Eddie didn’t have much luck thinning out the squirrel herd. The beers might have had something to do with it; loss of that hunter’s drive—whatever.

Eddie, once again became a recluse in his room, only venturing out to Lowe’s to wander the aisle in a bargain stupor. I’d mentioned the upcoming Flights of Fantasy at the Brewery.

 He looked at me and I could see his mind replaying the events of the last one; the fist fight, the confrontation with cops and the awkward apology to Jeff  for damages. I didn’t think he was going to go. I don’t blame him.

After a trip to Lowe’s he came home in a whole new mood—upbeat, hopeful. Weird.

“I’ve decided to go to the event,” he said. 

“Really? What changed your mind?”

“Got a date!”

“With what—I mean with who?”

“A chick I met at Lowe’s.

“A cashier?” I asked.

“Not exactly. Temp work. Think of it as seasonal.”

“Wow. Good for you. Then you’ll be taking her to the event?”

“She’s meeting me there. I gotta look good, you know? Can I get off work early?”

“If things are slow and Steve gives you the okay.”

First time I’ve ever seen Eddie really happy.

Work was hectic and Eddie didn’t get off early. He went home just long enough to freshen up.

“What is that smell?” I asked.

“Cologne. Like it?”

“Smells like roach spray. Where did you get it?”

“Back of the closet in there.”

“There is no cologne in the closet. That’s a can of Raid.”

“Smells nice though, right?”

I just shook my head.

Eddie took his seat up front by the stage and listened to Joseph O.R. Long, Taylor Lockwood, Tina Sacco, Lisa Rast, Erica McFarland, Marsha Butler, Barb Henny, Ella Paets and Cathy Booth read their Halloween stories. As each reader finished, I could see Eddie anxiously glancing at the door.

Almost two hours later and Eddie’s date was still a no show. I felt bad for him. He’d been stood up. There he sat in his little roach spray world with no date and no hope. I had to wonder if he’d made the whole thing up. It was like he’d read my mind and said, “I really did meet someone. Here, I took a picture of her on my phone.”

“That’s my phone, Eddie.”

“Right. I borrow it when I go out. See here?”

There is a picture. Okay. “Does she have a name?” I asked.

Eddie stared at me blankly. “I forgot to ask.”

“Might be why she stood you up, Eddie. It can’t always be about you.”

“You’re right. I’m going back to Lowe’s tomorrow. I’m too hot to forget. I’ll invite her to a private Halloween/ birthday party.” He actually winked at me.

“And what will your costume be?”

“Think I’ll go as a dead guy.”

Eddie stayed out all night. He didn’t say a word the next morning. I don’t think the date went well. He went back to work without comment and I didn’t ask. Not much has changed.

I think I may have made a mistake. I had good intentions. I wanted Eddie to feel part of a community, of a family, but I may have over reached. It’s taking longer that I’d hoped for for him to adjust to working at Mail-Express.

I invited him to be part of a three-day writer’s marathon I was hosting, taught by Joyce Sweeney and Jamie Morris. Mostly young adult, and children’s book authors—the whole thing seemed to depress him. Between you and me, I think it dredged up memories of his own sad childhood. I could see it in his face when stories about happy children with loving parents were read around.

I’ve been trying to make him adjust to my lifestyle without asking him what his lifestyle is. To be honest, I’m afraid to ask. Sometimes his mood is so dark I’m uncomfortable to be in the same room with him. Then he snaps out of it and cracks a funny Eddie joke as if the dark mood never happened. Strange.

“What types of hobbies do you enjoy, Eddie?” I say it not trying to sound like I’m prying. He shrugs.

“Have any guns in the house?” he asks. Just like that. As though he were asking for a soda.

“Why?” I ask.

“It’s hard to trust someone who answers a question with a question. It’s not really an answer now is it?”

“It’s hard to answer the question when someone asks if there’s a gun in the house,” I counter.

