A Glint of Light

On Sunday afternoon, I figured I’d check on my little clueless protégées, B & C. I ambled over and knocked on their door. 

“Who’s there?” asked Ben.

“How’s it hanging?” I walked past him and toward the windows. “Holy smokes, man. You two hauled ass. I never imagined you’d get four tables done this fast. I’m impressed and that’s unusual.”

“Should we sand before we paint?” asked Celeste.

“Round the edges a little. The plywood and studs are smooth enough. A couple of coats of oil-based paint will seal them good. This isn’t for aesthetics, is it?” Ben and Celeste shook their heads. “Good work, kids. Got a spare beer? I’ll hang out and supervise.”

“Sure, Max.”

Celeste handed me a can and joined Ben to put a coat of paint on each of the tables. 

“What kind of printing press did you buy? Is it going to disturb my beauty sleep?”

“We bought two presses actually, but both are manual. Each has a big handle to crank to advance the bed and make a print.”

“What are you talking about? You have a picture or something?”

“We do.” Ben opened a large book and pointed to a picture labeled ‘Etching Press.’ 

“We bought one of these. It’s like a wringer on an old-fashioned washer. An inked copper plate, damp paper, and blankets are layered on top of the steel bed that travels between heavy steel rollers. The pressure of the rollers transfers the image from the plate to the paper.”

“I get it. So, two of these?”

“The other press we’re buying is a lithography press,” said Celeste. “It works by the same principle, but it scrapes across the bed instead of rolling and the plates are made using a different chemical process.”

“Fascinating. When you’re all set up can I watch you run them? I love machines and watching other people work.”

“Sure,” said Ben. “We’re going to leave while the paint dries. It’s too smelly here. Want to get a bite to eat with us up in the Heights?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got stuff upstairs. Maybe some other time.”

After eating my leftover Chinese, I ventured outside to enjoy the warm evening and sat on the stoop of the building across the street which also had a dozen or so work/live tenants. The streetlights were out again, so I could sit in the dark unobserved. Fifteen minutes later, Jake Berk charged out of our building like a man with a mission carrying a can of spray paint. Jake was a sculptor who did construction on the side to make a living like most of us. He was twice my size with a former football player physique, a flat head, and a thick neck. 

He shook the paint can for a good two minutes like it owed him money and proceeded to spray something on the security gate of the wallpaper printing factory down the block. The paint stink wafted over to me in seconds. His painting arm made big slashing moves, and he grunted with the exertion as he worked. Everyone on the block loathed the awful stench of burnt rubber pumping out when they etched the designs into the printing cylinders, which was no doubt also horribly toxic. When he finished, I walked over to see what he’d written.

“BASTARD STINK-HOLE!”

“What the fuck Jake, why in the hell do that? Some asshole is going to call the cops and the last thing we need around here is scrutiny from the building department. Keep a low profile, be part of the woodwork.”

“You asshole motherfucker. You’re criticizing me? Who cut the bolts on the security gate at the parking lot?” asked Jake. “Who ran their car into the No Parking sign and sawed it off for spite? Who torched your brother-in-law’s car in the middle of the street for the insurance? You’re some kind of low-life scum, suggesting my actions are unwarranted.”

I backed up out of his air space. “Okay. Okay, maybe I misspoke.”

“Yeah, you sure as hell did.” He tossed his empty spray can into the dumpster and sat next to me on the stoop.

Ben and Celeste turned the corner onto our street locked in an intense conversation about something I couldn’t catch and walked past quickly without looking at us.

“Hey Ben, Celeste. We aren’t muggers.”

They inched closer, peered into the darkness, and smiled in recognition. 

“You’ve met Jake Berk? He lives above you on the fourth floor. You may have heard wild animal yelps coming from his place. I hope you weren’t alarmed. He and his wife play kinky sex games and they really get into it. We’ve all learned to enjoy their antics vicariously from afar.”

