Meet John. John is a plaster-mixer. Not a construction worker. Not a mason. Certainly not a carpenter. He doesn’t concern himself with any planning or anything fancy like that. He knows that they take the plaster and pour into big wooden molds and somehow walls come out. But he figures they might as well take the plaster and dump it straight into the sewer for all he cares. Plaster is his business, and nothing else.
John wears a red and black fleece, gray beanie, black boots, and once-blue jeans which have been bleached far too many times. Some days the beanie is black. His “going out” beanie. Those occasions are rare. John doesn’t tend to mix with “fancy folk,” especially since his wife passed away. His face is slightly wrinkled and his skin leathery–the hardened skin of someone who has endured 50 years of cigarette smoke and brisk New Hampshire winds.
