Left-Handed Engineers From MARZ
Post-Thanksgiving
"So what is it that's got Reg so obsessed?" Marsh asked Zephyr as he wiped
pizza grease from his hands.
Zephyr shrugged. "As far as I can tell, it's for a new client who only
came in on Fri-- Wednesday." He winced and shook his head. "Argh. This
weekend has been a nightmare. I can barely think straight."
Marsh searched his memory for new clients. They hadn't gotten many in
the last few weeks. "Oh, you mean that girl... Brandes."
"Yeah. Melody Brandes. Cutest kid you've ever seen. Big blue eyes,
enormous smile. She's like one big walking smile. Or she will be once
we get her walking." Zephyr stared at the crust abandoned on the plate
in front of him, and then looked up at Marsh. "She's kind of a unique challenge,
and I guess Reg was inspired. But, damn... he won't eat, won't rest, and
if you try to get his attention, he goes ballistic. You should have seen
him after you left yesterday. He came upstairs and almost literally dropped
from exhaustion."
"But he's working now?" Marsh's question was unnecessary; they could hear
the roar of the heavy machinery directly below them. He followed it with
a less rhetorical inquiry. "What is he making?"
"Don't know. Want to go see?"
They put a half-hearted effort into picking up and headed out of the breakroom
toward the elevator. Zephyr looked exhausted himself, Marsh observed. His
mind wandered to the conversation he'd had with Zephyr's sister the day
before. They hadn't talked directly about Zephyr much, but while describing
the poverty she'd grown up in, Portia had mentioned in passing that Zephyr
had worked hard as a child. Marsh wondered what kinds of jobs he'd had.
He'd always assumed that Zephyr was a very sheltered child... maybe he'd just
been projecting his own sheltered childhood onto the guy. However, he couldn't
quite get himself to ask.
"Didn't you draw up a plan yet?" Marsh asked instead.
Zephyr blinked at him. "You mean for Melody? I haven't had a chance!
Wednesday was the initial interview. Her parents only had the vaguest idea
what they wanted, and I haven't even applied for a copy of her records yet."
"So you didn't discuss it with Reg?"
"He doesn't like discussions. Usually I have to get the paperwork done
first and then hand him a full set of notes." The elevator door opened
and Zephyr led Marsh in and hit the basement button. "He has never done
this before. Never."
Marsh was thoroughly confused. "But if he doesn't have any notes, what
makes you think the thing he's building is even for this client?"
"Because he started acting all wacky the day after he met her."
Marsh opened his mouth to respond, but just then the door opened and Zephyr
barreled out of the elevator. It was just as well, Marsh figured; he just
didn't have the words to ask for the straight answers he needed.
Reg had just finished cutting bits of Fiberglas on the modified band saw
at the far end of the workshop. Zephyr was already halfway across the room,
and Marsh hurried to catch up to him. It was such a rarity for Zephyr to
move quickly that he was caught completely off-guard... but he supposed that
worry changed everything. Marsh could relate to that kind of worry.
About six feet away from Reg, Zephyr slowed down and took the last few
steps with guarded caution. Marsh noticed that Reg still showed no signs
of being aware of their presence. Zephyr gently touched Reg's arm, and Reg
finally looked up in recognition. Marsh suddenly felt as if he were an
unwelcome spectator and turned away modestly.
His eyes rested on a pair of mostly-finished crutches on the table. He
quickly recognized the ingenuity of their unique design - the odd twist near
the top would divert control and weight to the user's upper arms, and once
Reg remolded and attached the Fiberglas segments, it would increase both stability
and weight distribution. Marsh had never seen anything like them... and
they were so tiny. No wonder Zephyr's clients raved so enthusiastically
about the products they received.
Next to the crutches was something that looked like the beginnings of
an armature. Marsh was familiar with that - it was a variation of Zephyr's
team's specialty, the "iron fist," as Zephyr jokingly called it. It was essentially
a multifunctional prosthetic hand for people who had limited use of their
own (otherwise intact) hands and/or arms. Marsh wondered how Reg could have
done all this in one weekend, after meeting the client for only... how long?
Surely it wasn't more than a couple of minutes. Clients weren't allowed
in the workshop, and Reg almost never went upstairs unless Zephyr dragged
him up. However they met, how could it possibly be enough time for Reg to
get a sense of the child's needs? Reg barely had a sense of his own body!
Marsh looked again at the new creations and wondered how much fine-tuning
they'd need.
"You did good," Marsh heard Zephyr say suddenly. He turned to look just
in time to see the pair steal a quick kiss, and quickly turned away again,
admonishing himself for caring so much. It wasn't who they were that bothered
Marsh so much, he told himself. It was... it was... jealousy. The thought
shocked Marsh, but it rang with a certain amount of truth. He was a pleasant,
reasonably good-looking, successful guy, and what did he get? A wife so
full of venom that he was afraid to phone his children, who had single-handedly
destroyed his social life and turned friends and family against him. He
had done everything just right, and it had earned him a sad little studio
apartment with minimal furniture... and a loneliness so pervading that he
was spending his Sunday in the basement of his office building in the company
of two asocial weirdoes.
How could Zephyr possibly deserve better? Zephyr wasn't pleasant... he
bit your head off every time you offered him constructive criticism. He
beaned people on the head with wads of paper during important meetings and
moped in his office for hours at a time for no apparent reason. Zephyr turned
casual conversations into vicious confrontations, panicked every time things
didn't go as planned, and hit the ceiling whenever someone wanted him to
ask Reg for something. He could be so rude to both friends and strangers
that Marsh swore he must have learned etiquette on a pig farm...
... Which made him think again of the things Portia had told him during
that long car ride the day before. Marsh knew that Zephyr hated his mother,
but Marsh wasn't fond of his own mother, either. Marsh's mother was controlling,
debasing, judgmental, and critical... she got so righteously indignant when
Marsh disagreed with her that he stopped trying to tell her anything years
ago. Marsh had assumed that Mrs. DeCastle was similar, but the picture Portia
painted was entirely different. By Portia's claims, their mother had spent
very little time with her children, and when she was home they had been
forced to take care of her. Portia's point at the time was that she had
always functioned as a mother to somebody, but Marsh supposed that applied
to Zephyr as well. Imagine being completely without a role model from the
beginning of your life, Marsh thought. Imagine being the family breadwinner
before reaching legal working age. No, he couldn't imagine it. The whole
situation was too foreign to him. He'd had so many people imposing their
will on him that he couldn't comprehend what it must be like to raise himself.
He might never have learned how to talk to people... a truly terrifying proposition;
every interaction a potential disaster.
"God, Marsh, get over yourself!" Zephyr had moved away from Reg and now
glared at him. "It's not like we're in public or anything. Reg needed
a little reassurance, and if you have a problem with that, guess what.
He wins."
"Um," said Marsh.
"So let's see what there is. Wow, pretty impressive for two days' worth
of work! Did you see these?"
"Yeah," said Marsh.
Zephyr grinned widely. "I think Reg has earned... a slice of pizza!
C'mon, man, I know it sucks but you have to get more kilocalories inside
you." He took Reg's arm and guided him toward the elevator.
Marsh followed. He used to think it was weird, the way Zephyr cajoled
Reg to eat while Reg resisted, but it had become such a daily routine that
even he was accustomed to it now. At least he never had to participate.
He didn't have nearly enough patience.
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