“Okay. You have a point. I ask,” he says, “because you’re gettin’ damage on the house siding from those squirrels. They’re gettin’ ready for winter. Chewin’ is what they do.”

“Really? Why the house?”

“Because they can. Maybe no reason. Damage crap just the same. I used to hunt. Was pretty good at it. We never went hungry. All I’m sayin’.”

“I don’t want to eat them, Eddie. They’re tree rats. The thought of eating them just doesn’t do it for me.”

“If you get hungry enough, you’ll eat ‘em.”

“Maybe, but I’m not in that place yet. But I’ll keep it mind. Way, way back in my mind.”

Eddie sits in a lawn chair in the backyard watching the treeline. It seems to put him at ease. Well, at least it’s something.

After the unfortunate incident at Target, it was clear Eddie needed more structure in his life. Not an occasional diversion, but real responsibility, something to keep him busy and focused. With some trepidation the conclusion was—a job at Mail-Express.

Eddie was underwhelmed. I didn’t expect high-fives or jubilation, but I did expect more than a grunt and shrug. (Still harbors ill feelings about the whole being detained in handcuffs thing.) But given the choice between incarceration and freedom, he made the right choice, even if begrudgingly.

His first disappointment was attire. He would be required to wear a polo with store logo. I told him no wife-beater T. For that, he gave me a cutting glare. I told him no drinking on the job. For that, he gave me what can only be described as banty rooster rage. Weird noises and incoherent sentences. I told him no sunglasses or hat. That was apparently going too far. I’ll skip the ensuing tirade on Eddie’s part. I relented on the sunglasses and hat. Some lines you just don’t cross. And I have to pick my battles.

His first day at Mail-Express was filled with on-the-job training. He needed to become familar with the POS system, the in’s and out’s of packing and shipping and working with the public. It’s the last one that worries me. He’s been a loner much of his life, if not out and out secretive. I’ve been able to glean bits and pieces from his past, treading carefully as if on a worn tightrope, and the further I delve into his past the darker it becomes.

He’s haunted. Needs therapy. I know he’ll never trust anyone enough to get help. I did notice one day that he likes to doodle. Little drawings centered on whatever is going on in his life. I suggested that he tell his story through his drawings. And there is always the Mail-Express facebook page. He didn’t shoot down the idea. I may be on to something.

A bored Eddie is a bad thing. Maybe not physically, but certainly to any one’s reputation who be-friends him. He doesn’t do it on purpose, it’s not pre-meditated, he just doesn’t consider the consequences of his actions. Add drinking to that and it makes for awkward confrontations with store managers and the elderly. Take for example a simple trip to Target. Eddie came for the ride-a-long, too hot to work outside and him not being one to exploit a hobby (not one he’ll talk about), I felt it would help his mood to get him out of the house. What could happen?

Somewhere between the electronics aisle and kid’s toys, Eddie disappeared. My assumption was he’d gone to the bathroom and I didn’t think much of it, having the purchase of clearance outdoor furniture on my mind, and not until I heard commotion did I realize Eddie had been gone for awhile. Several people ran past me, white faced and mute, heading for the rear exit. I made my way towards the chaos.

More people running, scattering, a display hit the floor scattering summer beach items across the polished terrazzo tile. Another display tilted, as if on its own, then returned upright. Rounding the corner I find Eddie riding one of the store’s motorized handicap carts, heading out the door towards the parking lot—the store manager not far behind. 

In the parking lot, more people scatter, Eddie’s yelling, “Get off my Lawn!” Cops are sure to show up any minute. He’s going to jail for sure this time, I think.

I’m yelling Eddie’s name and the manager shoots me a glare that could fry and egg (I’m guessing he has connected me to Eddie at this point).  I ignore him as I sweep past an oncoming  Nissan Cube, just do catch the front bumper with my leg, that’s gonna bruise, and race to catch Eddie who’s barring down on some poor woman shoving a cart full of groceries to her car. She can’t see him coming, can’t hear either, another good reason not to live with a cell phone in your ear, and now  limp-hopping, I’m praying I get to Eddie before he gets to her.

