Page 90 of Home Ice

My website had a photograph of the shop, my hours, and a phone number. It also had an email address, and I’d received 311 new messages in the past twenty-four hours. They came from all over.

A woman in Naperville wanted a table like the one in the video. There was no table in the video. There was a bench, a wall of clamps, and me on a stool, but she’d seen a table in it somewhere, and she wanted that one.

A man wrote two paragraphs about his renovation and closed by asking me to build whatever Rafe would like.

Two interview requests arrived, worded almost identically, both saying I was a top-flight story.

Message 240 had a subject line that said walnut sideboard, 54 inches, question about rail height. I opened it. A man in Evanston had found the site in the fall, before any of the latest news, and had been saving toward a piece since. He’d measured his wall twice and included both numbers. He wanted to know whether a lower rail would look wrong under his window. That was probably better asked of Max.

The phone rang again into the dead machine.

I’d spent years building a life where noise didn’t reach me, and now it was in my shop, ringing the phone off the wall.

I put Ruth’s chair by the front window, where she’d see it first thing when she walked in, and I was writing her bill when the bell over the door rang. Max came in with coffee in each hand.

“Don’t say anything,” he said. “I’ve got it handled. All of it. Sit down, drink your nasty dark roast, and behold me.”

I sat. He handed me the coffee, correctly black, set his own on the bench, and took out his phone. He cleared his throat like a man about to read a proclamation.

“First, the good news, and it’s all good news. The mattress people rescinded.” He thumbed the screen. “I want to read you the rescission, because I’ve read it nine times and it gets better each time. Given the evolving nature of the narrative, we feel the alignment is no longer optimal for the Duped brand family.“ He looked up. “The Duped brand family, Niko. They have an entire family of brands. I was going to be their newest son.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“I already have. The morning show pulled the car service. My manager sent me one email with no words in it, just a link to an article about creators who peaked.” He set the phone on the bench between us. “The sympathy money is dead, every dollar. I killed it all, and I have never slept better in my life.” He picked his coffee back up. “You’ve seen it, I assume.”

“Seen what?”

“Niko.”

“I’ve been working.”

He turned the phone around to face me.

It was a headline from one of the entertainment sites. It said MEET THE CRAFTSMAN BOYFRIEND.

I read it twice.

“I’m the craftsman boyfriend?” I asked.

“You are.”

“Shouldn’t craftsman be the noun? In that headline, it’s the adjective.”

“Ask Rafe.” Max chuckled.

“I was a craftsman for a decade before I was anyone’s boyfriend.”

“Grammar is the part that bothers you. I’m putting that in my diary.” He took the phone back. “It’s everywhere, by the way. Four outlets picked up the phrase within a day. It has what we call stickiness, which I know you’ll hate, so let me tell you what I’m doing about it.” He set the coffee down and squared himself to me.

“Nothing. That’s the plan. You give no interviews, make no statements, and post nothing. People won’t be able to find you, and soon they’ll give up looking.”

“The phone hasn’t stopped ringing this morning.”

“That’s the one thing.” He held up a finger. “Take your phone number off the website today. I’ll set up a form. People leave you a message that goes into a folder. Once a week you look at the folder, or you don’t. I built one for you this morning.” He turned the phone around again. On the screen was a plain gray box with my shop’s name over it, and under the box, an automatic reply he’d written: Niko Gregory is not taking new commissions at this time.

I read it and handed the phone back.

“Change it to a waitlist.”