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Eli recalculated the glass batch again, and frowned. There was nothing wrong with it. Since there were no problems he could find with it, and since the glass melted the same in a small crucible in the lab, the stones didn’t come from the glass. They weren’t just a clump of unmelted raw material, and they weren’t recrystallized matter, like sugar candy forming on top of simple syrup.
The pot was new and its zirconia ceramic was resistant to both high heat and corrosive environment – it wasn’t the pot falling apart.
The only other source of the stones was the ring, a simple round piece of ceramic that reminded Eli of a chunky, oversized toilet seat. It floated on top of the glass melt, providing the gatherer with a small, clean glass surface free of foam, stones, or surface crystallization. Some glass compositions were more prone to these issues than others. There were glasses that didn’t need a ring at all – but this one did.
Eli had come across the small ceramics plant in the basement, right next to the furnace burners, where several guys made the gathering rings by packing a pre-made ceramic into molds. The company bought the glass melting pots from a specialized manufacturer, and a pot lasted for many months of use. A ring got used up within two to six weeks, though, and buying them would have added to the production costs. Moreover, Zimm Glass used a manufacturing method that was at least a century out of date. The company couldn’t buy gathering rings simply because they weren’t available for sale. Eli knew that, because he’d been searching online. He found glass gathering robots and automatic glass handling mechanism of all kinds, but he hadn’t heard so much as a whisper of a simple, ceramic gathering ring.
The house-made rings should’ve been all right, as long as they didn’t skimp on curing, on the ingredients.
But what went wrong? And, furthermore, what ceramic did Zimm Glass use, and how was it supposed to be processed? Eli had spent four years in a ceramics research lab, and he did know a lot about the importance of proper drying, curing, and firing of ceramic component. Even the best material could be rendered fragile through uneducated handling.
The corrosive glass melt put the rings through a test worse than just a trial by fire.
His challenge was getting the green light to investigate, because both the management and the production claimed the rings were okay. Eli leaned back, stretched his arms overhead, and cracked his back. He wished he could pace back and forth right now, because pacing always helped him think.
Suppose the ceramic in the rings was bad. Why the denial? The management and their upper-echelon bean-counters were invested in making the rings in-house, mostly because they didn’t have any choice. There was nowhere to buy them, not in this century, and they didn’t want there to be a supply problem. They got reassured by the foreman, Halloran, and his workers that the ring production was as good as ever.
But was it?
Eli slipped into his obsessive QC geek mode as he thought back to all the procedural paperwork he’d seen during his brief stay at Zimm Glass. He tried as hard as he could, but he couldn’t recall seeing a single quality control standard operating procedure for testing ring quality. His work seemed to have extended to glass only.
Glass quality got tested in many ways. Aside from the usual polished samples for measuring the color specs, the lab measured thermal expansion, density, and refractive index. The QC, Eli’s department, cooperated with the lab on this, but his focus was more on individual production flaws and the cooperation with the labor teams. Annealing temperatures, making sure the finishing shop ground the crud off and made all edges nice and smooth, electroplating the aircraft components just right.
He was vaguely aware of one batch of rings having been made since he started at Zimm Glass, but there wasn’t a single mention any kind of quality control in the staff meetings, nor had he tripped over written documentation.
Who made those rings, anyway?
Eli wished he could’ve asked Bo right then, but Bo was likely in the throes of making music. And good for him – he needed the break from having to help Eli with rudimentary tasks. Still, it was quarter past eleven, and Bo had to wake up early for work. Where the hell was he?
With a sigh, Eli opened his laptop again and typed a few keywords into his browser. He knew his way around ceramics – if the guys were messing up on the ring production, he’d find out how to make it right.
THE HOUSE was dark and silent around him, with only one light on and the cold glow of his laptop before him.
Midnight. And Bo was still gone.
