Thanks, Dads - 3. Kiln Me Now

Ryan Langley, seventeen and increasingly convinced he was being raised by sentient Pinterest boards, slumped in the backseat of his dad’s hybrid with the resignation of a man en route to his own execution.

He had survived bath bomb night.

He had lived through choreographed “family karaoke fusion” sessions.

But pottery?

This felt like a cry for help from someone with a succulent addiction and too many wellness newsletters.

Up front, Lee was humming to a playlist labeled Clay Achin's Soulful Urn of Earth Tone Melodies, while Jack was reviewing the studio waiver like it might contain secret footnote clauses.

Beside Ryan, in his doggy car seat booster, Elton sat like a furry warlord on a throne. His tongue hung out the side of his mouth and his eyes were slightly misaligned in that way that suggested divine royalty.

Ryan pointed at the pug like he was spotting a security threat.

“Why is he coming?”

Lee kept his eyes on the road. “He’s our emotional support animal.”

“More like emotional destroy animal,” Ryan muttered. “Do you know how many socks that creature has eaten this week? He’s legally a textile hazard.”

Jack adjusted the mirror to catch Ryan’s eye. “Maybe Elton’s destructive tendencies are an artistic cry for help.”

“For what? More fiber in his diet?”

“Cotton is fiber. He’s supplementing,” Lee stated.

Ryan stared at the roof of the car like it might open up and let the universe take him. “I hate this.”

They pulled into the community center’s parking lot. A poster out front read “Let’s Get Glazed!” – Ceramics for Families and Couples.

Ryan felt his soul briefly leave his body.

Inside, the room smelled like dust, clay, and aggressive optimism. Folding tables formed a U-shape around a collection of wheels, and the walls were adorned with photos of suspiciously well-made mugs. Retirees bustled about in aprons like pottery elves on a mission. One particularly spry grandma was doing lunges by the kiln.

Lee clapped. “Ooooh, it’s rustic.”

Jack immediately began inspecting the pottery wheel with legalistic scrutiny. “I wonder if they’ll have us sign an accident waiver.”

Elton planted himself right in the middle of the walkway and snorted loudly.

Ryan sighed.

The instructor, a woman named Sherri who radiated lavender and repressed rage, cleared her throat.

“Welcome, creatives!” she chirped. “Tonight is about flow, connection, and celebrating imperfection.”

Lee raised his hand. “Is there a limit on the height of our sculptures?”

“Generally, under ten inches is safe for firing, but you can express yourself within reason.”

Lee beamed. “Great. I’m making a cactus.”

Sherri continued. “Let’s begin with basic shaping. Try to let your hands tell the story your heart is holding.”

Ryan rolled his eyes and began slapping a chunk of clay into a vaguely bowl-shaped depression. “My heart is holding exasperation. And rage.”

From where he sat, Elton let out a mighty snort.

Lee, already elbow-deep in his cactus’s core structure, looked deeply meditative.

Ryan stared at the sculpture forming beneath his dad's very earnest, very enthusiastic hands.

It had a central stalk.

Rounded base.

A… curve?

It was beginning to look less like a cactus and more like an indecent exposure charge waiting to happen.

Jack leaned in for a closer look. “Lee,” he said carefully, “are you sure you’re making a cactus?”

Lee didn’t look up. “Yes. It’s a Saguar-You.”

Jack winced. “I think it’s more of a Saguar-Yikes.”

Ryan tried to escape by focusing on his own clay, gently coaxing it into a neutral, emotionally undamaging bowl. “No one look at it. If we don’t acknowledge it, it can’t hurt us.”

Elton snorted again.

Sherri approached Lee’s workstation with the cautious optimism of someone about to walk into a crime scene.

“So,” she said brightly, “this is… expressive.”

Lee looked up, glowing. “It’s called ‘Succulent Masculinity.’”

She nodded. “Ah.”

Ryan sagged like a wilted cactus. “We’re going to be on a list.”

“I wanted to explore nature’s inherent sensual tension,” Lee explained. “The vulnerability of growth. The assertiveness of a bold shape.”

From across the room, one of the retirees chuckled. “Is that supposed to be functional?”

Lee furrowed his brows. “What?”

The retiree stood, walked over, and studied the sculpture. “That’s not a cactus. That’s a metaphor.”

“Thank you,” Lee said proudly.

Ryan closed his eyes. “Please fire me in the kiln.”

Sherri cleared her throat, gently rotating the piece. “We may need to, um, reshape it slightly before firing. Just for... stability.”

Two middle-aged women from Table 3 hovered nearby, whispering not-so-subtly. One of them, holding what looked like a structurally unsound teapot, tilted her head. “Is it supposed to be anatomical?”

“It’s a cactus,” Lee announced. “A symbol. A botanical allegory.”

The other woman coughed into her hand. “Well, it's very... ahem... liberated.”

Jack quietly rotated his stool ninety degrees to face away from Lee entirely. He pretended to be focused on his clay gavel, which had started to resemble a miniature guillotine.

Ryan groaned. “Great. We’re gonna go viral on the local AARP Facebook page.”

At that moment, the suspiciously silent Elton trotted confidently toward a low display shelf, sniffed a blue-glazed vase with clear disdain, then lifted one leg.

“No! Bad dog!” Ryan barked.

But it was too late.

The stream hit the vase with pug-force accuracy.

“I think he’s asserting dominance,” Lee said thoughtfully.

Jack didn’t look up. “On an urn. Dominance over death. Poetic.”

Elton, satisfied, waddled back to his still-warm spot and flopped down with a huff.

Sherri now wore a strained smile, the kind you wear when you’ve reached the final thread of your professional sanity. “I think we might be done for the night.”

Ryan stood immediately. “Thank. God.”

Jack clapped his hands together. “Time to hit the road. Before we’re escorted.”

As they packed up their clay-smeared tools, Sherri re-approached with a clipboard and a smile tight enough to qualify as a legal threat.

“So,” she began delicately, “this has been... spirited.”

Lee smiled. “Thank you! That’s what art should be. Provocative. Unflinching. A true thrust for change.”

Sherri’s smile didn’t move. “And while we appreciate diverse voices, we might... encourage your family to explore some of our other community programs.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Are we banned?”

“Oh no,” Sherri said too quickly. “Just kindly redirected.”

Ryan carried his clay bowl to the car like it was a war medal, while Lee lovingly cradled his phallactus in a towel.

Once everyone was finally buckled in, Elton let out a long, contented snort that fogged up the glass. He looked like a pug who had toppled an empire and was ready to nap through the fallout.

The car ride home was spent in silence.

Ryan stared out the window, bowl in his lap, dignity in shards.

This was definitely going to resurface as a repressed memory in therapy one day.