How Bob Became The Empreror’s Turner
by charlie b

Chapter One

Once Upon A Time - not so long ago, or some time in the near or distant
future - in a galaxy far, far, far, far, far away - ooops - that’s
George Lucas’s introduction to Star Wars IIRC. Let me try again.

Once Upon A Time - not so long ago, or some time in the near or distant
future - in a warm and sunny kingdom - filled with The Beautiful People
- wth more money than sense - moguls and super stars and hyper super
models, and of course, agents, gossip columnists and Industry Magazine
publishers - next to a warm blue ocean - there lived a humble wood
turner trying to eek out a living from his love of wood and his ability
to turn it into all manner of beautiful things. Let’s call him Bob, Bob
Smith.

Now Bob fell into wood turning by accident. He was working as an
apprentice set builder for one of the Major Studio’s the day he borrowed
a co-worker’s pen to write down a “starlets” phone number. He never got
her number - because he got side tracked by the pen. This was no
plastic throw away ball point pen - but rather, made from some weird,
cool looking wood - in a shape like no other pen he’d ever seen.

“Dude - this is a far out pen! How’s a guy like you come by owning a
pen as obviously expensive as this thing?” - he asked of his co-worker.

“Made it myself!” says his co-worker. “Well actually, I bought the metal
parts. BUT I turned the rest myself - on a little lathe I’ve got.” the
guy admitted. “I used lacey leopard wood then ebonized it before
applying four coats of Hyper Ultra Shine. I was going to do some gold
leaf on it too but forgot to put it on before I applied the finish.
Only took me four hours to make. Pretty cool huh? And I made it on my
kitchen table.”

And that’s how Bob stepped onto The Slippery Slope and began his journey
to STARDOM, fame and fortune.

Bob hit the Flea Markets, hoc shops, Craig’s List and the newspaper’s
For Sale section. With some good detective work, and some clever
negotiating, he soon had a small wood lathe, a basic set of “mini
turning tools” and picked up the other tools and supplies he needed from
Amazon and e-bay.

Over the next three or four months, every waking hour when he wasn’t At
Work, was spent turning wood into small round cylinders. First he
turned scraps of wood from work, then prunings from a neighbor’s tree,
and eventually he found Penn State and Woodturners’ catalogues. The
World of Woods opened to him, he started working overtime to make the
extra money his wood jones DEMANDED.

His co-workers started to notice that Bob just wasn’t his old happy go
lucky self. He now had dark circles under his eyes and he tended to
squint a lot. His T-shirts had what appeared to be small wood chips and
ground in saw dust on them, with spatter marks of some weird liquids.
His calloused fingers now were stained with various colors and he always
seemed to have crud under his fingernails. And, though he didn’t smoke
- at least not cigarettes, he began to cough a lot. They also noticed
that his tool belt had an assortment of unusual mechanical pencils and
pens, both ball point AND fountain pens - the old kind you had to refill
with ink - from a bottle.

Enventually, Bob told a trusted friend about his Turning Addiction.

“Jesus (no not THAT Jesus - his chicano buddy Jesus) - I’ve got a
problem. I’ve gotten into turning wood - BIG TIME and it’s taking up
all my time and money. There’s all this really, really, really nice
wood and all these really, really, really cool turning tools and stuff
that I really, really, really, really, really NEED! OH, and every
drawer in my house is full of pens I’ve made. I gotta make Mo’ Money!
And can’t figure out how to make it. Vato, you gotta help me!”

“Ora le hombre - Flea Market! Do dem Craft Shows! Give some of your
stuff to folks On The Lot at work. Get your stuff out there man, where
people will find out about you. Sell ‘em for cheap - at first - just
enough to get more wood and stuff. THEN - when you’ve got a string of
“customers” - you up the price. Tell ‘em the wood you’re using is from
endangered species and has to be smuggle into the country - from
Zimbabwe or some place like that. Convince them you could go to jail
for even possessing the woods you’re using for you Unique Pens. Illicit
stuff ALWAYS costs more - a lot more. People eat that **** up man!
Hint that The Cabal is involved - but whisper “The Cabal” and keep
looking around as you tell them. Mention that Brad AND Jaylo both have
several of your Special Pens - but don’t mention any last names - the
papparazzi might be watching and listening.”

So Bob took Jesus’s advice and sure enough, within the year, his money
contraints were gone. He branched out and began turning very special
“cigarette holders” which went like the proverbial hot cakes. He bought
a full sized lathe, bigger chunks of wood and more tools. It was all
down hill from there. He moved into a place with a garage! Soon the
garage became his SHOP and it began to fill with Turning Stuff - shelves
for wood - both chunks as well as Turned Pieces. There were turning
tools in racks and stands, scroll chucks with a full range of jaws in
drawers, grinders and jigs to keep tools sharp, specials lighting,
cabinets full of all manor of “finishes”, rolls and rolls of sandpaper
on toilet paper holders - screwed his Lathe Bench.

