are on one side. I might be stepping over the line as a mere acquaintance, but consider cutting rectangular openings in the walls, maybe 40” from the floor to keep the living side from being too dark.”

“Great idea Max.” Celeste sat down at the table and smiled at me. She was a nice person.

“I may not be a fancy artiste like the majority of the loft dwellers here, but I have endured a few years in the hallowed halls of education.” I leaned the chair back on two legs. 

“Art education is overrated.” Ben sipped his beer. “Most artists are close to illiterate; that’s why they go to art school in the first place. What did you study?” 

“I possess an equally useless degree in philosophy topped off with a year of law school before it dawned on me, I hated school so much I could transform into ‘Mr. Hyde’ anytime. I’m a calmer man with a nail gun in my hand.”

“Good to know what makes you happy. Do you live alone?” Celeste leaned in like she really wanted to know.

“I do now. It’s a long, boring story, and I need something stronger than beer to talk about it.” I lit another cigarette and finished my beverage. “How are you solving the electricity problem? Must be inconvenient.”

“We’re going in with Tim and Maggie to pay the owner to bring in 100 amps from the basement for each of us. Tim just finished designing their space and he did a power assessment.”

“I heard he took nine months doing drawings. Sounds pretty fucking anal to me,” I also heard they’d been living the whole time without running water like Breatharians, and shitting in a joint compound bucket. 

“He’s a real perfectionist. Maggie’s ready to murder him or leave him,” said Celeste. “We know them from art school which is how we heard about the loft.” 

“Maggie should do both. He’s a narcissistic bastard if I ever saw one. I know, I am one. Tim will never build that place because he’s finished it in his mind already. Why go to all the trouble and effort to actually make it?” I leaned my chair farther back and noticed Ben holding his breath. I caught Celeste eying my tipped chair legs too.

“You might be right,’ said Ben. He looked worried.

“I know I am. So, are you serving any snacks, or do I have to go back to my place?”

“You have a kitchen? I didn’t see one at your loft.”

“Yeah, there’s one in the other half of the floor facing the street, but I’m hoping to rent it out soon and live for free. I’m installing a basic kitchen and bath in my section next month. What time is it? I have to meet this guy about a brownstone reno at four.”

“It’s almost four.”

I let the chair legs bang on the floor and rose.

After my meeting at the bar on the corner, I walked home to my place and gathered a number of empty beer cans from my workbench and floor. I took them into the kitchen on the other side of the loft and rinsed them before dumping them in the garbage bin. Ben and Celeste’s place was very tidy. Maybe the after-effects of my visit there had rubbed off. 

The late afternoon sunlight lit a red glass vase on the windowsill in the kitchen making it glow like Aladdin’s lamp. I picked it up. The roughness of the outside surprised me. It used to hold the flowers Caroline liked to bring home from the Korean market near her office. She was the one who filled it with warm water and an aspirin and arranged the stems of daffodils, tulips, or lilies in a way that looked perfectly elegant, though I couldn’t explain why. The vase was heavier than I’d realized. 

I pinged the thin edge with my thumbnail, but the reverberation was dull, as if it knew I wanted more from it. I plunged my nose into the opening, hoping to catch a whiff of old plant material or a little fragrance, but the dust inside it made me sneeze. Caroline had been gone for months. I knew she’d never return after I watched her efficiently as ever packing up everything she wanted, including her kids. Wherever she’d gone was her business and she hadn’t shared it with me. The reason she’d left was confusing. I’d been trying to be a good step-dad, conscientious and caring, generous with my time, but she was convinced I was playing havoc with her overly strict psychologically correct child-rearing methods. We could’ve worked out a compromise, if she wanted to, but she didn’t. I really missed Corrine and Miles, even if they were cynical, smart-mouthed teenagers. 

The vase slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor. I hadn’t meant to break it, but I was satisfied anyway. Nothing left but to sweep up.

*

(Click on number 4 to continue reading the story.)