Page 32 of Thick

He worked as a jewelry smith, making custom rings and pendants by hand in his garage. He often turned work away if it was simplistic in nature, believing the complex designs challenged him more. All his work was obtained by word of mouth, as email, telephone conversations, and texting were out of the question.

When he wasn’t sketching his next creation in his notepad, he read literature, focusing not on the likes of The Grapes of Wrath, Pride and Prejudice, or other well-known works. He read pieces of lesser known literature that he believed had artistic merit, most of which his late father left him when he died.

With a jeweler’s magnifying visor affixed to his head, and one thousand watts of light illuminating his workbench, he delicately tapped a sterling silver strap with his brass hammer and awl.

Crafting the flat piece of silver strap into an intertwining string of roses, he worked all day and into the night until the piece was done. Upon completing it, he inspected it under a twenty-power microscope for any imperfections.

After finding none, he set the piece of jewelry aside, removed his visor, and reached for his book.

One thing that I liked about Tate’s MC series was that each book gave a totally different perspective into the lives of the men. They weren’t simply men on motorcycles who sat around the clubhouse drinking beer, farting, and screwing strippers.

They were men who had lives outside the club. Where one man might look at the MC as nothing more than an obligation, another may see the MC as his only family. One character might spend all his time in the book at the clubhouse or with the other men, while another rarely mentioned the men in the club.

I suspected Tate’s portrayal of the men in the fictitious club was accurate, and that in real life, MCs were comprised of people from all walks of life.

To Becker, the club was not a way of life, it was life. The only life he had, the only life he wanted, and the only life he knew.

I flipped through the pages with my thumb, soaking up every morsel of information about Becker Wallace that was available. After what seemed like a matter of minutes, the sound of Perry’s voice caused me to divert my attention to the other side of the observation station.

I lowered my Kindle and gave him a look. “What?”

“It’s one o’clock,” he said. “Time to get back to work.”

I glanced at my watch. Somehow, an hour had passed. I looked at the apple that was clenched in my other hand. One bite had been taken out of it.

Reluctantly, I turned off my Kindle and tossed it in my purse. I took a bite of my apple and then looked at Perry. With his thumb hooked on his belt and his keys swinging at his side, he gazed beyond his reflection and into the silent cellblock.

It irriTated me that he spent three or four hours a day looking at cars on the internet, and if I wanted to read, I was chastised for it. Nonetheless, I sat and silently ate my apple.

“So, what’s that book about, anyway?”

“A jeweler,” I said.

He chuckled. “A jeweler?”

“That’s right.”

He gave me a look of disbelief. “Doesn’t look like a book about a jeweler.”

I raised my eyebrows in wonder. “What’s a book about a jeweler look like?”

He stopped swinging his keys and turned to face me. After swiping his flattened palm against the strands of hair that formed his makeshift toupee, he dropped his gaze to my purse. “I saw the cover of it when you got your Kindle out. Had a guy on the front without a shirt that was covered in tattoos and shit. Doesn’t look like a jeweler book.”

“Should he be wearing a suit?”

“He should be wearing something.”

“If he was an old man in a suit, would it look like a jeweler’s book?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

I wasn’t surprised. He was a narrow-minded bigot who was incapable of seeing beyond the surface of anything.

I wondered what someone like Becker Wallace would do in prison. My guess was that he would read, fashion objects out of what others considered to be trash, and take no shit from any man, guards included.

I watched Perry’s reflection in the glass as he walked to his desk, logged onto his computer, and began scoring the internet for cars.

I finished my apple, tossed the core in the trash, and reached for my Kindle. “When you stop looking at cars, I’ll stop reading.”