Blisters

The summer after sophomore year in college, I lived in a toolshed with neither electricity nor plumbing on the coast of Maine with a couple of hippie girls. We worked for a freakish antique dealer who specialized in fixing up second-rate junk and selling it to tourists as treasures. We couldn’t believe the prices people shelled out for our “art.” From various parts of an old school bus we found ingenious ways to restore broken furniture scavenged at the local dump. We spent the days blistering old paint from dressers, inserting bus seats into chair bottoms, patching, covering, faking, fooling.