Eli fretted. He needed to move around and stimulate blood circulation to his healing leg. While he was at it, he took care of his bedtime hygiene and changed into a T-shirt and pajama pants. With a wistful look he glanced up the stairs. There was a bathroom up there – a real one, with a bath tub and a shower. His stitches were coming out next week, and he just couldn’t wait to dive under a stream of hot water and feel the warm, wet comfort of pulsating jets against his back.
Every time he returned from one of his rustic Peace Corps trips, a shower was the first thing he wanted. Not alcohol, and not fancier food or television. Running hot water had them all beat on his list of priorities.
As Eli maneuvered himself out of the small powder room that had been so efficiently tucked under the stairs, he could tell his leg was doing better. The swelling was down, the pain had abated unless he tried to put weight on that side, and he could just feel the temptation to try and make a step.
Just one little step.
But, no. He knew better than that.
“Shhh!”
Eli startled at the voice by the front door. First, a hush. Then a crash against the door frame. Then a giggle as someone tried the lock.
“Which key is it?” The voice sounded familiar.
“Gimme that.” Bo.
Eli swung his way down the hallway and into the foyer, and turned the light on. He unlocked the door just as someone turned the knob.
Bo fell in, right into Eli. They tumbled to the ground. Cries of pain mingled with surprise and alarm. As soon as Eli realized his impending fall, he curled like a cat to fall on his good side. Crutch tops jammed into his armpits as his good thigh slammed onto the crutch aluminum leg.
Bo rolled off him, holding his eye and howling with pain.
“What? Are you hurt?” Jay entered the foyer cautiously, looking at Bo, then at Eli, then at Bo again.
“Fine, just bruised I think.” Eli gasped for air. “Help me get up, please?”
“Yeah, sure. Don’t wanna tear anything, right?” Jay grabbed Eli under his arms from behind, waited until Eli straightened his legs out, and pulled him to his feet. “You okay? Sorry about that, things happened a bit fast.”
“It’s okay.” Eli glanced at Bo, who was sprawled on the ground. “What’s wrong with him?”
Jay gave Eli a sheepish grin. “Got drunk. Allison took our car and I drove Bo’s truck.”
“Really? Wow.” Eli was no stranger to altered states, but he always saved party time for the weekend. “But there’s work tomorrow! Should I call in for him, you think?”
“I’m going in,” Bo slurred. “An’ you hit my face with your crutch, babe.”
Being called ‘babe’ in front of others was awkward in a nice sort of way. Dealing with a drunk Bo? Not so much. “What’s wrong?” His question was directed at Jay, although his eyes were fixed on Bo, who looked more relaxed than ever, just sprawling on the cool, brown tile.
“You two should talk tomorrow,” Jay said. “He felt bad about something, but that’s not my tale to tell.”
“Okay.” Eli thought back, going over their interactions. There had been some tension. He should get out of Bo’s hair, mostly. Which was too bad, because Bo wasn’t just hot, he was nice and sweet and smart, and Eli wanted a lot more than just a spare bed in his music room. “Thank you for bringing him home safe.”
“Allison’s waiting in the car.” Jay hesitated. “I could dump him on the sofa. There’s no way I can get him up the stairs.”
Eli looked at Bo sprawling frame, then at the sofa. There was no way Bo would fit. “Can you put him on my bed? In the music room?”
Jay winced. “Dude. How’bout you? You can’t sleep with him, the bed’s too small. You can’t sleep on the sofa with that wound, either.”
But Eli could, and he said so. Ten minutes later, Bo was stripped to his jeans and sprawled across Eli’s bed while Jay and Allison motored off.
Eli grabbed an extra blanket and settled on the sofa, but the house cooled overnight and the other extra blankets and pillows were probably upstairs.
He could make it up there – he could go on his butt.
Or he could share space with Bo, who was a snuggly heat-source of his own. Eli pulled himself up, grabbed his crutches, and navigated his way to the dark music room.
The laptop was shut closed, but that one light burned in the night, shedding a soft, yellow glow on the cozy living room. Eli decided to spare himself the effort. He left it on as a night light. Then he hobbled over to his bed, eased himself down, and set his crutches against a spare chair from the dining room that served as his bedside table.
