During lunch, I rode to the Pearl City store on Cherry Street to buy several tubes of acrylic paint, one of each primary and secondary color. I bought new brushes, too.
“This is real horsehair,” the woman said, stroking the brush against my chin. “See how fine that is.”
I could not carry any canvasses, so I didn’t buy any. I’ll return another time with the truck.
The sun, along with the cool air, felt good as I rode down the streets on my motorcycle. I slid back the face plate of my helmet to allow the wind to hit me.
When I returned to the office, Roy and Brooke Spearman were in the computer room arguing. She’s a programmer, and that means she writes all the computer programs that keep this place running. She was arguing about how she was making less money than Carl Weeks, who does
