Demitri Baltimore punched his timecard and tipped his hat to the Clockmaster before finding his heavy, worn, leather apron with one of the strings nearly falling off, tying it on him, before finding his station and prepping his furnace.
The heat of the many brick furnaces stoked with coal soon filled the air with a heavy dry heat quickly moistened the brow. He considered himself lucky enough to not be forced to endure the monotony of making endless square panes of glass like many who had been in the trade for as long as he had, would. Though his vocation could, too, creep upon him with a veil of monotony, he took comfort in the fact that the objects he would craft, however repetitious, were at the very least of a shape and complexity that was his preference.
Vases, plates, cups, bowls, gravy boats, pitchers, et cetera, were that of his lot and he considered himself one of the lucky ones that happened to occupy a department that somewhat suited his preferred temperament.
The Marquis glassblowing company was renowned in the sectors as one of the greater manufacturing firms, owning many smithys, glass factories, brick and ceramic factories, metal forges, tool and dye, textiles, etc. It was one of the bigger corporate names all those in the sectors knew, and used items made by them every day. Demitri, while finding a comfort in his specialty, found working for the conglomerate loathsome and full of uncertainty. There was a time where the name had respect, and was known for the quality of its products, after years and many changes of hands and ownership, the company's integrity became questionable.
The slow integration of relying on outliers; company towns, (some might call them barless prisons,) these small, unincorporated, privately owned islands of steel and steam built to the order of the wealthy with the promise of steady work, provided housing and accommodations, drew many hundreds of the poor and the desperate who were willing to work for a barebone wages in exchange for a roof over their head and food in their bellies. Never you mind how it might have felt to realize that once you arrive, it is considerably harder to leave, as the price for a ticket out is never as cheap as the free ride in.
The sudden emergence of a considerably cheaper labor market certainly has made many residents of Lochshore anxious, after dedicating themselves to learning a craft well, in the supposed exchange for a pension and a living wage in their future.
There had been many cracks emerging in the Sector system long before this of course. The consolidation of companies into corporations had been making many things worse far far before now. Things used to be that a boss paid his employee in exchange for goods or services. That employee, if he felt he was getting an unfair deal, could go to that boss to negotiate. Those days were all but close to being over. Few people had ever met the man who actually owned their company, let alone made any demands to bargain lest he be laughed right into an early pink slip. Even if you managed to get a decent, quality manager, which Demitri found himself in luck to be in the employ of, that manager still of course had no power at all to negotiate anything meaningful to better the lives of his workers. He couldn't offer better pay, he couldn't offer any better benefits, and all he could offer were paltry menial offerings of little cost or substance to tide over his ever shrinking overworked staff on payroll. Some sweets here and there. Not time off, or bonuses, no, that was not in his power.
Yes, despite the aspirations of the hands that built the sectors, people feared that they were being turned yet again into cattle, frittering their lives away to make an emperor CEO .0001% richer. The prospects of life seemed to be dwindling by the day, and yet Demitri had finally found something, however unusual, that made him feel like he had some greater sense of purpose that he never had had before.
He had done something to help someone.
The sweat from his brow dripped into his eyes, and the heat from the furnace fogged up his glasses as he rotated the great obloid glob of molten hot blend of silicate, taking care to not let it fall too much in either direction. As he worked with quick hands he took a deep breath and began to carefully blow into the long metal tube he held in his calloused hands.
The lava-like substance oozed into a dome shape as he turned the pipe, then pulled it from the licking flames of the furnace, with his tray of tools and implements beside him and a number of heavy metal tubes of different molded shapes on the other side of him, he held the tube downward, as he allowed the hot glob with a bubble inside of it extrude with simply the force of gravity into a long sausage shape, and then he placed the shape to hang inside the metal cylinder that had a star shape within. Holding it inside just long enough for the liquid sausage to imprint upon the ridges, then he quickly pulled it out. Using the tools on the tray beside him he began allowing the piece of lava to be worked. He pulled the shape back inward as he exhaled inside the tube again, as he rotated it and using a metal rounded tool, allowed a collar to form. Being taken by a muse in that moment, he began adding bevels and waves to the vase that began emerging from what was once a simple molten blob of nothing at all.
The longer it was out of the fire, the stiffer it became, and after looking around to his coworkers who seemed to be far too busy with their own vases to notice him, he began adding little touches and angles and ridges to his work, that added a flow and complexity to the piece that completely set it apart from the simple red ridged vases that were set upon the metal place to be put in the cooling furnace.
He smiled to himself as he examined what he had created, and set it to the side to cool. He thought he had been discrete enough, but somehow, as be began to melt his next glob of silica, he felt a presence behind him that made him tense up, and nearly let his glasses fall off the end of his sweat dripping nose with a start. The man with ruddy cheeks and a full mustache, holding a clipboard seemed to have paused his rounds to note Demitri's activity.
