Shattered
September 20th, 2020
Starring: The Potter (50-80)
The Potter sits alone, in an apron, at the pottery wheel.
THE POTTER
I was finally getting good.
Every day, three hours, before breakfast. No skips for 6 months.
I started to feel in control of the wheel, rather than the wheel controlling me. It was fun.
Hobbies work, with some diligence. They fill in the gaps, diversify meaning. Equally valuable to workaholics and alcoholics alike. I’m in-recovery for both.
...
I don’t own a kiln. I’ve got to do the work to justify the purchase.
My “friend” from class does. Theo. He recently bought a converted barn 13 miles away, tucked in the hills, “for art.” But he’s been “pre-wintering” in Taos the last two months, and gave me the key before leaving. Sometimes the generosity of the ultra-wealthy shocks me.
I’ve tried not to abuse the power. Once per week. I drive up early, fire everything at once, take a nap in his Eames chair, wake back up, the pots are dry, head home by dusk. Like I was never there.
…
My goals got loftier. I was tired of making tiny bowls you could only fit pistachios in. A tea set, I thought. It would be pretty, and pretty useful.
I told myself by the end of the month. Do it.
I didn’t leave the house, save for errands and work. No treks to the barn.
...
I finished in three weeks. I was cautious, but confidant. As it came out of Theo’s kiln, I was proud. Two cups and a saucer had some minor bumps and kinks. The teapot was a little too short and stout. But it was mine. I did it.
...
It was dark when I hit the road. No bad weather. The set was boxed in the backseat, swimming in a sea of packing peanuts and duck tape. The stereo was playing celebratory R.E.M. I was cold sober. My lights were on.
The final switchback down from Theo’s barn ends with a half-blind corner. I curved around it, two ticks under the speed limit of 35.
It didn’t matter. The corner straightened out, and I hit the speed bump.
The sedan was airborne for a quarter second. The back bucked up. The box didn’t open, but it tumbled to the trunk.
I don’t know if you can describe the sound of heartbreak. Whatever that is, it was.
I didn’t even stop to look. I drove straight home. I knew.
…
I called the township homeowners association, pretending to be Theo. The speed bump had been poured the week before.
I asked why they would put a speed bump around a corner. Two weeks before, someone sped the corner and hit a tree.
Drunk driver. A fuckup with no hobbies. Dead on impact.
...
May they rest in peace.
…
My tea set, I mean.