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“But it won’t be perfect.” I scanned the crowd through the binoculars.
The construction workers were getting into their big yellow machines.
Mandy was in the crowd with her sister and a few people I didn’t recognize.
Socialites, probably. In a separate group, a white-haired woman of Hispanic
descent held a notebook, her eyes on the house. “Selma Quintero’s here.”
“Damn,” Amilcar said when he saw the Pulitzer Prize-winning art critic.
“Tasha’s good.”
“Damn right,” she said, poking her phone.
“Damn, damn.” I looked at the sky. The marine layer had thinned a
little.
The bulldozer rumbled to life, belching smoke.
“It’s on,” I said.
Our first really big piece. Not well-placed graffiti and street art, but a
statement. Something beautiful in the rubble. A city turning hidden treasure
into garbage.
At exactly seven thirty, the bulldozer moved. Suddenly, as if the
atmosphere had conspired with the forecasters to stress me out, the haze
cleared and the sun shone brightly on the little boarded-up house. The
crowd went silent, waiting for something. Delight or boredom. The
unexpected thrill of art or the inevitable disappointment of raised
expectations.
I grabbed Amilcar’s sleeve as if I was about to fall. He didn’t move.
The bulldozer pushed into the building and it crumbled, exposing the
interior walls, which were covered corner to corner in multicolored
rhinestones that sparked in the sunlight. The floors, the ceilings—
everything came down and exposed the glittering insides.
The crowd gasped.
In three minutes, it was over.
Geode House was a success.
Projects like Geode House were rewarding, but they didn’t put bread on
the table. In fact, they cost enough to impoverish even Basile Papillion’s
daughter.
Which isn’t to say I started the GAC with much money to my name.