"O-oh! Hello Mr. Malloy! M-may I help you with something?" Demitri asked, trying and failing to sound casual, and trying to hide the rogue vase from his foreman's vantage point, also failing.
"What do you have there now, Demitri?" Mr. Malloy gestured to the vase with the end of his pencil, sounding tired to have a conversation he has already had with him before.
"Oh nothing sir, I was just getting warmed up, this was just a test vase to start the morning, you know nothing special," He was sweating again, but not just from the heat.
"You already did your technique tester for the week, and I see you've used dots of canes green 45 and blue 80," He sighed and rubbed his eyes.
"I just thought it would look better and would even out the red-"
"Demitri, I've told you before this isn't a crafts station, you need to stay on model like everybody else," He tapped on the diagram for their standardized red ridged face, meant to be made in 7 minutes, then added to the tray, same formula every time. "I've been lax on you before but those little dots add up and the time wasted too. I know we used to be lenient before the buyout, but with the new district manager we have to stay on model more than ever. I'm trying to look out for you here," Malloy furrowed his brow sympathetically. He wasn't the biggest fan of these corporate changes here either, but unfortunately he was powerless against the corporate machine. As were they all.
"I know, I'm sorry.." The disheartened glassblower sighed, remembering the meeting they had had about the new changes, and how he had one less thing he liked about his job. "That creative muse just took over a minute, you know?"
The foreman couldn't help but feel dower, seeing the shame and dismissal in the eyes of one of his prouder talents he remembered training, years ago. It left a bad taste in his mouth having to crack down on a good man, with a good work ethic, for reasons he didn't quite believe in. And yet, as a foreman, his hands were tied. He had to make sure Demitri, and all his craftsmen he had come to employ, could fall in line. He would hate more than anything to be forced to shitcan the good kid for having creative tendencies.
"I know, just, stay on model, alright?" The foreman sighed, shaking his head, furrowing his big grey bushy eyebrows before continuing on his way.
There were a great deal of things that had changed since Demitri started working here. Changes that he knew were for the worse, or for no reason, made by out of touch people higher up on the totem pole, who had never been to their factory floor, making decisions only meant to make the rich man richer, and to hell with everyone else.
At the end of his shift he remembered it was Wednesday. He chose yet again to stay later than anyone else. He closed up shop as had become custom, before walking in the direction of the hospital, to check if there had been any news on his new acquaintance's condition.
It always made him nervous, perhaps it was a tad invasive to go snooping into someone else's business. He had done a lot of thinking since that night. It shouldn't have to be his business. That person's life shouldn't have to have been in his hands, they should have had a place to go and a place to get food and shelter from the cold. But they didn't.
The more he had been thinking about it, the more frustrated it made him. He always considered him a modest middle man. Never ambitious, or much of a leader. And yet out of nowhere he seemed to have a lot of opinions about a lot of things all of the sudden.
He couldn't get his father's words out of his head, 'don't worry about them, it's us we gotta look out for, boy. Every man for himself. Ain't nobody going to look out for you except you, and family.'
He didn't talk to his father much since Nicolaus and Vlasta got married. He certainly left very little to say. Demitri didn't like to dwell on it.
It was less cold than it had been of late, and he was grateful for that. Once the sweat soaks through your clothes, (which working next to a furnace all day often did,) the chill simply freezes you.
He carried a satchel with a couple volumes within it. That morning he was passing his great shelf of books and trinkets and he had pictured in his head whomever was in that hospital room, appreciating the variety he had already brought and eagerly awaiting some more. The thought of having someone interested in the books he cherished so dearly, nearly made him giddy at the thought. He had to cough a moment and shake off the notion lest his cat Diana judge him for acting foolishly, with foolish expectations.
Not that she paid him much mind, she simply sat on the arm of his reading chair, grooming between the digits on her paws without a care in the world.
Even still, he planned for the completely imaginary occasion that probably wouldn't even happen, but still he chose to tuck away a copy of the Count of Monte Cristo, and a collection of famous poetry into his bag. Just for the fun of it. Just cause he could.
He marched in the dark quickly toward St. Olga's, what little breeze there was, was already blowing through him. He exhaled into his hands to warm them slightly before stuffing them in his pockets and picking up his pace and making it inside.
The lobby of the facility was slow as usual at this time of night. Ethel, the curt night nurse perked her head up at his arrival and nodded to him.
"Hello," Demitri said a bit shyly. "How has the patient in 218 been doing?"
Nurse Ethel sat with a disinterested expression and put a bookmark in the magazine she had been reading and looked up at the man.
"After speaking with the patient's doctor it was determined that due to hospital policy we cannot give out patients information, personal nor pertaining to their progress aside from saying that they are progressing well on their health plan. Even if you are paying for everything," She said with little pleasantry, in a voice as clear as maple syrup, clearly tired from the night shift. Or perhaps that's just how Ethel always is. "However I was told they wanted these books returned to you,"
"Oh.. I see.." Replied Demitri, disappointed but understanding, taking the books that he had prized so dearly. "I suppose that makes sense, I'm glad to hear that it seems they're getting better," He looked at the books awkwardly. "Did they like the books?" He looked back to Ethel who, without any shift in her disinterested expression, gave the faintest shrug of her shoulders, then looked back to the magazine she was reading.
