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to keep me on the edge a little longer. He
helped me teeter out to the garage, gently holding my upper arm and
guiding me as though he were politely ushering me into a posh restau-
rant (that image flashed through my mind for some reason)--except that
my wrists were pinioned in the center of my back and my posture was
unnaturally perfect. And of course I wasn't exactly dressed for formal
dining. I had to roll my eyes and turn my entire torso to the side
just to watch him as we walked side by side.
Standing on the workbench in the garage was a white plaster model
of my body. He told me how he made the fiberglass torso. I think he
enjoyed explaining the technical details. He had waxed the interior of
the two halves of the mold he made of my body, reassembled them, and
filled them with plaster, leaving a core of styrofoam to save weight
and plaster. After it hardened, he broke away the outer mold and
discarded it (I had thought those discarded pieces meant the project
was a failure).
The remaining torso was an exact copy of my body. He sculpted
away parts of the plaster to shape the interior (that's why it is
smaller in the waist and crotch than an exact cast would have been)
judging how much he could remove
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