Chapter 3 #3
“I never offered,” Mr. O’Connor muttered.
Arthur reeled back. “Pardon?”
“I never offered to teach you,” Mr. O’Connor said. “You ordered me to. And nothing is wrong with what you said about the fair, exactly, but I think it’s . . . interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“I’m trying to be nice.”
“But there’s another word you’d rather use?”
“Yes. Pitiful, maybe. Or even pathetic. It’s ridiculous that you own two print shops, but don’t even know how the presses work.
You’ve owned your other shop for years now without knowing the first thing about printing, other than the names of the types of printing presses you have, which is something I’m certain that you only know because of the fair.
Do you know the output of even one of your cylindrical or rotary presses?
No, of course not. And yet, you still want to present yourself as someone who is some sort of expert.
You want to be chosen as an exhibitor for the World’s Fair when the fair ought to be featuring real innovators instead.
Engineers. Artists. Architects. Not some rich man who merely purchased a couple of businesses and then had other people manage them while he collected the money. ”
Arthur’s blood spiked with irritation. It wasn’t wrong of him to want to be part of history.
Arthur may not have been an engineer, but he was a smart man.
He was owed this. God, because of the many, many terrible things that he’d been forced to put up with for his whole life, he was owed this.
Arthur hadn’t suffered through years of private school, followed by years of barely making it through boring social events he hated, followed by years of boring meetings with boring men who helped him manage his businesses and finances so that he could live out his life in his Prairie Avenue mansion constantly being insulted by his father while simultaneously fading into obscurity.
“Well, that’s not how the world works, Mr. O’Connor.” Arthur nodded toward the machine, not willing to entertain even a second more of this maddening conversation. “Continue the lesson.” He cringed internally from the forcefulness in his tone. Softening his voice, he added, “Please.”
Sneering, Mr. O’Connor spat, “Fine.”
Moving forward, Mr. O’Connor seemed as perturbed as ever but kept his (likely still harsh) thoughts to himself.
He reached for the bottle of ink and uncorked it, and Arthur’s upset faded as he watched the man spread ink on the disc.
Arthur stood by silently while Mr. O’Connor started up the machine with one flick of the flywheel.
Mr. O’Connor resumed talking, probably explaining more about the workings of that particular press, but none of it reached Arthur’s brain.
Instead, Arthur stood there ruminating on the typesetter’s spiteful words.
Perhaps Mr. O’Connor hadn’t been wrong. Not entirely.
Arthur ought to have learned how the presses worked when he had first purchased Hughes Press.
Prior to him buying the place, the shop had been owned by a man named George Cobb, who had not only owned the print house but had worked there himself, too.
Arthur had promised him, falsely, that he intended to run the shop with the same personal touch.
It wasn’t as though Arthur had set out to lie, exactly, but he had never imagined himself as someone who would return home every night covered in ink.
He had wanted to visit the shop more often, though.
He’d wanted to learn how everything worked. But then . . .
Well, then Arthur had hired someone else to manage it. And he had sat back and collected the money.
Damn.
Arthur’s face burned with shame as he watched Mr. O’Connor load pieces of paper onto the tray. Or bed. Or whatever the thing was called.
One sheet, press, remove. One sheet, press, remove.
While watching, Arthur had the sudden thought that it might be nice to try to operate it himself.
Surely it would behoove him to have personal experience with some of the simpler machines if he hoped to tell people how they worked.
And . . . maybe he ought to know enough to be a little more involved with his businesses in the future.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Mr. O’Connor?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, shame still sitting heavy in his stomach as Mr. O’Connor stopped the machine. “I, ehm, I think I’d like to try for a while myself.”
Wordlessly, Mr. O’Connor moved aside. Arthur nervously rubbed his hands together as he came closer to the press.
Gripping the flywheel, he flicked his wrist, only to be surprised by the force he needed to use to spin it.
Next, he pressed on the foot pedal and reached for a sheet of paper.
Quickly, he placed it on the bed. But then, he noticed it was crooked.
Without thinking, he moved to fix it, but before he could even register what was happening, Mr. O’Connor snatched his wrist.
“Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?” Mr. O’Connor blurted out.
Clang.
Arthur’s face fell as he realized his error. His hand would have been in there, right between the flat part where he had set the paper and the metal platen. Oh, Lord, it would have been crushed!
“Oh. Sorry.” Arthur shook his head as Mr. O’Connor released his wrist. He took a step backward. Away from the press. “Dammit, I’ve made a fool of myself.”
Mr. O’Connor’s expression softened.
“It’s an easy mistake,” he said. “Just try again.”
Arthur scrunched up his nose. “I’ll probably maim myself some other way.”
“You won’t.” Mr. O’Connor smiled an obviously pitying smile. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Arthur swallowed hard, nervousness now twisting inside him.
Within seconds, he had proven himself to be exactly as incompetent as Mr. O’Connor likely thought him to be.
Dear God, he hoped he wouldn’t make another mistake like that one.
Heart hammering, Arthur restarted the machine.
