Chapter 17: Sept. 5th, 1962 - Wednesday

1st Period - Drafting 101 (Mr. Rourke) Annex-100

The door from the wood shop swung shut behind me with a soft thunk, sealing off the scent of sawdust. The drafting room felt different, cooler, quieter; the air conditioning was more to preserve the drawings from wilting and sweat than for our comfort. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow over six rows of four drafting tables, each equipped with a metal drafting lamp, T-Square, several scales, drafting triangles, and a cylindrical mechanical pencil sharpener. The room smelled faintly of rubber erasers.

I hesitated in the doorway, scanning the space. Freshmen and sophomores hunched over their tables, some already working, others slouching in their chairs, waiting. A few glanced up as I entered, their eyes flicking over me before returning to their own business. I didn’t recognize most of them.

Mr. Rourke stood at the front of the room, his back to the blackboard where a neatly drawn isometric projection of a block with a couple of square and circular holes was illustrated. He was broad-shouldered, late 40s, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with sawdust. A wooden ruler tapped rhythmically against his palm as he surveyed the class. “Alright, listen up. This isn’t wood shop. This is drafting. Precision isn’t optional, it’s the difference between a bridge that stands and one that collapses.” His voice was gruff, but not unkind, the kind of tone that brooked no nonsense but didn’t demand fear.

I slid into the second row, third table from the left. The metal chair legs scraped softly against the linoleum floor. I ran my fingers along the edge of the drafting table, testing its stability. The surface was smooth but not slick, designed to hold paper in place without shifting. A T-square was sitting at the left edge; its blade aligned perfectly with the table’s vertical edge. I exhaled the tension from the previous day’s chaos with Father Logue easing slightly. This, I knew. This was solid. My grandfather was an excellent general contractor, but also drew his own construction drawings. I had learned the basics sitting at his side.

Mr. Rourke picked up a triangular scale ruler from his desk, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. “This is an engineering scale. Notice the divisions; each side has two scales, each line representing a tenth of an inch, down to a sixteenth of an inch. Architectural scales? Different beast entirely. In fractions, from 1/16 to a foot to an inch, to a foot, and can be scaled up accordingly. Those are for construction blueprints, where a sixteenth inch on paper might equal a foot in real life.” He flipped the ruler, pointing to the various scales etched along its edges. “You’ll use both. But today, we start with architectural scale, one-to-one. Because if you can’t measure sixteenths, you sure as hell can’t design at a sixteenth inch to a foot.”

My fingers checked the edges of my T-square and triangles at my station, for nicks or warpage, either of which could ruin a drawing, listening to Mr. Rourke as I did. He moved to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk, squeaking as he drew a horizontal baseline. “Orthographic projection. Three views: front, top, side. No perspective, no shading. Just the facts. There might be a bottom view of the opposite side, if needed, to clarify a particular intricate design. This is the language of mechanical, civil, and architectural creation. Without accurate, detailed drawings, nothing can be made identical to the last. Not that table of T-square.” He tapped the blackboard with the chalk. “This block here has a square and circular hole drilled all the way through, along with a square and circular hole drilled halfway. Your job? Draw it. All three views. Dimensions are on the board.”

A few students groaned under their breath, but I leaned forward, my elbows resting on the table. The block on the blackboard was simple, but the precision required wasn’t. I glanced at the partially drilled holes, the square one clean and finished, the circular one rough at the edges where the drill bit exited. Grandpa would’ve called that sloppy work. I reached for the T-square, adjusting it slightly to ensure it was perfectly aligned with the table’s edge before placing a sheet of drafting paper beneath it.

Mr. Rourke circulated between the tables, his boots thudding softly against the floor. He stopped behind me, arms crossed. “You’re Albert Jones’s grandson, right?” I nodded without looking up, confused that he would know my grandfather. “Heard you’ve got a steady hand. Let’s see it.” I didn’t react, but my grip tightened slightly on the T-square. I was used to being measured against my grandfather’s reputation, used to proving myself. I picked up a lead holder, testing its weight in my palm before selecting a 2H Lead. The lead was fine, sharp. Good. No room for error.

The first line I drew was a very light horizontal construction line for the top view, rotating the pencil to keep the point sharp. This was the point from which everything worked; my hand moved with deliberate slowness. The pencil glided smoothly, the lead leaving a crisp, faded line on the paper that could easily be erased after the drawing was complete. Next, I grabbed the 45-degree triangle and drew the vertical construction line. I didn’t rush. Precision wasn’t about speed; it was about control. Around me, other students were already scribbling, their lines wavering or skipping as they struggled with the T-square. I ignored them. This was my space, my moment. The room faded until there was only the paper, T-squares, triangle rulers, the pencil, and the quiet hum of the drafting lamp above my head.

Mr. Rourke paused at my table again, this time longer. He didn’t speak, just watched as I measured the depth of the square hole with the scale, my fingers steady as I marked the dimension on the paper. The teacher’s silence was approval enough. After a moment, he moved on, but not before I caught the faintest nod of acknowledgment. That’s one. I didn’t smile, but the corner of my mouth twitched. It was enough.

A student two tables over, lanky, with a mop of unruly hair, let out a frustrated sigh as his T-square slipped, smudging his baseline. “Damn it,” he muttered, rubbing at the smudge with his thumb, only making it worse. I didn’t look up, but I heard the rustle of paper as the kid tore off the ruined sheet and started again. The sound was familiar. Everyone starts somewhere. I focused on my own work, carefully transferring the dimensions from the blackboard to my paper. The square hole was easy, straight lines, clean angles. The circular hole was trickier, but I’d seen my grandfather work with circles before. It’s all about the center point. Get that right, and the rest follows. On the board was a chart of the symbology of different line types.

Swapping lead from a 2-H to 4-H, I carefully measured from the edge and bottom of the top view to get the center point of the hole, drawing the long, short line symbol for the center line, then ran that up to both my front and side views. These were the thinnest, sharpest lines of a drawing. My lead broke halfway through drawing the circular hole’s top view, the tip snapping with a quiet click. I didn’t curse. Instead, I placed the lead holder in the offset hole of the specially designed pencil sharpener mounted on the side of my table. I then carefully spun it around, basically sanding the broken tip into a fresh, even point. The sharpener’s barrel whirred softly as I turned the pencil. The room was quiet except for the occasional scratch of pencils, the hum of the lights, and the distant sound of a power saw from the wood shop next door. This is where I belonged: Not in Logue’s classroom, not in the chaos of the past few months. Here.