There’s logistics at play here. How to shut Eddie down before he causes any real damage. I conclude it’s best if he doesn’t see me coming, that’s my strategy.  I catch up, wrap my arm around his neck and sweep him off the seat and onto the pavement. Cart comes to a dead stop.

Woman with groceries never did notice the commotion playing out behind her. And I was right. The cops showed up. They placed Eddie in handcuffs until we worked things out. Eddie got lucky. Manager agreed not to press charges if I would pay for any damages. Eddie was issued a tresspass warning and banned from the store. I bought the clearence outdoor furniture at another Target. Without Eddie. 

“Did you call your mother? It’s Mother’s Day, you know.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Mother’s Day or the phone call?”

“Both. We might be on the outs right now, plus our family’s a little different.”

“Different how?”

“Not a lot of warm fuzziness. If you know what I mean.”

“I don’t have a clue  what you mean most of the time, Eddie.”

“Well, I’m complicated too.”

“You’re weird and secretive, Eddie. Did you and your mom have a falling out?”

Not exactly. We’ve always been close. Me more than my brothers, except for maybe Ronnie. He was even more special than me.”

“Where does he live?”

“In my mother’s head mostly.”

“Then he isn’t real? She made him up?”

“No, he was real, but he was never born. He was my twin, only we weren’t born at the same time. He came five years later. Sort of.”

I’m confused and I can tell Eddie doesn’t grasp it either. But at least he’s talking about his family. Might help explain why he’s ended up on my doorstep. Just when I get tired of his bad behavior, he goes and does something nice.

Eddie’s a big help around here, knows how to build structures and run farm equipment. Real handy. He’s excited about the chicken coop. I catch him playing with the chicks like he’s a little kid again.

“Maybe you could send your mother a card instead. A way to break the ice. Just to get things started.”

“There are things in this world you don’t want to get started again. Some things are best left buried.”

Another Flights of Fantasy down at the Mount Dora Brewery on St. Patrick’s Day and summer is almost apon us. Eddie spent most of the time huddled in a corner with the youngest woman he could find in the building, deep in conversation about whatever. I kept an eye on him, didn’t want a repeat of the last time when cops had to be called. Took months to smooth it over with the owners (not to mention a healthy payoff for damages to parked cars) but they were kind enough to allow him back. Only if he behaved himself. I’m happy to say we were incident free.

Eddie’s a fast learner. The corner conversation with the unnamed woman clued Eddie onto modern computer social sites. I could see the wheels turning in his head as we drove home. He stops talking when thinking things out, so I’ve learned, but he did mention a couple of times how his brother Roy would think how cool the whole social networking thing is. Then that was it. He took his party hat and went to bed.

So I thought. The next morning, I find Eddie at my computer typing away.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Setting up a Facebook page. It’s a lot easier than I thought.”

I say, “Who are you going to connect with on Facebook? You don’t know anyone.”

“I’ll hookup with your friends.”

“Don’t say hookup. It means something entirely different now. It would be connect. And maybe I don’t want you friending my friends. I’d like to keep them. Why don’t you connect with your own people? Like your family? Didn’t you mention a mother once?”

Eddie stopped and considered saying, “Your right. She would love this. She could c-o-n-n-e-c-t to girls, uh, I mean other people too. No more driving around looking for young girls alone.”

“Why does your mother look for young girls, Eddie?”

“Oh, she has a mercy heart. Thinks it’s her Christian duty to help runaways. You know, bring them home, give them a hot meal and a good night’s sleep then send them home. Been doin’ it for years. Ever since I was a kid. She’d take us kids along. She’d get real upset if she didn’t accomplish her mission.”

“You don’t talk about your family much. They know where you are?”

Eddie shrugs, fills in his employment page.

“What’s your mother’s name, Eddie?”

“Bella.”

http://www.facebook.com/people/Eddie-Vega/100002226551354

Everybody has a hobby. If you’re married or just live with a “significant other” you may know those hobbies can become a point of contention. In this household it’s Amateur Radio.

