The Workshop
"Fucking rich people," Leigh mumble to herself.
Sitting in her parked car, she stared down at her phone; specifically, at the curt, but very clear email she had just received from one of her clients. It explained the details of a new layout of cabinets the homeowner was now insisting was "absolutely necessary" for their new kitchen. Of course, the email made no reference to the fact that the whole set of pre-fab cabinets previously agreed upon, had already been purchased and were on the verge of being installed.
Jesus, she hated being under the thumb of these privileged assholes. It seemed at every turn they were second guessing her, making unnecessary changes, and it even felt at times, they would simply do whatever they could to make her life more complicated.
To that fact, these oh so important cabinets are
custom
. She can't get them from a warehouse. She has to drive out to some workshop out on the edge of town next to the apple groves. If that wasn't bad enough, it sounds like the homeowners, being the petulant children they are, have already tried to get the shop owner to make the cabinets, but now they say he's refusing. She can only imagine how that went down. And now they expect
her
to go out and smooth over the sheets they so blatantly ruffled.
Grudgingly, she clicked the link to the address of the workshop, turned the ignition, and set out for her 45-minute drive out of the valley and into the dense orchards.
The lengthy commute only gave her time to stew over her predicament. She was tired of being responsible for other people's problems. She can't remember a day of work that didn't include someone making a mess that only ended in her cleaning it up. She was a very capable designer and contractor. Leigh has made a good life for herself by simply being competent in getting shit done. And in the world of people with money, they are always willing to pay someone else to do things. This is where she was currently wedged. Making things happen for people who never have to learn the limits of
want
.
Her car crunched down the dirt road that terminated at a series of large, simple buildings, all with ample double doors. She was deep in the trees from the main road when she came to a stop before the largest structure, and the only one with a sign that plainly announced "Workshop." A fine a place as any to start.
In the left side of the front barn doors was embedded a regular sized door, through which she tentatively entered as she knocked.
"Hello?" Her voice echoed through open room, bouncing off numerous very specific looking machines.
While being generally clean, the shop definitely looked well-worn. Despite being chipped, dented, scraped, and colloquially, ridden hard, it was also apparent everything she could see was still very precise and intentioned. It was like finding beauty in a scar. Every mark had a story. She could see them from the middle of the shop, where she now stood.
"Can I help you?" His voice boomed across the floor and goosed her out of the silence.
She'd been increasingly on edge over the course of the drive. Now she was wound up so tightly that even this man's obvious presence has gotten her off center. She simply needs to get him to agree to make the cabinets and quickly. She can throw her client's money at him and she'll be back on schedule.
"Uh, yes," she said, finally having fully turned to face the man who had emerged from around the east corner of the shop. "Are you..." she recalled to the email from the homeowner, "...Owen Mackenzie?"
Now, getting a full look at him, he seemed to fit in seamlessly with the shop itself. He shared the same banged-up aesthetic of the tools he was working with. His skin had seen its share of sun and sawdust. Wiping his hands as he slowly sauntered towards her, she could see them calloused, presumably from years of raking them over lumber. From his beard, she could also make out the grey streaking it. Angry hairs that seemed to impose themselves on the rest of the mix of auburn facial hair. Clean him up a little and one might call him attractive. He was definitely older than her, though not by much. Through all of his time-worn exterior, his pale blue eyes were locked on her. If he was one of these machines anthropomorphized, his eyes were the blade. Steely and precise.
He slowed to a stop a few feet from her tossing the rag into a bin. He ran his eyes over her, for a little too long, if you'd asked Leigh. It was as if he was looking at a tree and deciding how much of that flesh he could carve up and use. And for a moment, she felt like that tree. Feet rooted to the ground, unable to avoid the woodsman's greedy axe.
"Mack," he said finally. "I hate the name Owen."
She snapped back into herself. Suddenly remembering why she is here in the first place.
"Mr. Mackenzie, yes, well, I believe you have been in contact with my clients, the Mitchells, about a series of custom cabinets they wanted made."
His eyes finally left her as he raised his head in an amused nod, recalling the conversation he'd had with the Mitchells only the day before.
"Yes. Indeed, I have spoken with them. Specifically, Mrs. Mitchell," he smirked.
Leigh didn't know what this guy found so amusing. She needed him to get on board quickly, and his cavalier attitude was starting to grind on her. He was starting to seem like just another obstacle she was going to have to surmount.
"Then you know they want their cabinets and insist they had an agreement with you, which they claim you are not fulfilling," she said somewhat forcefully.
Mack raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "While it's true they wanted me to make them cabinets, there is no agreement. I told them how much and how long it'd take and they wanted it faster. I said no. I'm not interested in rushing. Time makes good work, not simply throwing more money at it." He turned his back to her as if he were discarding her.
Leigh was getting increasingly frustrated and tense. She had custom cabinets commissioned before and she knew this guy had plenty of time to make them. Clearly, since he wasn't asking for more money, he was just being difficult for the sake of it. She was tired of it.
"Look," she said through gritted teeth, "you know their timeline is reasonable. Turning this down is not a good idea." She was becoming more heated. "If you know the Mitchells, then you know what pull they have. Say no to them and your business will become toxic to them and everyone they know. You'll be lucky to sell a birdhouse after that."
