edgeless like I was just sliding through life? I couldn’t remember. I smiled.
“Life is good, Dwight, life is good,” I said as I wheeled myself over to the window. I looked out over the playground and ball fields. The park was almost empty. A few kids played on the jungle gym while an adult stood nearby texting and looking up occasionally. Another person walked her Pomeranian on the far side of the park. A flash of black silk caught my eye. A black squirrel? I knew we had black squirrels, but this was bigger. It stopped in the exact middle of the park, turned around twice and sat down on the ground. It was a cat. And it looked up at me, through the window, as if it knew I was watching. I shuddered and felt my lips tighten. It was looking right at me.
We stared at each other for what seemed like a long time before the cat stood up, stretched low in the front and high in the back and started sauntering toward my house. This must be the fellow who pooped in my gardens. I drew back from the window but did not stop watching. I couldn’t; it was as if I were watching a slow-motion car wreck. I didn’t want to look at the sly thing, but I couldn’t look away. When the cat got to the edge of the park, directly across the street from my house, he stopped and sat down again. He never took his eyes from mine. He was now close enough for me to see that he had very pretty golden eyes. Pretty eyes or not, I wanted him to stop looking at me. I was becoming unnerved. He was close enough for me to see the tufts of black hair that sprang from behind his ears. He was black from head almost to toe—but he had one white toe in the middle of both back paws. These white toes gave me the feeling he was flipping me off. They appeared to be the cat equivalent of a middle finger.
“Well, fuck you, too,” I whispered and then snapped my head around to look at Dwight. It wouldn’t do to have him whispering obscenities. He was watching me, but he said nothing. Dwight leaned over as far as he could without tumbling from his perch. He attempted to peek out the window, but he couldn’t lean far enough to see out.
“That’s okay, buddy, you’re not missing anything.”
Chapter Eight
Slurry
The mound, slick and smooth and cupped in my hands, began to tremble. I reduced the pressure of my foot slightly to slow the spinning wheel, and the clay started to right itself. I had enrolled in an open studio class where I could pay by the visit, which was a grand idea because then I could visit whenever I wanted to rather than being bound by a class schedule. I think it might defeat one of Dr. Browning’s reasons for having me take a class, which was probably to make new friends, but it was a start, right?
I dribbled a small handful of water into the shallow depression atop what was to be my first ever thrown pot. I gave the foot pedal a light push to get the wheel back up to speed. That, however, was not the thing to do.
Gravity failed me and pure centrifugal force took over. Before I could stop it, the entire mound of clay slid off the wheel, careened through the air and smacked into the back of a very large young man.
“Oh!” he yelped, grabbing his lower back with a hand that was covered with a reddish clay. Conversations ceased as people looked up. He whipped around, his shaggy blond hair making him look like a large surfer. He looked at my face and then looked down at the mass of clay on the floor.
“I’m sorry.” I tried to stand up, but my apron caught the edge of the potter’s wheel and dashed the wheel and its tray’s contents to the floor. “Ooooh,” I breathed as the slurry ebbed over the cement floor. It oozed out around the soles of my feet and headed for a few frameless canvases that leaned against the wall. I scrambled for the canvases to save them when my feet went out from under me. I landed on my ass in the slurry. All the conversations in the studio halted now. Then the big guy who took the clay kidney punch
“Life is good, Dwight, life is good,” I said as I wheeled myself over to the window. I looked out over the playground and ball fields. The park was almost empty. A few kids played on the jungle gym while an adult stood nearby texting and looking up occasionally. Another person walked her Pomeranian on the far side of the park. A flash of black silk caught my eye. A black squirrel? I knew we had black squirrels, but this was bigger. It stopped in the exact middle of the park, turned around twice and sat down on the ground. It was a cat. And it looked up at me, through the window, as if it knew I was watching. I shuddered and felt my lips tighten. It was looking right at me.
We stared at each other for what seemed like a long time before the cat stood up, stretched low in the front and high in the back and started sauntering toward my house. This must be the fellow who pooped in my gardens. I drew back from the window but did not stop watching. I couldn’t; it was as if I were watching a slow-motion car wreck. I didn’t want to look at the sly thing, but I couldn’t look away. When the cat got to the edge of the park, directly across the street from my house, he stopped and sat down again. He never took his eyes from mine. He was now close enough for me to see that he had very pretty golden eyes. Pretty eyes or not, I wanted him to stop looking at me. I was becoming unnerved. He was close enough for me to see the tufts of black hair that sprang from behind his ears. He was black from head almost to toe—but he had one white toe in the middle of both back paws. These white toes gave me the feeling he was flipping me off. They appeared to be the cat equivalent of a middle finger.
“Well, fuck you, too,” I whispered and then snapped my head around to look at Dwight. It wouldn’t do to have him whispering obscenities. He was watching me, but he said nothing. Dwight leaned over as far as he could without tumbling from his perch. He attempted to peek out the window, but he couldn’t lean far enough to see out.
“That’s okay, buddy, you’re not missing anything.”
Chapter Eight
Slurry
The mound, slick and smooth and cupped in my hands, began to tremble. I reduced the pressure of my foot slightly to slow the spinning wheel, and the clay started to right itself. I had enrolled in an open studio class where I could pay by the visit, which was a grand idea because then I could visit whenever I wanted to rather than being bound by a class schedule. I think it might defeat one of Dr. Browning’s reasons for having me take a class, which was probably to make new friends, but it was a start, right?
I dribbled a small handful of water into the shallow depression atop what was to be my first ever thrown pot. I gave the foot pedal a light push to get the wheel back up to speed. That, however, was not the thing to do.
Gravity failed me and pure centrifugal force took over. Before I could stop it, the entire mound of clay slid off the wheel, careened through the air and smacked into the back of a very large young man.
“Oh!” he yelped, grabbing his lower back with a hand that was covered with a reddish clay. Conversations ceased as people looked up. He whipped around, his shaggy blond hair making him look like a large surfer. He looked at my face and then looked down at the mass of clay on the floor.
“I’m sorry.” I tried to stand up, but my apron caught the edge of the potter’s wheel and dashed the wheel and its tray’s contents to the floor. “Ooooh,” I breathed as the slurry ebbed over the cement floor. It oozed out around the soles of my feet and headed for a few frameless canvases that leaned against the wall. I scrambled for the canvases to save them when my feet went out from under me. I landed on my ass in the slurry. All the conversations in the studio halted now. Then the big guy who took the clay kidney punch
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