He laid down next to Bo. There wasn’t much space, but when he propped his hurt leg over Bo’s thigh, and when he moved Bo’s arm under his neck, he found he was quite comfortable.
Bo was warm. A faint odor of liquor stained the air around him, but Eli could still make out Bo’s musky undertone he loved so much. That smell of sweat and man and security that came of snuggling in the dark, safe in their cave and sheltered from the elements made Eli wiggle deeper into Bo’s side. He smiled. Even the dim yellow light filtering through the half-closed pocket doors from the living room gave the old library, with all its dark wooden shelving, an air of an atavistic den.
“Love you,” Eli whispered, knowing Bo was dead to the world and there was no danger of overhearing him and running for the hills. Then he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
BO WOKE TO the familiar rocky jingle that blared out of his cell phone, exhorting the Steelers toward a better football season. His phone was across the room as usual. He’d learned that was the only sure way he’d actually get out of bed in the morning.
“Here we go, Steelers, here we go! Here we go, Steelers, here we go!”
A wave of disorientation swept over him as he tried to get out of bed. It was almost dark, and wooden shelves blocked his exit. And his arm was pinned.
Bo raised his head and turned toward Eli, who was snuggled warmly into his side.
“Ugh.” Now his head hurt, and his mouth was dry and fuzzy with lint. And his eyes stung, as though someone flung a handful of saltpeter into his face.
“Here we go, Steelers, here we go! Here we go, Steelers, here we go!”
The phone was over there, in the dark corner, probably in his jacket pocket. If he could only climb over Eli without waking him.
The reality of finding himself in Eli’s bed, still wearing his jeans and sporting a hangover of impressive proportions, crashed right into him.
Oh, heck. Why wasn’t he upstairs? He didn’t remember driving.
Oh, shit.
Fluttery fragments of the previous night started to reappear in his mind, distorted and frayed.
To his consternation, Eli sat up. “I got it,” he whispered, grabbed his crutches, and headed for the untidy pile of clothing. He found the phone, turned it off, and swiveled to face Bo. “You look terrible. You want me to call in for you, say you’re sick?”
Bo shook his head, instantly regretting the action. “Ow.”
“You can’t be around the furnace like this. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Bo’s pride was stung, and he sat up and swung his legs onto the hardwood floor. “Lemme take a shower, then I’ll decide. But I’m never drinking Jaegermeister again!”
AS HE navigated up to his suite with an armful of clothing, he thought back. They’d been fighting over something, but Bo just couldn’t remember any specifics. He did recall a vague sense of unease, self-consciousness, and fear. Like Eli was too good for him and he couldn’t possibly compete with those two hipsters who’d done Eli such disservice several weeks ago.
Now that was bullshit.
He knew it was bullshit as he let hot water drum on his head and shoulders, as he shaved, and as he scrubbed with an invigorating body wash. The woodsy, citrusy scent cleared his head somewhat, but even though he knew his sudden lack of confidence was bullshit too, he plain couldn’t remember what had driven him out of the house the night before.
Enlightenment didn’t descend as he was brushing his teeth, or getting dressed, and the only insight he got while swallowing a painkiller had to do with not drinking like an idiot next time around.
On his way down, Bo took the steps carefully, landing on the balls of his feet softly, not jarring his head anymore than he had to. And he didn’t want to stampede and wake up Eli again.
The familiar and welcome smell of coffee drew him into the kitchen. Eli stood by the stove on one leg, crutches within reach while he was scrambling eggs. “The frozen waffles are in the toaster,” he said. “You mind eating standing in the kitchen? I left my work all over the table again.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Bo said accusingly.
“I know, grumpy head! Here, have some coffee.” He hopped across the kitchen on his left leg, presumably to get another mug.
“Don’t!”
Eli stopped, extended his arms to the side for balance, and twisted his torso toward Bo. “No coffee? Okay.”
