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his building through his private door at eight-thirty,
though Grandmother doesn't call Ami's an "Oriental bitch," of course.
Off and on since nine o'clock, I've heard the high-pitched whines
of various power tools from his basement workshop, so I know he's
building something. Checking for traffic on Waverly, I skate across to
his side of the street. He glances up through the single, small window,
sun catching all the coppery highlights in his beard. He sees me and
waves. I wave back and, of course, almost lose my balance. He laughs,
puts his goggles and ear protectors back on and resumes sanding some
wood. I can't see what he's making, but I want nothing more at that
awkward, embarrassing moment than to be in a hole deep underground.
For the next 45 minutes, I practice furiously. I am determined to
be graceful, dammit. Then I notice him, standing outside his workshop
door, smoking. Sweat is pouring off his face and neck and arms, making
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