He made the first impression, snatched the paper out, and then threw it to the floor without hesitation.
Afterwards, he put in a second sheet. He repeated this motion three more times, sending papers flying every time they were finished being inked. Mr. O’Connor began to laugh.
“What?” Arthur said, now smiling a little himself as he flung one more completed paper behind him. “I can’t spend time stacking them. It’d take too long. I would likely crush my hand when I tried to stick the next one onto the . . . flat thing.”
“It’s called a bed,” Mr. O’Connor said, no trace of malice or resentment left in his voice.
Only what sounded like amusement. Arthur then heard him laugh a little as he sent the next paper fluttering close to the man’s head.
“Alright, I take back what I said earlier,” Mr. O’Connor said.
“I’ve never seen anyone operate a press like this before.
” Arthur threw the next paper, and Mr. O’Connor laughed harder. “You really are an innovator.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said. “I’m a regular pioneer, aren’t I?”
Smiling playfully, Arthur intentionally flung the next one into Mr. O’Connor’s chest.
Mr. O’Connor only rolled his eyes, though his smile never faltered. Arthur took his foot off the pedal, but since he wasn’t sure how to stop the machine on cue, it continued to complete a few more revolutions, the bed and the plate clanging together each time.
“I enjoyed that,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. “Really. It was fun.”
“It’s not as fun the hundredth time,” Mr. O’Connor said, a teasing lilt in his voice.
“No, probably not. Ninety-nine rounds of fun isn’t bad, though.”
Mr. O’Connor shook his head, wordlessly continuing to tease him. He really was handsome. Arthur could hardly believe how lovely he looked, with his light-brown hair and hazel eyes. Eyes that were really very expressive, as well. Playful. Mischievous. Intelligent.
Arthur finally realized he had been staring when Mr. O’Connor crooked an eyebrow.
Arthur’s cheeks warmed as his eyes fell to the floor, and he let out a nervous chuckle.
Hopefully his creative use of the Gordon Jobber had helped to banish some of Mr. O’Connor’s obviously negative feelings toward him.
Mr. O’Connor. Arthur had never even learned the man’s full name.
“Thank you for letting me try the press.” Shuffling his foot on the tile, Arthur looked up and said, “I think I missed your first name, by the way.”
“Jesse.”
Jesse. Arthur’s face burned hotter. It was as lovely as the rest of him.
“Jesse,” Arthur repeated. “I like that.” He cringed, slamming his eyes shut. “Sorry. Obviously it’s not important that I like it. I’m not sure why I said that.”
“It’s fine,” Mr. O’Connor said, sounding more amused than offended. Arthur reopened his eyes. “I, uhm, I wouldn’t mind you calling me Jesse instead of Mr. O’Connor. Since you like it so much.”
Arthur was starting to feel a little lightheaded. He had most certainly become overheated, too. Jesse. It really was a nice name. Given the fact that Arthur was technically Jesse’s superior, perhaps he could refer to Jesse by his first name. But . . .
Arthur pursed his lips, thinking it over. He couldn’t help but feel . . . not uncomfortable, exactly, but a smidge saddened by the fact that Jesse would continue referring to him as Mr. Hughes in return.
“If you’d like,” Arthur began tentatively, nervousness making his stomach queasy, “you may call me Arthur.”
Jesse’s eyes widened.
Quickly, Arthur blurted out, “Or not. Mr. Hughes is fine.”
“I . . . uhm . . . I can call you Arthur if that’s what you’d prefer.”
Arthur’s heart stuttered. He liked hearing Jesse say it.
“Yes. Please.”
Arthur rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. Jesse calling him by his first name might seem peculiar to the other employees. He’d rather not have everyone call him Arthur, either. Only Jesse. Because . . . well, probably because he had lost his mind.
Arthur wanted Jesse to call him Arthur because he liked hearing Jesse say it and because he wanted Jesse to like him. Because he liked Jesse. Even though Jesse had insulted him. Or perhaps, in part, because he had.
Arthur said, “Although, perhaps you shouldn’t call me Arthur when the, ehm, others are here. Just when it’s the, uh, the two of us.”
Jesse smiled and nodded, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. Arthur’s heart pitter-pattered excitedly from the sight, and he cursed himself for it. He was not being careful even a little, was he?
Jesse said, “Do you want me to show you the Grasshopper now?”
Arthur smiled back, his heart still fluttering madly. “Yes, thank you.”
Together, they walked over to the next machine. And when Jesse began the lesson, Arthur let himself become lost in thought over how much he liked having this man, this engineer, speak so freely with him. He liked listening to Jesse teach him things.
When Jesse moved to roll some ink onto a preloaded forme (unlike the Gordon Jobber, the Grasshopper had a stationary bed where the formes sat, which they then needed to coat with ink themselves), Arthur came up behind him, telling himself that he wanted to help but secretly only wanting for the two of them to be close.
Pressing his body flush with Jesse’s, Arthur took hold of the second handle of the roller.
Oh, he was not being careful at all.