I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 86: Sawdust and Legacy
Jon's Perspective
It was late—well past the hour when the house usually mellowed into its quirky but comforting rhythm of mismatched hobbies and background noise. Manny had, naturally, abandoned his controller mid-boss battle, opting instead for an audiobook about 18th-century poets. He claimed it helped him think deeper thoughts. Jon suspected it helped him relax after losing one too many times. Gloria, meanwhile, was deeply engrossed in her third telenovela of the evening, muttering dramatic commentary at the screen as if the characters could hear her. The house, in its own strange way, felt alive—buzzing with quiet energy and personalities that never quite aligned but always fit together somehow.
Jon, however, couldn't settle. His mind kept circling back to his assignment—specifically, the looming essay about someone's career. It should've been easy. Just pick someone and write. But every time he thought he had his subject nailed down, he'd talk himself out of it.
He'd considered Cam—endless drama, too many metaphors. Mitch—too precise, too buttoned-up. Gloria was tempting: glamor, flair, and a Rolodex of celebrity anecdotes. But she also had a way of making every answer sound like a perfume ad. None of them felt right. None of them fit.
Then his eyes drifted to Jay.
The old man was parked in his usual throne-like recliner, sipping whisky out of a glass that probably hadn't seen a dishwasher in months. On the screen in front of him, a grainy black-and-white war movie flickered—something full of stoic men shouting orders and running dramatically through trenches. Jon had a hunch Jay had watched it at least a dozen times, maybe more.
That's when the idea struck: Closets. Not glamorous. Not dramatic. Just... practical. Predictable. But maybe that was the appeal. Jay, in all his cranky, no-nonsense glory, had built a whole company out of something most people didn't even think about. It felt safe. Solid. Easy to write about.
Spoiler: it wasn't.
Jon approached cautiously, notebook in hand like a peace offering. "Hey, Jay," he said, lingering in the hallway.
Jay didn't look up from the screen. "If you're here to talk me into switching laundry days again, save it. I'm not budging."
Jon smirked. "Relax. It's school stuff. I have to write an essay on someone's career, and... I was thinking of writing about yours."
That got Jay's attention. He hit the mute button on the remote with a casual flick. "You want to write about me?"
Jon nodded. "If that's cool with you."
Jay shrugged, trying to play it off, but Jon could tell he was secretly pleased. "Sure. Fire away."
Jon moved to the chair across from him and settled in. "Okay. Let's start at the beginning. How'd you get into the closet business, anyway?"
Jay took a slow sip from his glass, then leaned back with a grunt that sounded equal parts tired and nostalgic. "Alright. Picture this. Me—in my twenties, fresh outta the army, broke, no real plan. I had one suit, two shirts, and a mattress I found on the curb. That thing had a personality."
Jon made a face. "Gross."
Jay chuckled. "You asked."
He continued, painting a picture of his early post-military life. During the day, he worked construction—swinging hammers, hauling lumber, eating lunch out of a metal box. At night, he bartended in a dive that smelled like stale beer and regret. It wasn't glamorous. It barely paid the bills. But it was a start.
Then, one day, opportunity knocked—kind of. A guy on his crew mentioned a high-end client who wanted a custom walk-in closet. Real upscale stuff. When the guy flaked at the last minute, Jay volunteered to take the job.
He paused there, gave Jon a look. "I'd never built a closet before. Didn't know the first thing about it."
Jon blinked. "So you just... faked it?"
Jay raised his glass like a toast. "Sometimes, the only way to learn is to jump in and hope the water's not too deep. If I'd waited until I had all the answers, I'd still be living on that lumpy old mattress."
What followed was a string of stories that blurred the line between comedy and grit. His first projects were disasters—lopsided shelves, mismeasured panels, things held together with duct tape and desperation. But Jay kept at it. He taught himself. He read books. He watched craftsmen work. He made mistakes and learned from every single one. Slowly, painstakingly, he built Pritchett's Closets & Blinds—not out of some grand vision, but out of necessity, effort, and an unshakable refusal to quit.
And then came the story that really threw Jon.
"There was this one client—a celebrity. Can't name names, but let's just say she's got Grammys and believes her poodles are reincarnated fashion icons."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "What does that even mean?"
Jay smirked. "It means I once built a custom shoe closet. For dogs. With little shelves. For little heels."
Jon snorted. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious. Those dogs had more designer boots than most people have socks. I had to invent an entire shelving system just for them. It was like a couture kennel."
Jon laughed so hard he had to set his notebook down to catch his breath.
But then, almost imperceptibly, Jay's tone shifted. He leaned forward, gaze steady.
"Most people look at this business and think it's just wood and screws. A bunch of shelves. But when my first marriage was falling apart? This company—it gave me something to hold on to. Something I could build when everything else in my life felt like it was falling apart."
Jon didn't say anything. He just listened.
Jay wasn't the kind of man who handed out vulnerability. So when he did, even just a little, it carried weight.
"I never claimed to be the smartest guy in the room," Jay went on. "Still don't. But I could build things. Tangible things. Closets, drawers, homes. A name. Something real. Something my kids could look at and say, 'That's ours.'"
Jon looked down at his notes. The page that had started out as a joke—"Closets = Zzz"—was now crowded with scribbled phrases, quotes, and underlined thoughts. Sawdust and legacy. Trial and error. Dog shoes.
He looked back at Jay, but this time, with something like reverence.
"Thanks, Jay. That was... way more than I expected."
Jay shrugged like it was no big deal, then unmuted the TV. "Just don't make me sound too soft. I've got an image to maintain."
Jon stood, notebook in hand. "Relax. I'll keep the poodles anonymous."
Jay grunted. "Damn right you will."
As Jon climbed the stairs back to his room, his thoughts were still buzzing—not with stress, but with clarity. The essay wasn't about picking the coolest or most dramatic profession. It was about meaning. About what people build, and why.
And Jay?
Jay didn't just build closets.
He built something that lasted.
And tonight, for the first time, Jon truly saw it.
He didn't just find a subject for his essay.
He opened a door—and saw the man behind it.