Page 73 of Most Eligible Billionaire

He takes a left. On we go.

I look at the increasingly decrepit buildings from his point of view, wondering what he thinks. Was I wrong to bring him here? No matter how dirty he gets his hands, he’s a billionaire, a man from another world. He wields a shovel, yes, but some of those shovels have giant bows on them.

I check my phone. I texted Latrisha during the loading, making sure she’d be around and she hasn't responded.

This is the kind of reclaimed shit she lives for.

We pull up at the Southfield makers space. There’s actually street parking in this part of town, of the leave-your-vehicle-at-your-own-risk kind.

I suddenly dread taking him into the dank and half-ruined warehouse, with industrial lighting and power sources hanging from ropes and duct tape on things. There are plywood partitions between workspaces. Giant welding setups that aren’t entirely legal. Home-cooked venting that is totally not code.

Even the grungiest Locke fabrication facility is a palace compared to this. Clean and spic and span.

And then there’s the culture of the place.

It’s not all well-behaved jewelry makers who just need a soldering setup, or fashion-forward furniture makers like Latrisha. There’s a wild edge to a lot of the people, from the tattoo-and-leather Neo-Renaissance guys over in the blacksmith area to the facially pierced mosaic artisans to the crazy-ass pottery people and neon guys and everyone else. Will the scene be too outlandish?

“You have an alarm on this thing, right?” I say.

“I’m not worried,” he says. “Who’s going to steal a load of vintage construction debris?”

“Um, you’re about to meet them,” I say.

We hop out and walk up the fractured sidewalk to the entrance. I wince as I unlock the skull-design metal door, made by said blacksmith guys.

I lead us into the hulking space, like the inside of a Klingon warship. And of course the first thing we see are the potters and blacksmith guys in the lounge area couches around a table loaded with empty beer bottles and some kind of sculpture that might be made out of part of a tractor.

I smile and wave at them. “Lively today.” I grab his hand and pull him in toward the more subdued side.

“What exactly is this place?” he asks.

“Southfield Place Makers Studio. It’s a makers co-op.” We pass the welders and the collective hardware area where tattooed urban beardsmen argue over the schedule for a circular saw. “You have to sign up for some of the larger tools,” I explain. “They’re shared.” I lower my voice. “That guy doesn’t always follow the rules, but things usually go really smoothly.”

He doesn’t reply.

My mood fizzles as we go deeper, because I don’t see Latrisha’s bright red hat over the plywood partition of her space. This was a bad idea.

“You do your jewelry here?”

“Well, I need venting for soldering. I think I’d get evicted from my apartment if I tried it there.”

“Damn,” he says.

Miserably, I lead him onward, past rows of messy workshop tables made of raw plywood. Why did I think he’d like this?

It’s not just the scene here, it’s him, too. He’s dressed down, but he’s a different species than we are, like he can’t wash the rich off, no matter how hard he might try.

“It seems a bit low rent, I know,” I say, “but it’s a great deal and the tools here are really good.”

He doesn’t reply, seeming stunned by the decrepitude.

I keep going. If nothing else, he can see some of Latrisha’s furniture and maybe hire her, and that would be great. Whatever else he thinks about this place, Latrisha’s furniture is amazing.

“And it’s not like we let just anyone in, much as it might look like that. People have to pay monthly and we can kick them out if they’re assholes. I mean, it’s hard to do this kind of stuff in the city; it’s not like we all have sheds in our yard, or even yards, and when you look at the start-up capital for like, a woodworker or even someone like me—”

“Vicky,” he says in his laughing way.

I turn and walk backward. “We all have lockers for our personal stuff over there,” I say.

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