millisecond—and the odds of that are not good.
It’s ironic that my breaks have become more work than work. Although work has been more work too. Since I reorganized and redecorated the vintage room, there have been a lot more customers. When I first started, there were one or two a day. Now the only time the shop is empty is first thing in the morning and at the end of the day near closing—and even then, not always.
I deserve a raise, since this is all due to me, but instead, I asked Nancy for more breaks. “The effort that goes into keeping the vintage room at its aesthetic peak is draining me,” I explained to her. “I’m not able to sustain this level of creative supremacy without sufficient time to replenish my mental and physical energy levels.”
“I can imagine.” I detected a hint of sarcasm in Nancy’svoice. “Just coming up with that excuse must’ve been exhausting.” More than a hint.
But I got the extra breaks. I’d rather have the money, but it’s a sacrifice I have to make as an f.g. Yet
another
sacrifice. When will they stop?
Even though one more break has come and gone without success, I’m relieved to get back to Treasures. It’s late, so business should be slow. I think I’ll pull out my worktable and devote the rest of the day to boots. I’ll concentrate on just one pair. I don’t even have to finish, as long as I start.
I’m semi-cheered-up—until I enter the vintage room and notice that there’s a customer. Not only that, but she’s totally wrecked my belt display. I rearranged the design yesterday, mixing up the lengths and colors into an impressionistic sculpture of a weeping willow caught in the morning sun.
Now it looks like a dying tree after an ice storm. Actually, it just looks like a hat rack, because all the belts are draped over the girl’s arm.
“I had those organized,” I say. The girl turns and glares. She’s a little older than me and everything about her is hostile. Her eyes have five times more black eyeliner etched around them than I’ve ever worn, and her sandy blond hair shoots up in angry spikes, like porcupine quills poised to fire. “If somebody wants to buy one, it’d have to come off, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m buying them.”
“
All
of them?”
“If that’s okay with you.” I notice she’s already got about six belts strung around her waist, over her dress, which looks like a burlap sack with holes cut out for the arms. Her tan, chunky-heeled hiking boots match the color of her hair and the dress and the leather cuffs on her wrists, and even her skin. She’s like some comic-book girl Robin Hood rendered in sepia tones.
She follows my gaze to the belts she’s wearing. “I didn’t steal these,” she snaps. “They’re
mine
.” She glares at me. Wow, it’s not just her hair that’s prickly.
“I know that. I’m aware of my own inventory. I was just thinking that you seem to have enough belts already. And half of those”—I point my Nutri-Fizzy cup at the belts in her hand—“aren’t going to fit you.”
“They’re not for me. I redesign them and then sell them.”
“You do?” I can’t help the surprise in my voice. Damn, now she’s going to think I’m impressed.
“Yeah. I carve images onto them, paint them, add studs, beads, clamps.” She steps closer. I expect her to give off a foresty scent or something earthy, but she weirdly smells like roses. “Like those,” she says, and punches her belt-holding hand through the air toward my boots. The buckles of the belts whip around like the ends of a medieval torture device.
“I made these,” I tell her. They’re my “Artist’s Palette” pair, with paintbrushes and fountain pens carved next to stamps of inkpots and paint cans.
“I figured. You seem the type.”
“What does
that
mean?”
“You think it’s an insult?”
“It is the way
you
say it.”
She laughs. “That’s just the way I talk.” I can tell now that she has one of
It’s ironic that my breaks have become more work than work. Although work has been more work too. Since I reorganized and redecorated the vintage room, there have been a lot more customers. When I first started, there were one or two a day. Now the only time the shop is empty is first thing in the morning and at the end of the day near closing—and even then, not always.
I deserve a raise, since this is all due to me, but instead, I asked Nancy for more breaks. “The effort that goes into keeping the vintage room at its aesthetic peak is draining me,” I explained to her. “I’m not able to sustain this level of creative supremacy without sufficient time to replenish my mental and physical energy levels.”
“I can imagine.” I detected a hint of sarcasm in Nancy’svoice. “Just coming up with that excuse must’ve been exhausting.” More than a hint.
But I got the extra breaks. I’d rather have the money, but it’s a sacrifice I have to make as an f.g. Yet
another
sacrifice. When will they stop?
Even though one more break has come and gone without success, I’m relieved to get back to Treasures. It’s late, so business should be slow. I think I’ll pull out my worktable and devote the rest of the day to boots. I’ll concentrate on just one pair. I don’t even have to finish, as long as I start.
I’m semi-cheered-up—until I enter the vintage room and notice that there’s a customer. Not only that, but she’s totally wrecked my belt display. I rearranged the design yesterday, mixing up the lengths and colors into an impressionistic sculpture of a weeping willow caught in the morning sun.
Now it looks like a dying tree after an ice storm. Actually, it just looks like a hat rack, because all the belts are draped over the girl’s arm.
“I had those organized,” I say. The girl turns and glares. She’s a little older than me and everything about her is hostile. Her eyes have five times more black eyeliner etched around them than I’ve ever worn, and her sandy blond hair shoots up in angry spikes, like porcupine quills poised to fire. “If somebody wants to buy one, it’d have to come off, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m buying them.”
“
All
of them?”
“If that’s okay with you.” I notice she’s already got about six belts strung around her waist, over her dress, which looks like a burlap sack with holes cut out for the arms. Her tan, chunky-heeled hiking boots match the color of her hair and the dress and the leather cuffs on her wrists, and even her skin. She’s like some comic-book girl Robin Hood rendered in sepia tones.
She follows my gaze to the belts she’s wearing. “I didn’t steal these,” she snaps. “They’re
mine
.” She glares at me. Wow, it’s not just her hair that’s prickly.
“I know that. I’m aware of my own inventory. I was just thinking that you seem to have enough belts already. And half of those”—I point my Nutri-Fizzy cup at the belts in her hand—“aren’t going to fit you.”
“They’re not for me. I redesign them and then sell them.”
“You do?” I can’t help the surprise in my voice. Damn, now she’s going to think I’m impressed.
“Yeah. I carve images onto them, paint them, add studs, beads, clamps.” She steps closer. I expect her to give off a foresty scent or something earthy, but she weirdly smells like roses. “Like those,” she says, and punches her belt-holding hand through the air toward my boots. The buckles of the belts whip around like the ends of a medieval torture device.
“I made these,” I tell her. They’re my “Artist’s Palette” pair, with paintbrushes and fountain pens carved next to stamps of inkpots and paint cans.
“I figured. You seem the type.”
“What does
that
mean?”
“You think it’s an insult?”
“It is the way
you
say it.”
She laughs. “That’s just the way I talk.” I can tell now that she has one of
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