plaster remnants and pieces of statuary
The guy with the beer points me two doors down to a house with boarded-up windows and no visible address. I tiptoe around, expecting to encounter a Doberman or a drug deal or both. I'm wearing a black baseball cap and dark glasses and try to tell myself that I blend. Cody opens the door. "You found it!" he said, amazed.
He has no idea how relieved I am. As we rummage through plaster remnants and pieces of statuary, he mentions that the company's owner is remodeling his house and has a pile of old, weathered concrete balusters he's discarding. My eyes widen like lollipops.
By that afternoon, I had four turned, weathered balusters in
overseas the back of my truck, where they are on their way to their second life as the legs of a desk.