“No, I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I’ll get it.” Bo took four long steps across the kitchen, got a random mug out of his collection, and fixed his cup. “I’ll take everything to the living room. I want you to sit and rest.”
Only five minutes later they were perched on the sofa, devouring waffle-egg sandwiches and drinking coffee. Bo had an athletic-style water bottle in front of him. He sipped at it, and it helped, but still. Coffee.
“Drink more water. Remember that time I was out of commission and you forced all that water on me?” Eli flashed him an impish grin over his waffle sandwich. “It’s your turn now.”
Bo reached for the bottle and took a dutiful sip. “I’ll bring Gatorade, too. But I don’t think I’ll be packing lunch.”
“I thought about doing that, but you hardly ever eat with the guys.” Eli’s voice had a curious edge to it.
“Usually it’s just a sandwich and some fruit. Or a burger and fries, but I tend to avoid that.”
“Unhealthy?”
“Expensive.” And there it was again, the value system. Eli probably didn’t know what it was like, making do without.
“I know,” he said, to his surprise. “I haven’t realized how much money I’d been wasting until I landed in Asia. People in Cambodia, they don’t waste anything. Everything gets used up.”
Huh.
Bo lifted his eyebrows, knowing there was a story there somewhere. “When I’m not hungover and we have time, I want to hear all about that. What you did. I’ll never get to go to a place like that.” And now he was whining. God, could he come across as even more pitiful?
“We could save up and go,” Eli said. “I’ll be your guide. If you want, that is.” Bo loved the way Eli blushed at the unspoken assumption that Bo wanted to spend that much time with him, and also probably at the presumption that Bo would want them to travel together. Or wait for years to save up first. Also together.
The more Bo thought about it, the less it sounded like a terrible idea. He rounded up the dirty plates and mugs and stood up, looking down at Eli. “You wanna go back to sleep? I would.”
“Probably.” Eli yawned. “But before you go, I have a list of things to find for me. Ask Paul. It’s about Pot 16.”
Bo paused. “You found something?”
Eli shook his head with apparent frustration in his face. “No! That’s the thing. There’s nothing wrong with that glass. It’s not the pot falling apart, either, so it’s got to be the rings.”
Bo raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Process of elimination. I need to know how they’re made and what they’re made of. Who’s doing the work, too. It’s easy to screw up a ceramic by drying it wrong. You can get spalling, or introduce micro-cracks. Any number of things can make it fall apart.”
“Especially in a glass melt. That’s pretty corrosive stuff.” Bo knew that from experience. He’d seen what the fumes from a reducing melt did to the wrong kind of a refractory brick.
“If I had the fancy equipment from my old job, I’d take a sample of the stone and I’d be able to tell you what it is right away. We don’t have an electron microscope with atomic absorption analysis, though. I even said we could send a sample out, but that’s a few hundred bucks and the old man said no.”
“No? Why?” Now this was interesting. Bo was never privy to what happened in staff meetings. He knew they occurred in the large, old conference room, where the white-shirt staff sat around an ancient oak table in chairs padded green leather and stuffed with horsehair. They got to drink the better coffee from the staff lunch room, and they all pitched in to get donuts on Fridays. It sounded like a regular social club.
“He said the fee was just for one sample. We’d want to run several. And Halloran said we’d have to pay them to interpret the data, which is like two grand.”
“Could you do that?” Bo leaned forward on his toes, his hangover all but forgotten.
“Sure! I used to do interpret this kind of data every day. Except Halloran said I didn’t know shit about glass, and it was a waste of money. Nobody told him to stuff it, which was a shock. I thought I got hired to help with this sort of a thing.” The frustration in Eli’s voice was painfully familiar, because it echoed the frustration Bo had heard in the voice of every single new employee who managed to run afoul the territorial boundaries within the company.
Of course nobody wanted to piss off Halloran. He was doing his best to reinforce his union’s negotiation position before the biannual contract negotiations came up. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, feeling a sudden pang of sympathy for Eli’s position. “Tell me what you want to know and Ill find out for you.”