In Austin, a gentleman with thirty pens in his overalls offers us a pamphlet of his city, which happens to be the geographical center of Nevada. Mike "I lost my lungs, that's why I have to drag this canister around" works in a roadside building, welding all day. "This was just a hobby," he says, showing Jane a coyote pelt, which "an Indian friend skinned for me." He says, "Coyote pelts are like socks, you see?" He turns over the dead thing, revealing the complete outers of an animal. "When you kill a coyote, you just slip the fur off the body."
Mike trades things. He trades for rocks, gems, corals, knick-knacks and steel. From all of this, he welds knives, bracelets, clocks.
"When my health went, I turned my hobby into my business." He rolls his chair from his welding room out to greet us, dragging his air. Mike reveals Austin to us through his collection of old photographs. He left here in middle age, but open spaces and freedom led him slowly back home.
"How is the Toiyabe Cafe?" I ask.
"Greasy spoon, just like the other one, but it's fine," he says.
A workshop in Austin, Nevada
)
){kind=link}