Makers Part 6

The nostalgia filled her up like a balloon expanding in her chest. She hadn't ever seen a computer until she was ten years old, and that had been the size of a chest-freezer, with less capability than one of the active printed-computer cards that came in glossy fas.h.i.+on magazines with come-ons for perfume and weight-loss.

The world had been stood on its head so many times in the intervening thirty-plus years that it was literally dizzying -- or was that the beer having a delayed effect? Suddenly all the certainties she rested on -- her 401k, her house, her ability to navigate the professional world in a competent manner -- seemed to be built on s.h.i.+fting sands.

They'd come in Lester's car, a homemade auto built around two electric Smart cars joined together to form a kind of mini-sedan with room enough for Lester to slide into the driver's perch with room to spare. Once they arrived, they unpacked clever folding chairs and sat them beside the car, rolled down the windows, and turned up the speakers. It was a warm night, but not sticky the way it had been that day, and the kiss of the wind that rustled the leaves of the tall palms ringing the theater was like balm.

The movie was something forgettable about b.u.mbling detectives on the moon, one of those trendy new things acted entirely by animated dead actors who combined the virtues of box-office draw and cheap labor. There might have been a couple of fictional actors in there too, it was hard to say, she'd never really followed the movies except as a place to escape to. There was real magic and escape in a drive-in, though, with the palpable evidence of all those other breathing humans in the darkened night watching the magic story flicker past on the screen, something that went right into her hindbrain. Before she knew it, her eyelids were drooping and then she found herself jerking awake. This happened a couple times before Lester slipped a pillow under her head and she sank into it and fell into sleep.

She woke at the closing credits and realized that she'd managed to prop the pillow on Lester's barrel-chest. She snapped her head up and then smiled embarra.s.sedly at him. "Hey, sleepyhead," he said. "You snore like a bandsaw, you know it?"

She blushed. "I don't!"

"You do," he said.

"I do?"

Perry, on her other side nodded. "You do."

"G.o.d," she said.

"Don't worry, you haven't got anything on Lester," Perry said. "I've gone into his room some mornings and found all the pictures lying on the floor, vibrated off their hooks."

It seemed to her that Lester was blus.h.i.+ng now.

"I'm sorry if I spoiled the movie," she said.

"Don't sweat it," Lester said, clearly grateful for the change of subject. "It was a lousy movie anyway. You drowned out some truly foul dialogue."

"Well, there's that."

"C'mon, let's go back to the office and get you your car. It's an hour to Miami from here."

She was wide awake by the time she parked the rent-a-car in the coffin-hotel's parking lot and crawled into her room, slapping the air-con b.u.t.tons up to full to clear out the stifling air that had baked into the interior during the day.

She lay on her back in the dark coffin for a long time, eyes open and slowly adjusting to the idiot lights on the control panel, until it seemed that she was lying in a s.p.a.ce capsule hurtling through the universe at relativistic speeds, leaving behind history, the world, everything she knew. She sat up, wide awake, on West Coast time suddenly, and there was no way she would fall asleep now, but she lay back down and then she did, finally.

The alarm woke her seemingly five minutes later. She did a couple laps around the parking lot, padding around, stretching her legs, trying to clear her head -- her internal clock thought that it was 4AM, but at 7AM on the east coast, the sun was up and the heat had begun to sizzle all the available moisture into the air. She left the hotel and drove around Miami for a while. She needed to find some toiletries and then a cafe where she could sit down and file some copy. She'd tweeted a bunch of working notes and posted a few things to her blog the day before, but her editor expected something more coherent for those who preferred their news a little more digested.

By the time she arrived at Perry's junkyard, the day had tipped for afternoon, the sun no longer straight overhead, the heat a little softer than it had been the day before. She settled in for another day of watching the guys work, asking the occasional question. The column she'd ended up filing had been a kind of wait-and-see piece, describing the cool culture these two had going between them, and asking if it could survive scaling up to ma.s.s production. Now she experimented with their works-in-progress, sculptures and machines that almost worked, or didn't work at all, but that showed the scope of their creativity. Kettlewell thought that there were a thousand, ten thousand people as creative as these two out there, waiting to be discovered. Could it be true?

"Sure," Perry said, "why not? We're just here because someone dropped the barrier to entry, made it possible for a couple of tinkerers to get a lot of materials and to a.s.semble them without knowing a whole lot about advanced materials science. Wasn't it like this when the Internet was starting out?"

"Woah," Suzanne said. "I just realized that you wouldn't really remember those days, back in the early nineties."

"Sure I remember them. I was a kid, but I remember them fine!"

She felt very old. "The thing was that no one really suspected that there were so many liberal arts majors lurking in the nation's universities, dying to drop out and learn perl and HTML."

Perry c.o.c.ked his head. "Yeah, I guess that's a.n.a.logous. The legacy of the dotcom years for me is all this free infrastructure, very cheap network connections and hosting companies and so on. That, I guess, combined with people willing to use it. I never really thought of it, but there must have been a lot of people hanging around in the old days who thought email and the net were pretty sketchy, right?"

She waved her hands at him. "Perry, lad, you don't know the half of it. There are *still* executives in the rustbelt who spend bailout money on secretaries to print out their email and then dictate replies into tape recorders to be typed and sent."

He furrowed his thick eyebrows. "You're joking," he said.

She put her hand on her heart. "I kid you not. I knew people in the newsroom at the Detroit Free Press. There are whole industries in this country that are living in the last century.'

