Construction was ...probably beneath Erik's scope of interest, yes, but he'd entertained the idea of working as a locksmith before. It struck him as honest, even if the irony was that due to his mutation some people would consider it patently not--but Erik didn't think in those terms. If a person had a college degree, he wouldn't feel guilty using the information he'd learned just to even the playing field, would he? He might not have earned his mutation, per se, but he had certainly honed it to the best of (what he currently thought were) his capabilities.
So as a suggestion metalsmithing wouldn't go amiss. Meanwhile now bereft of the need to manipulate any further statuary - actually no, he twisted its shape a bit more, just for his own amusement and exercise before leaving it alone - Erik patted his pockets and came up with his cigarettes. He usually handrolled them, because he was exactly that kind of snob, but the materials were too irritating to acquire at the moment. If he'd lived in the 21st century longer he'd have asked before lighting up; he had those manners, but he was used to 1962 where basically everyone was still smoking, including Olympic athletes.
"If you'll pardon my saying so," he contended, in a way that asked pardon for exactly uh, nothing, "not forming lynch mobs strikes me as an abysmal baseline from which to begin."
He refrained from commentary on vampirism and loss of powers, possibly because he wasn't sure which would be the worser fate.