Eddie

I met Eddie at a bowling alley in the 60’s. He always seemed a bit on edge. He frequented the pool halls and bowling alleys, but his main refuge was the arcade. Those lights would fascinate him, especially when he was on a trip if you know what I mean. He would always put Pink Floyd on the juke box- not the new stuff, the oldest stuff, the Syd Barret stuff that seemed appropriate for insane clowns or adults who were in a child-like trance of some sort.

And boy would he dance! Not that he could dance, but he did. And even though he wasn’t any good, boy, he had that fluidity, that lack of self-consciousness that really set you free just watching him. I’ve never seen such a free spirit since.

He could have done anything, that Eddie, even without the dope and the pink Floyd and the pool halls.

He’d tell me stories about the night before. I don’t think that guy ever stayed in. He had too much energy. He cheered people up everywhere he went: dancing around, smiling, singing- not a care in the world could bring him back to earth.

The stories he would tell seemed to be a combination of reality and fiction, the kind that every good story-teller comes close to relaying. And he’d tell us those stories without a breath in or out it seemed. His arms would flail. His eyes would rise and fall. You really couldn’t look away. When he’d laugh, you would laugh. When he’d cry, you couldn’t help but cry with him. He’d finish the story and walk away and you’d be stranded like a helpless newborn, crying your eyes out or holding your stomach from the pain of laughter. Oh, but it was worth it to hear those stories.      

It was weird because it seemed like once he told a story, it left him completely. He would tell you and then forget about it and it was up to you to bring it to life again. I could never tell the stories like he did. I don’t think anyone could. And it was a shame because if you missed it, that was it. You missed it.

It’s funny to think that you always wanted more from Eddie, even though he gave you more than anyone else had before. You always just wanted more. And you wanted him to be there with you. But he never really was. He was too distant. He was in his own world, where the music set the tone and if you weren’t in you were out and that was it.

I used to go looking around town for him just to see what he was doing and what story he was telling. I’d pop my head into all the arcades first, then the pool halls, then the bowling alleys. When I’d find him I’d never say hi, I’d just watch him. I don’t think he ever knew my name. He’d come to me like he did every one else: like a stranger who’s going meet him for the first time whether they were ready for it or not. And you could never really be ready for him, even if you thought you were. He’d blow your mind every time. People would whisper to each other after he left.

I would hear people talking about him sometimes when he wasn’t there. And if I couldn’t find him I would end up listening to them to see what they had seen or heard to know what I had missed. But I never was satisfied listening to the accounts of what he said. I would snicker, of course, picturing him and what it would look like if what they were saying was true, but it was never as good as the real thing.

Sometimes I’d get to an arcade and hear the end of some Pink Floyd song, knowing that I had just missed him. I never knew what kind of plan he had. I don’t know how he chose where he was going to next and when and where he would go to after that. So if I had just missed him, there was no way of knowing where to find him.

I hardly noticed at the time, but my life started to dissolve altogether. It became a chase. My life became Eddie’s shadow. One step behind, but sometimes I would catch up to him and follow him around town.

When he entered a place, people would watch his every move. They’d smile and talk about him to each other. He had an aura and he didn’t even know it. That’s what made him so interesting. He wasn’t self-absorbed at all. In fact, he was the exact opposite of self-absorbed. He told stories about other people, he danced as though he was the music; he was a reflection of us all. Heck, sometimes I even thought he was just a figment of my imagination. Maybe I was just on a wild goose chase around town trying to find myself. But I couldn’t invent someone like Eddie. No way. More like he was making us up and we were part of his story. We were only here because he wanted us to be.

And the day I figured that out, I couldn’t find him anywhere anymore. I wouldn’t hear the ends of any Pink Floyd songs. I wouldn’t see people with the wild eyes that they used to have after hearing one of his one time only stories. He just disappeared. We were all shocked in a profound way. But in another way, none of us were really certain he was ever really there at all, ever. It was like he was just some bizarre hallucination that none of us could ever forget.