The one you lose sleep over, the one you think of all day at work. Connecting us more to the community has been a goal of our well-meaning but somewhat clueless boss since he opened for business about five years ago. Getting Berkeley people up on the wall, I reasoned, was a way of bridging that gap and keeping Molly and Ben in jobs.
The very first fruits of my labor were now on the walls above the small span of low pine bookshelves near the front of the shop, ten woodcuts from the studio of a Cal graduate student: birds against a turbulent sky; a farmer ploughing fields; a surging sea; a woman in profile, kneading bread in her kitchen.
Black on cream paper, there was nothing twee or safe about them, even the domestic and rural scenes: each was ablaze with energy, of doing , of creation. Alex has posted exactly one picture on his own account. We do not look happy. Although Alex would have loved to have eaten it on his disgusting wool blanket, I preferred to spread out one of the few things I saved from my old Pasadena home — an over-the-top, practically Trumpian black and gold brocade tablecloth, emblazoned with the monogram Julian had commissioned of our initials, topped by a coronet.
That I do so with Alex, similarly stripped down to his boxers and popping grapes in my mouth, brings me even further pleasure. Compounding my wariness, Alex explained that he was planning on having lunch with Dave, the dimwitted and ineffectual son of the COO.
But that evening, the last before the clocks went back, would be the very last until the spring I could argue somewhat convincingly that a walk home would at least start before sunset. And, I justified to myself, if I took the long route down University Avenue, at least it would be well-lit and well-travelled. Mostly I just wanted to stretch my legs and consider in peace the idea Ben had floated towards the end of the day: attending a book fair at the end of January.