Jake punched me hard in the shoulder. I moaned and turned away from him and rotated back. I pushed Jake and knocked him off the stoop. He grunted and rolled onto his side but didn’t get up, playing dead. Ben and Celeste stood as still as fence posts.

I bent down and patted Jake’s shoulder while looking up at Ben and Celeste. “We’re old friends. Nothing to worry about. Last time Jake got me in the nose, it fixed my deviated septum.” 

They backed away silently.

“It’s probably a good time for you to go in. The paint will be dry on your work tables. See you guys around.”

Ben and Celeste did as they were told, walked to the end of the block, and unlocked the front door. Jake and I dusted each other off and sat side by side on the steps, smoking and drinking beer like the old friends we were.

We sat in companionable silence until Jake’s wife opened their loft window and caught us in the beam of her industrial-strength flashlight. “Come in now, Jake. Time for beddy-bye.”

After Jake hustled into the building, I remained and enjoyed the pauses in between the subway trains rattling over the Manhattan Bridge, the police sirens, and the truck air horns on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway – the sounds of the city jungle, my domain.

In 1979 in DUMBO, our little section of Brooklyn, borough of New York City, county of Kings, there were maybe a hundred night-time arty inhabitants, sixty on our street alone. To a population expert, it was demographically rural. And as Brooklyn lofties, we possessed the same indomitable spirit as the hardy pioneers who left the secure cities of the East to settle out west on the plains; we were homesteaders in a hostile environment replete with masked marauders. We were idealists harboring a crazy dream of putting down stakes to establish a haven of creativity and our own civilization. As long as it didn’t interfere with our artistic workday.

*

I woke up the next morning with an elephant on my head from too many beers and a bloody nose stopping up my left nostril. I sat on the toilet, got myself a couple of aspirins, a washcloth, and warm water to soften the obstruction. Across the room was a birthday card Caroline had given me the first year we were together. I don’t know why I kept it, but I’d thumbtacked it to the ledge. I knew what it said from memory. 

“Dear Max, Chekov advised – ‘Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.’ Tell me what you’re feeling, share your thoughts, let me into your life. I’ll love you forever if you let me.”

I really wanted to give her what she wanted. I really did. I can quote Camus, Kierkegaard, and Goethe, but I couldn’t say to Caroline the words she wanted to hear. They seemed hollow to me. Instead, I caulked the leaky windows and replaced the moldings around them to keep her warm in the winter. I built a full kitchen with a deep farmhouse sink, a double oven, and a six-burner stove. I installed a soaking tub in the bathroom and a vanity sink with soft lighting. I built the two kids bedrooms of equal size with loft beds and a cozy room for the two of us with a king-sized bed. From my years of study, I knew the power of words, as well as how deceptive they could be. Words can lie; they can unduly persuade; they can make a person do something they hadn’t planned. I don’t trust words. 

I grew up with far too many words ­­– little action. The people in my life spoke a good line but didn’t deliver. It was all hand waving and vomiting wordy-words. My father used words to diminish and humiliate me, but didn’t take me to a ballgame or out to get ice cream. My mother used words to paralyze me with guilt over my lack of gratitude toward her for having given me life and to force me to perform any task she invented. No, words weren’t the answer. If Caroline needed that, then maybe it was better she was gone. Still I loved those kids. I miss them every day. I loved their flawlessness, their potential, their belief in the unlimited possibilities of life. 

I moved into the ‘raw’ part of the loft after she left, the part we meant to make a hangout spot for the kids, but we never did. So, I’m going to rent out the ‘finished’ side. I’ll find myself a trendy couple with a little trust fund and have them pay what the landlord charges me, plus a little more. I’ll become the resident gentleman philosopher, a man of leisure. I won’t bear the chance of accidentally discovering the little reminders of our life Caroline forgot when she left. That part of the floor will be off-limits to me. I’ll live on my side like a king.