nearly gave in but I wouldn’t let her eliminate a single Braille dot,” he said, winking happily at Poet (Sculptor). “Unfortunately, its production costs did consume all of the publisher’s assets, and in the end, the strain to bring out this one copy cost them their office, that is their kitchen, along with the rest of the business, that is their house.
“But the true bottom line is that the book came into the world in the form it was meant to be, I was able to buy it, and since the publishers put such a high price on the book, they will be sure to reopen their doors. Or at least open a new kitchen-table operation under a different name. So you see, it was a win-win situation!”
Mechanic said nothing, remembering how his own mechanic’s business had gone under. Would he have been better off compromising? What would that even mean? Making every other repair regular? Repairing every car half way?. . . He sighed heavily, wishing he had looked harder for a way to stay out of the tollbooth. . . .
“Don’t look so disappointed,” Photographer said, turning the book to look when she had finished the dedication, “now that the book has sold out, there’s sure to be a second printing. We are in negotiations with the publisher right now. Or at least will be once they return my calls, isn’t that right?” Photographer didn’t allow her to release the book as he took it from her, though. Instead, he took Mechanic’s hand and placed it on top of hers. “Now that the publishers realize what they should have thought of before they even went into publishing,” he said, bobbing the book in cadence with their hands upon it. “Your art, your life, your love is not the place to be timid.” He pronounced the words solemnly, looking directly at her as though he was some kind of judge, or minister conducting a ceremony with the book between them, and the emotionless mask that her face became, the way her eyes refused to meet Mechanic’s was as meaningful as some secret handshake he had been allowed to participate in, if not understand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“When I took my job at the tollbooth,” Mechanic lamented to Photographer, back in Photographer’s camera-house after the reading, after the two of them had labored for the rest of the day to get his broken car back to Mechanic’s garage, “I thought I would enjoy swimming in a sea of cars.” The oceanic hiss and rush of cars on the bridge continued its accompaniment beneath their feet. “But I didn’t figure on how depressing the drivers could be, only concerned with getting from point A to point B, never giving their vehicles a thought unless it was to gild these lilies by the addition of fuzzy dice, or toy dogs whose heads bob up and down.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Photographer sighed sympathetically. “Perhaps you would be happier in a less people-oriented line of work, like gravedigger.” He poured Mechanic another cup of tea.
“Sometimes I feel like such a fool.” He pointed to his name stitched over his shirt pocket. “The toll-road uniform is exactly the same as my old mechanic’s uniform. I didn’t even have to change clothes.”
“Ach, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Photographer scoffed, hearing none of it. “What else were you to do?—Go on making ‘
repairs’
? Only a werewolf can write like a court reporter all day and howl poems at the moon by night. That’s why I quit making photographs with film entirely.”
“But even if I take off this uniform,” Mechanic said, trying to make his point clearer, “under my clothes my body is still the same.”
Photographer pulled his chair closer. “Listen my friend, let me tell you a story. At my darkest moment, when all the world told me that I was crazy for wanting to change the world with my movies—
Ha!
—I began—like you—to wonder if in fact black was white and white, like they said, black. But chance, or Zeus, or fate or whatever it is that sends to us what we most need in
“But the true bottom line is that the book came into the world in the form it was meant to be, I was able to buy it, and since the publishers put such a high price on the book, they will be sure to reopen their doors. Or at least open a new kitchen-table operation under a different name. So you see, it was a win-win situation!”
Mechanic said nothing, remembering how his own mechanic’s business had gone under. Would he have been better off compromising? What would that even mean? Making every other repair regular? Repairing every car half way?. . . He sighed heavily, wishing he had looked harder for a way to stay out of the tollbooth. . . .
“Don’t look so disappointed,” Photographer said, turning the book to look when she had finished the dedication, “now that the book has sold out, there’s sure to be a second printing. We are in negotiations with the publisher right now. Or at least will be once they return my calls, isn’t that right?” Photographer didn’t allow her to release the book as he took it from her, though. Instead, he took Mechanic’s hand and placed it on top of hers. “Now that the publishers realize what they should have thought of before they even went into publishing,” he said, bobbing the book in cadence with their hands upon it. “Your art, your life, your love is not the place to be timid.” He pronounced the words solemnly, looking directly at her as though he was some kind of judge, or minister conducting a ceremony with the book between them, and the emotionless mask that her face became, the way her eyes refused to meet Mechanic’s was as meaningful as some secret handshake he had been allowed to participate in, if not understand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“When I took my job at the tollbooth,” Mechanic lamented to Photographer, back in Photographer’s camera-house after the reading, after the two of them had labored for the rest of the day to get his broken car back to Mechanic’s garage, “I thought I would enjoy swimming in a sea of cars.” The oceanic hiss and rush of cars on the bridge continued its accompaniment beneath their feet. “But I didn’t figure on how depressing the drivers could be, only concerned with getting from point A to point B, never giving their vehicles a thought unless it was to gild these lilies by the addition of fuzzy dice, or toy dogs whose heads bob up and down.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Photographer sighed sympathetically. “Perhaps you would be happier in a less people-oriented line of work, like gravedigger.” He poured Mechanic another cup of tea.
“Sometimes I feel like such a fool.” He pointed to his name stitched over his shirt pocket. “The toll-road uniform is exactly the same as my old mechanic’s uniform. I didn’t even have to change clothes.”
“Ach, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Photographer scoffed, hearing none of it. “What else were you to do?—Go on making ‘
repairs’
? Only a werewolf can write like a court reporter all day and howl poems at the moon by night. That’s why I quit making photographs with film entirely.”
“But even if I take off this uniform,” Mechanic said, trying to make his point clearer, “under my clothes my body is still the same.”
Photographer pulled his chair closer. “Listen my friend, let me tell you a story. At my darkest moment, when all the world told me that I was crazy for wanting to change the world with my movies—
Ha!
—I began—like you—to wonder if in fact black was white and white, like they said, black. But chance, or Zeus, or fate or whatever it is that sends to us what we most need in
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