3. Adam
ADAM
“Baby, you are notoriously difficult to work with. Temperamental. Prone to self-destruction. But I chose you because I am up to the challenge. I know how to handle you. You and I, we’re gonna make something so fucking beautiful together.”
I’m inspecting this slab of arbutus wood that was just delivered.
Born and raised in British Columbia, she is absolutely breathtaking.
Her warm, reddish tones are going to be stunning as the pedestal base of a live-edge black-walnut-top round dining table.
Those reddish tones. They catch the light, and my mind goes somewhere, to someone I don’t want it to go to right now.
This is a time for peace and focus.
Not horned-up rage.
My client was willing to pay top dollar for an heirloom piece he’s commissioned, and I’m gonna give it to him.
“Ohhhh yeah. What a gorgeous figure. You’re gonna go great with the crotch on my walnut.” I run my hand across the surface of the slab. “Silky smooth. Tight, tight grain… That’s what I’m talking about.”
This is my favorite part of the process. Ever since I was sixteen. When my billet dad brought me into his workshop—this one that I’m renting from him. This has always been my favorite part. Especially in the morning. Inspecting the wood. Yeah. I like the morning wood best.
Vivaldi on the workshop speaker. Got my freshly brewed coffee waiting for me on the bench.
I’m assessing the character of the wood.
Checking for cracks, voids, moisture issues.
This is a tactile, unhurried process, and I am savoring it.
This is when it’s all potential. Like everything leading up to a game.
Once I make that first cut, it’s like a puck drop. Nothing but forward momentum. No going back. Right now…right now we’re both perfect. It’s just me and this beautiful gift from Mother Nature and the foolish hope that neither one of us will fuck everything up.
This right here is my idea of bliss.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to check the notification in case it’s my client or another delivery. I shouldn’t have checked.
It’s my motherfucking asshole teammates in the Icebreakers chat. And it is not a game-related topic of conversation. I have told them and told them to keep this text convo focused on game-related issues only. But do they listen? To me? About anything?
No.
No, they don’t.
DAVE: Yo, Foley. My wife told me to remind you to wear a suit tonight. To the charity auction thing.
COREY: Why does he get to wear a suit and I don’t?
WINSLOW: Nobody told you not to wear a suit, numbnuts.
DAVE: Because Adam might actually look good in a suit and bring in some real money for the children’s hospital.
ME: What does it matter what I look like? I’m donating a coffee table. I printed out photos of the coffee table for tonight—it looks gorgeous.
DAVE: Right. We decided that was boring. So we signed up you, Corey, and Winslow for Valentine’s Day dinner dates.
DAVE: Not with each other. Like, for people to bid on you individually. And you take the winning bidder out. On Valentine’s day.
ME: I’m not doing that.
DAVE: It’s already on the program. So. You’re doing this. You need to be there. Tonight. Look pretty and try not to look like you’re going to beat anyone up.
ME: Fine. I’ll go. But I’m not wearing a suit.
DAVE: Noah Barrett’s on the program too and it would really suck if someone from the Puckups got higher bids than anyone on the Icebreakers…
ME: Fine. I’ll wear a suit. But I’m not going to look like I’m not going to beat anyone up because you guys have ruined my fucking day.
WINSLOW: What else is new?
Well. This is going to fucking blow. At least I don’t have to show up in the team jersey.