Ricardo Rios's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Ricardo slipped his phone back into his pocket and counted the new contacts. Six people wanted lessons, but none had called yet. He needed to show them something real, not just songs in the plaza. His grandmother's notebook sat on his kitchen table at home, filled with recipes written in her slanted handwriting. He could teach tourists to make arepas the old way, with their hands instead of machines. First, though, he had to learn how to turn strangers into students. He walked three blocks to where an old woman shaped clay bowls outside her workshop. Her hands moved fast, thumbs pressing into the wet earth as the wheel spun. Ricardo watched her create a rim, then smooth it with one finger. She'd been making pottery for forty years, the same techniques her mother had taught her. He asked if she would teach him the basics so he could pass them on. She nodded and told him to come back Tuesday with clean hands. The next morning, Ricardo found a beige copy machine sitting behind a repair shop. The owner said it still worked but took up too much space. Ricardo carried it six blocks to the plaza, his arms burning. He set it on a bench and plugged it into an outdoor outlet near the empty stage. He fed his grandmother's arepa recipe into the machine and made twenty copies. Each sheet showed her handwriting, her measurements, her notes about kneading until the dough felt like an earlobe. Back at his apartment, Ricardo opened the glass doors that led to his small balcony. He hung his performance shirt on a hanger and let the breeze move through it. The embroidered flowers needed air between shows or they'd hold sweat and fade. He looked down at the street below and imagined a bigger space, rooms where pottery wheels spun and recipe sheets covered tables. His phone buzzed. One of the tourists from the plaza wanted to know when lessons started. Ricardo typed back: Tuesday at ten. Bring an apron.