Page 19 of Roommate
“Oh, I would,” Audrey says easily. “You’re a little too serious, maybe, but you’re a solid guy. I’ll bet you were always like that. From birth.” She laughs.
“Um, thanks?” She’s right. I am too serious. People say that all the time. It’s just that I don’t know how to be anything else.
“Thanks for telling me,” Audrey says. “I feel better about him now.”
“Yeah…” I sigh. “Forget I even said anything.”
“All right. Will I see you at Thursday Dinner?”
“I don’t think so,” I admit. “My dad’s surgery is that day.”
“Oh! Of course. Let me know if you need me to adjust the schedule.”
“No, it’s fine. And he’ll be okay.” There’s really no reason why she should be stressed out over the old grump. Enough people are busy worrying about him already. “See you tomorrow?”
“Of course! Be well!”
I hang up the phone feeling slightly better about myself.
Just slightly.
Mr. Pratt ambles over. “Top of the morning to you!”
“Likewise.” That’s our little joke. He lets me work from two or three in the afternoon until I’m done, which is always somewhere between six and nine at night.
It’s a strange arrangement, but Pratt needs me. He isn’t an artist. His specialty is writing snappy copy. He used to have a business partner who did all the art, but that guy retired to Florida.
These days, Mr. Pratt has his lazy son Deacon working here during the day. And he has me here, from late afternoon into the evening, to do all the art that Deacon can’t manage and to fix all the messes that Deacon makes.
It’s not a terrific situation. But the pay isn’t too bad, the hours are flexible, and I’m getting paid to make art. Most weeknights I do my thing and leave the Photoshop files for Mr. Pratt to inspect in the morning.
“So, I love what you did with the vinyl records.” Pratt holds up a printout of some work I did last night. “Very slick placement of the text on version three.”
“Thank you.” I always create several versions of each draft, which is easy enough to do digitally.
“I’m not sold on version one, though.” He holds up another printout. The design looks horrible, because someone has completely fucked up my lettering. And by “someone” I mean Deacon Pratt.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I wanted that text in charcoal. And that typeface is too vintage for this brand, I think. That’s not the one I used.”
He frowns. “Switch it back, would you?”
“Sure,” I say, holding back a sigh. “What else do you have for me?”
“A few logo ideas for Winooski River Savings. Let me grab ’em.” He goes back to his desk while I fire up Photoshop on the computer.
In spite of the Pratt family dynamic, I do love this job. I’ve been taking online design courses, and I hope to take a real class at Moo U next year. If I could make a real living in graphic design someday, that would be amazing. My family doesn’t know any of this, though. They think I’m selling advertising, and I haven’t bothered to correct them.
Keeping my work a secret isn’t a normal thing to do. I realize this. But I started keeping secrets when I was a teenager, and I’ve never learned how to stop. And I also don’t see the point of telling everyone what’s in my heart. I don’t want to listen to their opinions about it.
Who’s got time for that?
“Let’s see,” Mr. Pratt says, flipping through his notebook. “Their old logo was circular, see?” He holds up a page with a familiar image on it. “I’d like you to keep the paddles and the canoe from their old logo. But I think it should be brighter somehow. Bolder.”
I consider the old logo for a moment. “I’m glad they’re updating this. Sketch art doesn’t really say bank to me. But neither does a canoe…”
This is a tricky design problem. My favorite kind.
“What do you think we should try?”
