“I’m trying to be nice.”
“But there’s another word you’d rather use?”
“Yes. Pitiful, maybe. Or even pathetic. It’s ridiculous that you own two print shops, but don’t even know how the presses work. You’ve owned your other shop for years now without knowing the first thing about printing, other than the names of the types of printing presses you have, which is something I’mcertainthat you only know because of the fair. Do you know the output of evenoneof your cylindrical or rotary presses? No, of course not. And yet, you still want to present yourself as someone who is some sort of expert. You want to be chosen as an exhibitor for the World’s Fair when the fair ought to be featuringrealinnovators instead. Engineers. Artists. Architects. Not some rich man who merely purchased a couple of businesses and then had other people manage them while he collected the money.”
Arthur’s blood spiked with irritation. It wasn’t wrong of him to want to be part of history. Arthur may not have been an engineer, but he was a smart man. He was owed this. God, because of the many, many terrible things that he’d been forced to put up with for his whole life, he was owed this. Arthur hadn’t suffered through years of private school, followed by years of barely making it through boring social events he hated, followed by years of boring meetings with boring men who helped him manage his businesses and finances so that he could live out his life in his Prairie Avenue mansion constantly being insulted by his father while simultaneously fading into obscurity.
“Well, that’s not how the world works, Mr. O’Connor.” Arthur nodded toward the machine, not willing to entertain even a second more of this maddening conversation. “Continue the lesson.” He cringed internally from the forcefulness in his tone. Softening his voice, he added, “Please.”
Sneering, Mr. O’Connor spat, “Fine.”
Moving forward, Mr. O’Connor seemed as perturbed as ever but kept his (likely still harsh) thoughts to himself. He reached for the bottle of ink and uncorked it, and Arthur’s upset faded as he watched the man spread ink on the disc. Arthur stood by silently while Mr. O’Connor started up the machine with one flick of the flywheel. Mr. O’Connor resumed talking, probably explaining more about the workings of that particular press, but none of it reached Arthur’s brain. Instead, Arthur stood there ruminating on the typesetter’s spiteful words.
Perhaps Mr. O’Connor hadn’t been wrong. Not entirely. Arthur ought to have learned how the presses worked when he had first purchased Hughes Press. Prior to him buying the place, the shop had been owned by a man named George Cobb, who had not only owned the print house but had worked there himself, too. Arthur had promised him, falsely, that he intended to run theshop with the same personal touch. It wasn’t as though Arthur had set out to lie, exactly, but he had never imagined himself as someone who would return home every night covered in ink. Hehadwanted to visit the shop more often, though. He’d wanted to learn how everything worked. But then...
Well, then Arthur had hired someone else to manage it. And he had sat back and collected the money.
Damn.
Arthur’s face burned with shame as he watched Mr. O’Connor load pieces of paper onto the tray. Or bed. Or whatever the thing was called.
One sheet, press, remove. One sheet, press, remove.
While watching, Arthur had the sudden thought that it might be nice to try to operate it himself. Surely it would behoove him to have personal experience with some of the simpler machines if he hoped to tell people how they worked. And... maybe he ought to know enough to be alittlemore involved with his businesses in the future.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Mr. O’Connor?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, shame still sitting heavy in his stomach as Mr. O’Connor stopped the machine. “I, ehm, I think I’d like to try for a while myself.”
Wordlessly, Mr. O’Connor moved aside. Arthur nervously rubbed his hands together as he came closer to the press. Gripping the flywheel, he flicked his wrist, only to be surprised by the force he needed to use to spin it. Next, he pressed on the foot pedal and reached for a sheet of paper. Quickly, he placed it on the bed. But then, he noticed it was crooked. Without thinking, he moved to fix it, but before he could even register what was happening, Mr. O’Connor snatched his wrist.
“Jesus Christ, what iswrongwith you?” Mr. O’Connor blurted out.
Clang.
Arthur’s face fell as he realized his error. His hand would have been in there, right between the flat part where he had set the paper and the metal platen. Oh, Lord, it would have been crushed!
“Oh. Sorry.” Arthur shook his head as Mr. O’Connor released his wrist. He took a step backward. Away from the press. “Dammit, I’ve made a fool of myself.”
Mr. O’Connor’s expression softened.
“It’s an easy mistake,” he said. “Just try again.”
Arthur scrunched up his nose. “I’ll probably maim myself some other way.”
“You won’t.” Mr. O’Connor smiled an obviously pitying smile. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Arthur swallowed hard, nervousness now twisting inside him. Within seconds, he had proven himself to beexactlyas incompetent as Mr. O’Connor likely thought him to be. Dear God, he hoped he wouldn’t make another mistake like that one. Heart hammering, Arthur restarted the machine. He made the first impression, snatched the paper out, and then threw it to the floor without hesitation. Afterwards, he put in a second sheet. He repeated this motion three more times, sending papers flying every time they were finished being inked. Mr. O’Connor began to laugh.
“What?” Arthur said, now smiling a little himself as he flung one more completed paper behind him. “I can’t spend time stacking them. It’d take too long. I would likely crush my hand when I tried to stick the next one onto the... flat thing.”
“It’s called a bed,” Mr. O’Connor said, no trace of malice or resentment left in his voice. Only what sounded like amusement. Arthur then heard him laugh a little as he sent the next paper fluttering close to the man’s head. “Alright, I take back what I said earlier,” Mr. O’Connor said. “I’ve never seen anyone operatea press likethisbefore.” Arthur threw the next paper, and Mr. O’Connor laughed harder. “You really are an innovator.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said. “I’m a regular pioneer, aren’t I?”
Smiling playfully, Arthur intentionally flung the next one into Mr. O’Connor’s chest.
Mr. O’Connor only rolled his eyes, though his smile never faltered. Arthur took his foot off the pedal, but since he wasn’t sure how to stop the machine on cue, it continued to complete a few more revolutions, the bed and the plate clanging together each time.
“I enjoyed that,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. “Really. It was fun.”