"Well, for me, all that dotcommie stuff was like putting down a good base, making it easy for people like me to get parts and build-logs and to find hardware hackers to jam with."

Perry got engrossed in a tricky bit of engine-in-seash.e.l.l then and she wandered over to Lester, who was printing out more Barbie heads for a much larger version of his mechanical computer. "It'll be able to add, subtract, and multiply any two numbers up to 99," he said. "It took decades to build a vacuum-tube machine that could do that much -- I'm doing it with *switches* in just three revs. In your face, UNIVAC!"

She laughed. He had a huge bag of laser-cut soda-can switches that he was soldering onto a variety of substrates from polished car-doors to a bamboo tiki-bar. She looked closely at the solder. "Is this what sweatshop solder looks like?"

He looked confused, then said, "Oh! Right, Perry's thing. Yeah, anything not done by a robot has this artisa.n.a.l quality of blobbiness, which I quite like, it's aesthetic, like a painting with visible brushstrokes. But Perry's right: if you see solder like this on anything that there are a million of, then you know that it was laid down by kids and women working for slave wages. There's no way it's cheaper to make a million solders by hand than by robot unless your labor force is locked in, force-fed amphetamine, and destroyed for anything except prost.i.tution inside of five years. But here, in something like this, so handmade and one of a kind, I think it gives it a nice cargo-cult neoprimitive feel. Like a field of hand-tilled furrows."

She nodded. Today she was keeping her computer out, writing down quotes and tweeting thoughts as they came. They worked side by side in companionable silence for a while as she killed a couple thousand spams and he laid down a couple dozen blobs of solder.

"How do you like Florida?" he said, after straightening up and cracking his back.

She barely stopped typing, deep into some email: "It's all right, I suppose."

"There's great stuff here if you know where to look. Want me to show you around a little tonight? It's Friday, after all."

"Sounds good. Is Perry free?"

It took her a second to register that he hadn't answered. She looked up and saw he was blus.h.i.+ng to the tips of his ears. "I thought we could go out just the two of us. Dinner and a walk around the deco stuff on Miami Beach?"

"Oh," she said. And the weird thing was, she took it seriously for a second. She hadn't been on a date in something like a year, and he was a really nice guy and so forth. But professional ethics made that impossible, and besides.

And besides. He was huge. He'd told her he weighed nearly 400 pounds. So fat, he was, essentially, s.e.xless. Round and unshaped, doughy.

All of these thoughts in an instant and then she said, "Oh, well. Listen, Lester, it's about professional ethics. I'm here on a story and you guys are really swell, but I'm here to be objective. That means no dating. Sorry." She said it in the same firm tones as she'd used to turn down their offer to treat her at the IHOP: a fact of life, something she just didn't do. Like turning down a gla.s.s of beer by saying, "No thanks, I don't drink." No value judgment.

But she could see that she had let her thinking show on her face, if only for the briefest moment. Lester stiffened and his nostrils flared. He wiped his hands on his thighs, then said, in a light tone, "Sure, no problem. I understand completely. Should have thought of that. Sorry!"

"No problem," she said. She pretended to work on her email a while longer, then said, "Well, I think I'll call it a day. See you Monday for Tjan's arrival, right?"

"Right!" he said, too brightly, and she slunk away to her car.

She spent the weekend blogging and seeing the beach. The people on the beach seemed to be of another species from the ones she saw walking the streets of Hollywood and Miami and Lauderdale. They had freakishly perfect bodies, the kind of thing you saw in an anatomical drawing or a comic-book -- so much muscular definition that they were practically cross-hatched. She even tried out the nude beach, intrigued to see these perfect specimens in the all-together, but she chickened out when she realized that she'd need a substantial wax-job before her body hair was brought down to norms for that strip of sand.

She did get an eyeful of several anatomically correct drawings before taking off again. It made her uncomfortably h.o.r.n.y and aware of how long it had been since her last date. That got her thinking of poor Lester, buried underneath all that flesh, and that got her thinking about the life she'd chosen for herself, covering the weird world of tech where the ground never stood still long enough for her to get her balance.

So she retreated to blog in a cafe, posting snippets and impressions from her days with the boys, along with photos. Her readers were all over it, commenting like mad. Half of them thought it was disgusting -- so much suffering and waste in the world and these guys were inventing -10,000 toys out of garbage. The other half wanted to know where to go to buy one for themselves. Halfway through Sunday, her laptop battery finally died, needing a fresh weekly charge, so she retreated again, to the coffin, to wait for Monday and the new day that would dawn for Perry and Lester and Kodacell -- and her.

Tjan turned out to be a lot older than she'd expected. She'd pictured him as about 28, smart and preppie like they all were when they were fresh out of B-school and full of Management Wisdom. Instead, he was about forty, balding, with a little pot-belly and thinning hair. He dressed like an English professor, blue-jeans and a checked s.h.i.+rt and a tweedy sports-coat that he'd shucked within seconds of leaving the terminal at Miami airport and stepping into the blast-furnace heat.

They'd all come in Lester's big, crazy car, and squis.h.i.+ng back in with Tjan's suitcases was like a geometry trick. She found herself half on Perry's lap, hugging half a big duffel-bag that seemed to be full of bricks.

"Books," Tjan said. "Just a little personal library. It's a bad habit, moving the physical objects around, but I'm addicted." He had a calm voice that might in fact be a little dull, a prof's monotone.