He’d gone from pens to small weed pots, to true “hollow forms”, small at
first but then larger and larger. Every flat surface in his house had a
turned plate or bowl or vase or I Don’t Know What It Is But It’s Big AND
Hollow - and each was made from a different “exotic wood”. And when
friends and relative’s birthdays came, rather than “buying” them
something, he gave them one of his “pieces”. At Christmas time, instead
of spending hours finding a parking space and more hours fighting The
Crowds, to say nothing of dealing with frazzled “check out” people, he
went out to his warm and now cozy SHOP and created all manner of
wonderful shapes and forms - unique, one off (why isn’t it “one OF”?)
things for those near and dear to him. Add a stick on bow, no need for
wrapping paper or boxes, and you’re done. Here’s your present - it’s
Bubinga! (Bubinga always seems like it should be followed by “Badda
Bing, Badda Boom!”). Soon friends of friends were calling him about
“having a piece made” and money started rolling in. Well not actually
rolling in - but enough to buy Mo’ Wood and Mo’ Toys / Tools.

Then, what seemed like Disaster struck. One day the phone rang.

“Mr. Smith, this is Daryl Finsterdorten, your landlord. I’m thinking
about selling the place I’m renting you and would like to have a Real
Estage Agent come over to see the place. Of course, if I decide to sell
it there’ll be a significant reduction in the rent to compensate you for
any inconvenience that might be involved. Does 4 pm this Thursday sound
ok to you?”

In shock, Bob could only mumble “I guess so.” and the line went dead.

Jesus! (No not that Jesus, THE Jesus). What am I gonna do? How the
hell am I gonna move all that wood and equiptment and stuff. Where am I
gonna find a place to Do My Thing!???? This is horrible!

Thursday, The Day of Dread and Trepidation, arrived and, at 4 pm, on the
dot, the door bell rang.

Opening the door he faced The Real Estate Agent.

Sweeping past him she said, over her shoulder said “You must be Bob.
Daryl told me you WERE a great tenant and have kept the place up
nicely. I’m Penelope Shawnee and I’m going to make some new owner very
very happy!” And off she went to explore the house, pocket tape and
leather bound notebook in hand, digital camera in the other hand.
Pocket tape, note taking, a digital image or two and on to the next
room.

Bob followed her through the place, a bit bewildered by this whirl wind
of a person exploring his - well actually Daryl’s - place like she owned
it.

After getting all the physical dimensions she, and her banter, slowed
down - as if to smell the roses, metaphorically speaking.

“I like what you’ve done with the place. And oh, aren’t these wood
vases and things just gorgeous! Where on earth did you find them?
These are just so - UNUSUAL. I just LOVE them!” she gushed, lifting
and examining a “closed form” out of a manzanitta burl.

“I made them all. That one’s out of manzanitta burl, that one’s spalted
maple and this one” he said handing her a tall delicate vase “is out of
what was an old redwood fence post.”

Holding the piece in her hands her face registered surprise. “It’s
beautiful - and SO LIGHT! - she said as she examined it more closely.
“This was an old fence post? You’re kidding right? It’s not nice to
try and fool Penelope.” she gushed, with a wink and a nod.

“No really, it was a piece of an old fence post. I do wood turning and
all these pieces were done on my lathe out in my shop. I’ll show you if
you’d like.” Bob shouted over his shoulder on the way to the shop.

“Honey I’d love to see your shop but I’ve got another appointment I’ve
got to get to. But listen dear, I’ve got some interior decorators and
designers who probably will want to pick up a few of your pieces. Could
I have a few of your business cards?” she asked on her way to the door.

“Business cards! I should’ve had business cards made!” Bob thought as
he gave himself a mental kick in the ass and a thump upside the head.

“I don’t have a business card but I can give you my phone number and
e-mail address” he practically yelled.

Penelope got out her pen and opened her notebook.

“Hey, that’s one of my pens!” Bob exclaimed smiling proudly.

“Well my lord. I just sold a house to a guy who works at one of the
Studios and I must’ve taken his pen. Now that you mentioned it, it is a
very unusual pen. I’ve never seen anything like it. And you MADE it?”
Penelope asked.

“Sure did. Made pens back when I first got into turning.” Bob answered
proudly.

“You sir are an Artist!” she pronounced as she got out a yellow
HiLighter and circled his name and phone number - adding stars on both
ends. “I’m DEFINITELY going to tell my designer friends about YOU!”
she yelled over her shoulder on her way to her Cadillac Escalade parked
at the curb.

Bob ran to the sidewalk and waved as she drove away.

“Designers! She’s going to tell Designers about me!” Bob shouted to the
neighborhood.