F³ Hairy Situations

            The next few days, Evelyn and I worked at creating many fine brushes of increasingly exotic animal hair she had on hand. Boar bristles were too stiff. Badger performed decently, but didn’t give the same release of powder I wanted. Powder didn’t stick well to horsehair. Cats, dogs, foxes, otter, beaver, all had their problems. I mean, they would work, I guess, but I had really hoped something would give me the same characteristics as the fingerprint brushes I used in New York, especially after I had gone to such efforts to get a decent powder.

            I sighed, then picked out the badger and the fox. “Let’s fit a handle to these. I guess they’ll do all right.”

            Evalyn sighed with relief. “At last. Even with your box, I have fallen behind in broom making, especially since many people want your new flat brooms.”

            “I’ll go get us some lunch. Anything in particular you would like? It’s my coin.” I had almost said dime, but quickly changed it so I didn’t get a look from her.

            “Are you trying to court me?”

            “No, just wanted to give thanks for all your help and for taking up your time.”

            “Well, in that case, a roasted hen and root vegetables would be pleasant. And some wine.”

            I nodded, and made my way down the street, patting Ranger as I went. There was no point in unhitching him. Now familiar with this part of town, I could take a couple of short alleys and get back to the main shops quite easily.

            Once there, I walked the line, trying to decide for myself what I wanted. Inevitably, I was drawn back to Marion’s shop for some bread. Fortunately, Caitlyn was hard at work mixing more dough so I didn’t have to have an awkward interaction with someone who definitely thought I was—or should be—courting her.

At the next stall, I picked up some butter and cheese. I thought about a boiled egg when a chicken squawked, flapped, and ran away from the young man who had attempted to wrestle him to the chopping block.

The startled chicken had shed some of its feathers, which hung in the air, drifting toward my face. I used my hat to try and knock them away as the young man got the chicken back, despite its squawkings.

I blew an errant feather away from my face.

The light bulb went off.

F³ Innovation

            Sewing took longer than everything else, even the making of the box. At first, I tried to freehand it, working my fingers through the bristles to pass the twine through, but that failed, instantly.

            “You need a needle,” Evelyn chuckled.

            “You have one?”

            “Not for twine, and not long enough to get through that.”

            This was a fair point. I wasn’t about to go hunting down the needlemaker—whoever that might be—to have a custom broom needle made at the moment. So we improvised with a stick. I used my dagger to whittle down one end to a pointy-ish end, and carved a little notch all the way around the other end where we tied the twine in place. An eye would probably have been better, but I wasn’t going to try a delicate operation like that with my dagger. I would’ve loved to have had the knife and pliers on my multitool for this kind of work, but they were back in my apartment. In Brooklyn. In an entirely different universe from what I could tell.

            My stick worked well enough, and we passed it back and forth through the wedged bristles. We pulled them tight with each pass, straining the twine as we pulled and looping in a little knot to keep it tight. I had no idea what kind of stich it was we tied—Grammy would’ve gladly told me—but Evelyn picked up on it right away, and taking the lead by telling me whether the loop should go over or under, and where exactly the needle should go.

            For it not being something she wanted, she sure took over, fast.

            We added a second row of stitching. I couldn’t remember if there was only one row of stitching or two on Grammy’s broom, but thought it better safe than sorry. For that we pulled the broom up out of the box a little bit, then started again. By far this was the most labor-intensive broom Evelyn had ever made, but she worked silently, getting into a rhythm where she really didn’t need me.

After tying the handle on, she didn’t need to really hold it upright, just make sure her feet and calves held the box firmly. Our improvised needle was long enough to get to the other side of the box, easily, so it was just repetition. In a few minutes, she had finished tying off the second row of stitching.

With that, we unboxed. The natural bristles did fan out a little more than I had wanted, but they kept tight, for the most part. A third row of stitches much lower down would probably do the trick, but for a prototype, this was good enough.

“It’s a broom,” Evelyn declared. “Why did we go through all that extra work?”

I grinned, and passed her one of her original brooms, and we had a contest. She swept the dirt and loose bristles out of her little shop. I went through with my broom, and got all of the dirt that her broom had missed, which was a significant amount, and I didn’t have to work as hard at it, either.

That convinced her, but she looked the new design over as if it was magic.

“Now, tomorrow can we make some brushes for me?

“That depends?”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re going to show me a better way to make them, too.”

F³ Labor Saving

            Back at Evelyn’s shop, we spent more of our time talking about the open box I brought back than eating. In the end, talk was cheap, so we went to work with it.

            “First, we put the box on the table so it’s at an easy height. Then, we pack our broom bristles in there.” We stuffed handfuls in vertically until the box was almost overcrowded. It became apparent very quickly that the bristles were way too long, too, but we kept going. Figuring out the ideal bristle length would come later as we progressed.

            “The box will make it easier to tie them to the handle, but why didn’t you make it round, like a cask? That would have better.” Evelyn jammed in two last strands of bristle straw.

            “I’ve got a plan. Now we need the stick, and your twine for tying it to the stick.”

            She passed over the stick, but I had her keep the twine and sit back down in her chair. Once sitting, I pulled the box over and stick it between her feet so she could grip it in place. I worked the stick through the loose bristles to the top of the box.

“Okay, now wrap and tie the twine as usual. Good and tight. Really bend the bristles to the handle.”

She wrapped it a few times, then made to tie the knot.

“A few more wraps, and tighter,” I said.

She shrugged and wrapped it tighter, then tied the knot.

“Well, done. And a neat way to do it, that will make things easier for me. I think I prefer a cask, though.”

“We’re not done yet, I smiled. We’re going to sew the bristles into place, there, so they stay in this shape.”

“And who would want a broom in this shape?”

“Everyone. When we’re done, if you don’t like it, I’ll buy you a cask to use, instead, but I think you’re going to like it.”

“I’m not sure what land you come from, Shamus, where they make such strange brooms. Very well; you did buy me a good lunch, after all.”