There Is No Story (Eddie, Part 2)

Three weeks later, I went back to see Eddie. It was a Saturday - a day that I could take my time, get lost, have a coffee, think about this story.

I wondered what I would find in the warm, dimly lit shop. The last time had been so shockingly strange. Would I discover a hidden illness behind Eddie's thick black glasses? Would I be chased away by the red haired woman without further explanation? Or would I find out a dark history between the two, haunting and sad, putting everything in a harsh and unkind light?

By missing an exit I ended up a good twenty blocks south of the store, the land of hipsters nowhere to be seen. My car turned and screeched through the hot neighborhood, passing yard sales, kids with hoses and a block party. People were out in force. Unlike my street, where the big, shady porches go unused even in the dead of summer, the little concrete stoops were filled down here, women chatting in pale, stretched tank tops and men's skin glistening in the sun. These people were poor; it showed in the cheap sheets that hung out to dry over their banisters and the clunky bikes being ridden by the children. Yet they made the best of a hot summer's day, breathing life into dirty streets and turning houses into homes.



Finally I pulled up across the street from the coin shop. It was closed.



I remembered the black mail box and sent my eyes to searching for it when they fell up two familiar faces: Eddie and the red haired woman. Without hesitating I crossed the street, slightly nervous what the encounter would bring.

I had imagined us inside. I was going to tell Eddie about a wonderful CD of French crooners I had thought he should add to his collection. I was going to ask about the woman. This was nothing like my vivid imagination had played out.

"Hello, do you remember me?" I was standing next to them, joined by an unremarkable second man next to an equally unremarkable car, which they were loading.

Eddie squinted, blinking in the sun.

"I owe you six dollars," I ventured.

His face broke into a grin and he opened up his hands to the sky, "Oh there is a God!"

"You thought I had forgotten?" I said, smiling. The two beside him turned to notice. "I didn't, I remembered. I was hoping you were open though, I only have a twenty."

The woman, this time with her hair pulled back, looked somehow smaller: tame. She smiled at me, clearly not remembering what I had seen pass between her and Eddie but the fact that I owed money and had come to call.

"I think I have some change, let's see," she said jovially, opening the car door for her purse.

"Normally we're open on Saturday's," said Eddie, "But we're going to a graduation today."

He was searching through his wallet. "I wasn't sure you would come back. See, I did that for someone else too and they didn't come back."
The second man asked "Are you the one with the little girl?"

"No..."

"No, she lives right there," said the woman, pointing a few doors to our left. She turned to me, "We live up there, the one with the green bay window."

"Oh nice!" I replied.

"Here you go, fourteen dollars," said Eddie, handing me five neat bills. "And what was your name?"

I stuck out my hand again, a replay of three weeks before. "Juliet," I said.

I shook his hand and turned to the red haired woman, who was now leaning against the car smiling.

"And you are...?"

"Lynn," she said accepting my handshake. "Ow! Juliet! That hurt!"

She laughed and waved her hand in mock pain.

"I have a firm handshake, sorry about that." The third man did not offer up an introduction.

"You're coming down for First Friday, right?" asked Lynn.

"I think so, yeah."

We closed up the conversation with the normal pleasantries and literally parted ways - they towards some unknown destination and I to the nearby corner thrift. We were all smiling. Nobody left feeling lighter or heavier. No deep dark secrets were revealed. It was just another meeting of acquaintances on the side of the street. Lynn and Eddie are two basically normal people who live above their coin shop.

I went down the street to get a coffee, searching for a new mystery. Fresh inspiration was needed.