Glove Maker

He was a glove maker. His designs and finished products were gorgeous and unanimously well received. It was profitable work. And it was awful. His problem? He didn’t like gloves.

Driving to work in the morning had become an increasingly tense task that escalated into a mental block. The thickness of traffic and distance were by no means problematic, it was only four miles of lightly traveled surface streets. Regardless, the tension mounted as the distance closed, like a countdown to one’s own execution. He experienced a brief bout of convulsing shivers every morning as he parked the car at the shop and turned off the engine. Wait for it, here it comes . . . there, the shivers would arrive like clockwork seconds after the ignition was turned off. He would pause momentarily allowing the shivers to come and go, then he’d exit the vehicle and enter the workshop.

The next eight hours, subtracting lunch and an afternoon break, were a daily battle of endurance. As motivation to step out of the car he’d say to himself, “Complete that new design and I’ll leave 30 minutes early.” But he would consistently find himself unable to placate this war of attrition and redeem the early departure. He’d finish the design, satisfying the requirement, then be incapable of leaving due to his own shortcoming, his work ethic. Another reluctantly award-winning design would pop into his head immediately upon completion of its predecessor. The compulsion had to be fed, and so he did, to the detriment of his mental well being.

When it is stated that he didn’t like gloves, it was more of a revulsion. He preferred his fingers to be free, not constricted by these wonderfully chic fashion accessories. He even once designed a series of gloves with no fingers, that is, gloves with five holes through which the fingers would be inserted. The hope was that the fingerless design might break his spell of aversion. Curiously, he hated the fingerless variety even more than regular gloves. The wild adulation and industry awards for the silly fingerless gloves were no consolation. Despite their lack of practicality they were so elegant and comfortable that they outsold the traditional variety of gloves. Yet, he couldn’t stop with the glove making any more than he could resist grabbing a mint from the bin at the cash register of his favorite sushi joint. 

He would have preferred a life of manual labor. The physical demands of laying asphalt or work as a mason would be a more peaceful and fulfilling existence. Laboring everyday in a stubbornly gloveless performance developing an initially painful, though impressive, collection of blisters only to watch them be smoothed out and deadened into calluses over time. But he couldn’t make the transition to such an existence. Like a compulsion there would be no end to the glove making. He acknowledged his unique talent. It needed this outlet and he was its conduit. He reasoned that such a talent came for a higher power and the squandering of it would be a waste for which he did not want to be held to account.

The industry speaking requests, of which there were many over the years, were categorically, though politely, declined. His colleagues and competitors mistakenly thought him to be humble because of it. The numerous interview requests were simply ignored. It was mistakenly thought he didn’t want to give away the secret to his success. In truth, if possible, he would have gladly given away that secret. This unwelcome gift that allowed him to bring beauty and happiness to humanity weighed on him like a 50-pound sack of sand sitting on his shoulders. He despised it, even more strongly than being cut off by another driver at a highway merge who refuses to abide by the rules of the road. Still, he remained respectful of the ill beholden gift such that he could not abandon its fruits. So he continued the constructive and profitable self-torment.

If he could only give it away, he could slip forward into the life of a contractor. But no, his morning drive to work concluded, he’d arrived at work and parked in his designated spot. The onset of the convulsions would soon envelop him. They could not be suppressed any more than he could resist trying to sooth a dog frightened by a barrage of 4^thof July fireworks. He’d tried to resist each and failed both. He’d wait for the convulsions to run their course then enter the workshop. “If I can finish this design I’ll leave 30 minutes early,” he said aloud pocketing the car keys and disembarking. There were beautiful glove designs awaiting his attention.