Free The Glass Factory by Kenneth Wishnia Page B
Authors: Kenneth Wishnia
Damn, she brought the kid—no sex today—oh, shit, now I gotta pretend to love kids—boy, isn’t she cute?—just like her Momma!
He tells me my outfit would be really nice if I had it dry cleaned by professionals, and he actually gives me the business card of the place he uses.
“Best on the island,” he assures me. Apparently it has never occurred to Mr. Stella that all this takes money.
I give Antonia her paper and crayons to draw with, and work on Mr. Stella a bit until he lets me look at his list of disability claimants who still work at Morse Techtonics. I see at least five names with addresses that I recognize as being within a mile or two of Colomba’s, but I think that highlighting them in red would be a bit obvious. Hmm, I really don’t like using my kid for a cover, but I don’t have much choice at the moment.
Antonia’s done a wonderful abstract drawing, already incorporating some of Katherina Minola’s design influences. I draw Jim Stella’s attention to it.
“What’s that?” he asks.
Antonia says, “I don’t know.”
And he says, “You don’t know what it is?”
“No.”
“It has to be something.”
“No it doesn’t,” I interrupt. “I’m not so hot to start making my kid put everything into a ‘meaningful’ and ‘structured’ context so soon.”
“Well, they’ve got to learn the way of the world,” he says.
“The world doesn’t set such a great example itself, okay?”
“Okay, okay.” His intercom buzzes. “Yeah?”
A voice squawks: “LaFehr on line two.”
“Oh, not LaFehr on line two again.” Jim Stella stands up, shaking his head, and goes back to his desk to take the call.
I put Antonia on my lap, with a legal pad for an easel, and start explaining some of the dialectical principles behind the early twentieth-century collapse of standard linear perspective, using Cubist and pre-Colombian motifs. Meanwhile, on a separate sheet partly covered by the drawing, I’m writing down the names and addresses of the six nearest disability claimants with a bright red crayon.
Now we’re waiting outside on the Academic Mall for Katherina Minola to free herself from the Administration Building and rescue us from Investigative Dead End Number Three.
Here she comes, skipping down the stairs, full of vitality.
“You know, your talents are wasted on those geeks,” I say.
“Yeah, well, what can you do? When I graduated they should have said, ‘Here’s your degree in design and your first unemployment check. Get used to it.’“
“Four years of art school and they’ve got you laying bricks.”
“Don’t knock bricks. My father laid them every day of his life so I could get that diploma. At least I’ve got a steady job. I had a fabric importer break down and cry on me after telling me business is so bad he might have to close. And this guy is based in the Hamptons.”
“I want to go to the Hamptons,” says Antonia.
“Later, honey.”
“I want to go to the Hamptons!”
“Toni, it’s a long way away.”
“I thought of something else after we spoke,” Katherina says. “Did you know that Morse Techtonics has put in a bid for the old Shore Oaks estate?”
“What’s the old Shore Oaks estate?”
“I want to go to the Hamptons!”
“Seventeen acres of private woods and beachfront property. Do you want to go to the beach?” she asks Antonia.
“Let’s go to the beach!”
“Okay, okay,” I say.
“We’ll take my car,” says Katherina. “You need a university sticker to get in.”
On our way to the parking lot, Katherina explains, “Old man Carter’s place. Remember the Susquehanna Hat Company? Well, that was him. Made his millions back in the Roaring Twenties and bought up all of the land around here. Sold it to developers in the fifties and sixties with the stipulation that they build in the ‘colonial’ style of his mansion. All of this land we’re standing on was donated to make the State University. About twenty years back
He tells me my outfit would be really nice if I had it dry cleaned by professionals, and he actually gives me the business card of the place he uses.
“Best on the island,” he assures me. Apparently it has never occurred to Mr. Stella that all this takes money.
I give Antonia her paper and crayons to draw with, and work on Mr. Stella a bit until he lets me look at his list of disability claimants who still work at Morse Techtonics. I see at least five names with addresses that I recognize as being within a mile or two of Colomba’s, but I think that highlighting them in red would be a bit obvious. Hmm, I really don’t like using my kid for a cover, but I don’t have much choice at the moment.
Antonia’s done a wonderful abstract drawing, already incorporating some of Katherina Minola’s design influences. I draw Jim Stella’s attention to it.
“What’s that?” he asks.
Antonia says, “I don’t know.”
And he says, “You don’t know what it is?”
“No.”
“It has to be something.”
“No it doesn’t,” I interrupt. “I’m not so hot to start making my kid put everything into a ‘meaningful’ and ‘structured’ context so soon.”
“Well, they’ve got to learn the way of the world,” he says.
“The world doesn’t set such a great example itself, okay?”
“Okay, okay.” His intercom buzzes. “Yeah?”
A voice squawks: “LaFehr on line two.”
“Oh, not LaFehr on line two again.” Jim Stella stands up, shaking his head, and goes back to his desk to take the call.
I put Antonia on my lap, with a legal pad for an easel, and start explaining some of the dialectical principles behind the early twentieth-century collapse of standard linear perspective, using Cubist and pre-Colombian motifs. Meanwhile, on a separate sheet partly covered by the drawing, I’m writing down the names and addresses of the six nearest disability claimants with a bright red crayon.
Now we’re waiting outside on the Academic Mall for Katherina Minola to free herself from the Administration Building and rescue us from Investigative Dead End Number Three.
Here she comes, skipping down the stairs, full of vitality.
“You know, your talents are wasted on those geeks,” I say.
“Yeah, well, what can you do? When I graduated they should have said, ‘Here’s your degree in design and your first unemployment check. Get used to it.’“
“Four years of art school and they’ve got you laying bricks.”
“Don’t knock bricks. My father laid them every day of his life so I could get that diploma. At least I’ve got a steady job. I had a fabric importer break down and cry on me after telling me business is so bad he might have to close. And this guy is based in the Hamptons.”
“I want to go to the Hamptons,” says Antonia.
“Later, honey.”
“I want to go to the Hamptons!”
“Toni, it’s a long way away.”
“I thought of something else after we spoke,” Katherina says. “Did you know that Morse Techtonics has put in a bid for the old Shore Oaks estate?”
“What’s the old Shore Oaks estate?”
“I want to go to the Hamptons!”
“Seventeen acres of private woods and beachfront property. Do you want to go to the beach?” she asks Antonia.
“Let’s go to the beach!”
“Okay, okay,” I say.
“We’ll take my car,” says Katherina. “You need a university sticker to get in.”
On our way to the parking lot, Katherina explains, “Old man Carter’s place. Remember the Susquehanna Hat Company? Well, that was him. Made his millions back in the Roaring Twenties and bought up all of the land around here. Sold it to developers in the fifties and sixties with the stipulation that they build in the ‘colonial’ style of his mansion. All of this land we’re standing on was donated to make the State University. About twenty years back