"Ah, yes of course, there's a lot of patients, I'm sure you can't know everything about all of them, well, thank you anyways," He said, slightly embarrassed at his question. He hesitated a moment as if there was something else he wanted to ask, but decided against it, thanked her again and then took what he was given into his satchel and left without a fuss.
—---
When he had gotten home that night he was a bit slow going. The news from the hospital kind of took the wind out of his sails. He wasn't too shocked, he had been nervous about this being the case for a while now. Still he was disappointed in it being the case all the same. Either way he continued with his nightly ritual. He pet Dinah as she greeted him at the door, meowing incessantly as he stocked up his fire, pulled up his reading chair. He took the books from his satchel, prepared to put them away in their place where they belonged, (In a secondary cabinet he kept all his books he had found superior quality or condition copies of that were no longer worthy of his primary polished bookshelf.)
He took the books from the satchel and turned to walk to the other cabinet, but tripped over Dinah who would not be ignored until there was food in her bowl at that instant, causing him to tumble over in a wobbly gymnastic twist so as to not crush his feline friend, which succeeded at evading Dinah, but sent the books flying out of his hand and onto the ground in a clattering fashion that made him cringe worse that he did hitting the ground.
"Dinahhh…!" He whimpered pitifully on the ground. "Why must you do these things that you do…!?"
Dinah simply took a seat beside him, grooming her paws neatly, as if this was simply his consequence for failing to feed her the second he came in the door.
Demitri groaned on the ground, his hip having taken the brunt of the fall. He grimaced and peeked with one eye at one of the books that clearly fell on the corner of it's spine and he feared what damage would come of it, when he noticed in the flicker of the firelight casting upon a slip of paper sticking out from one of the books. Fearing the worst he clamoured to his hands and knees, crawled to it and examined it closely, horrified that the crash had torn a clump of pages free from the ancient and brittle glue that kept them in the binding. Upon closer inspection he found that there really wasn't much damage except the ding at the bottom of the spine, and the paper wasn't part of the book at all. It was a note that had been placed just inside the cover.
Demitri was tedious and careful with his books. In fact, despite his rather generous nature, his books were his only possession he made a fuss over. He had only lent books he had already found a better quality copy of and so if it were to get damaged or lost it would be of little consequence to him. He made sure to go through each of them and erase any labels or identifiers and made sure that he had no scrap bookmarks in any of those that he had lent. So he knew instantly that this paper was a new addition. Pulling it out and sitting in his chair beside the fire he examined the paper.
It was a small, simple note, still it made his fingertips tingle holding it in his hand.
"To my mysterious benefactor,
Hello.
I'm not entirely sure how to begin this, as I have become very curious about this person who has been so gracious to me, and yet I do not even know your name. To begin, I'd like to thank you, for the books. They have been the greatest boon to keep me occupied while I am here. I have found them a wonderful selection. I am a particular fan of the adventure genre you have brought, Treasure Island has been my favorite so far, and I think you have good taste in literature."
Demitri blushed, then cleared his throat as he continued reading.
"I've been told by my Doctor that you have asked about my condition, but due to hospital policy they are not at liberty to say. However, she told me that I can personally withhold or tell my business to whomever I wish. I won't bore you with too many messy details, but the long and short of it, is, well, it seems you saved my life. The prospects were not good at first, but since the moment I have come here I have had a very dedicated Physician that has been exceptionally kind to me, and has been ensuring I get the best care that I can. In the days since my admittance to St. Olga's, I have been getting progressively stronger.
I must admit I was afraid at first to consider what kind of person with what sort of motivations would pay for a stranger's rest and rehabilitation in the way that you have, but after much deliberation I have decided whoever you are, you are a friend to me.
I can't possibly begin to repay all of what you have done for me. Words truly can't express how baffled I was to find myself in this place. I hope at the very least a note of gratitude and an update on my condition could do something to show even the smallest modicum of the thanks I owe you.
Whoever you are, you have my gratitude and I am in your debt. I may not have much to offer, I do not have much in the way of wealth or connections, but you have found a friend in me.
With much thanks and sincerity, I hope to hear from you someday soon, and hopefully with a new novel or two if you'd continue being so kind,
~Sincerely, Ira"
"Ira…" The tweed man held the paper in tremulous hands, wiping a tear from his eye with a grateful, heartwarmed smile.
The lovely moment by the fire was rudely interrupted by Dinah leaping into his lap and meowing loudly in his face, having had enough of her dinner being postponed a moment longer.
"Alright alright I'll feed you!" He scoffed as he shooed her off his lap and got up, setting his prized correspondence on the side table as he walked toward his kitchenette, with a slight smile still lingering on his face.