Eddie, being a Jack-Of-All-Trades, became attracted to Amateur Radio the instant he laid eyes on the tower in the backyard. He was mesmerized, in awe of its potential. His word—potential.

He was more than happy to help install new antennas, spend hours wiring, cabling, and erecting what might be described as something from outer space. That might be what influences his ideas. I have only the conversation to go on as proof. It started something like this—

“How long are you going to work on this?” I ask because this little venture is heading into month five. Five months this thing has been laying across my backyard like a shed dinosaur antler. I might have made some off-the-cuff remark about it being able to reach Mars, or even further, past some undiscovered solar system supporting life perhaps not unlike our own.

“Funny you should say that,” Eddie says, “I believe extraterrestrials visit. Watch the stars some night. You’ll see.”

“I’ve watched the stars. Never saw a spaceship.”

Eddie climbs a ladder to reach the mast, “Who said they had to have a spaceship? Maybe it’s not that complicated.”

“Okay.” What else is there to say to that?

“You see the three big frogs tucked in by the roof up there?”

“So. They look like those Cuban frogs. Probably hitched a ride on a landscape truck from Miami. They’re going to eat all my lizards.”

“Ever consider they aren’t really frogs? Ever consider they might be visitors from out there?” Eddie gazes up at a darkening sky.

“Can’t say that I have. How would that work exactly?”

“Well, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. Did you notice they showed up around the same time we started working  on the tower?”

“Not really, but humor me. Pretend I’m with ya.”

“What if—now stay with me, what if they weren’t really frogs? What if they came down here from somewhere in space and got stranded? And they’ve been trying to find a way of contacting their kind ever since?”

“And they’re doing that how?”

“Tower. They’re waiting for it to be finished so they can contact their kind, in whatever real form they live in because I don’t really think they’re frogs, that their true form would be so weird they couldn’t blend in and blending in is real important if you’re trying to recon information to take back to your leaders. But my theory is, they’ve gotten stranded. They’ll use the tower to contact their ship, whatever that is, might not look like a ship folks think a ship would look like, but whatever. I think the day this baby goes up, they’ll contact their unfrog buddies and off they’ll go. Poof. Gone.”

I humored Eddie. The tower was finished and it rose in the air like a ladder to the heavens. The frogs disappeared the next night.

Disappeared again over Christmas. Enlightened us with his presence two days after New Years. Threw up all over his RV Threads shirt.

“Really?”

“Shut up.”

Eddie disappeared through the Thanksgiving holiday. No note, no nothing. Then a couple of days ago I get up and find him changing the oil in my truck as if he’d been here all along. At first I was pissed—but he’s changing the oil in my truck! I hate that job.

I watch him work awhile, hoping he will offer a reason for the disappearance. Wrong. He doesn’t even ask me to hand him a tool. Scary quiet.

I finally ask, “So, where were you?” Shocking, I know, to ask as if it’s any of my business, but I felt I deserved an answer.

“Had to get away,” he says from under the truck.

“Why?”

“I get migraines. Bad ones. I’m not cool to be around when they come on so I stay away from people.”

“They have meds for that,” I tell him.

“Not for this kind. Wound migraines. Got shot in the head once. Bullet’s still in there.”

I’ll admit I was shocked and curiosity got the better of me. “Who shot you?”

“My brother Roy.”

I waited for more of the story. None came, so I continued to prod. “What a horrible accident.”

“No accident. He meant to kill me. I just didn’t die.”

“Did he go to jail?”

“Jail? Hell no. He felt bad about it. Decided he didn’t want me dead after all. Took care of me until the fever passed.”

“You didn’t go to the hospital?”

He leans over into the engine compartment, looks at me for a moment. “They have to report gun shots. And Roy would have gotten into trouble. What good would that have done? It could have been worse. He’d buried me too. But I managed to crawl out and make it to the back door.”

I was at a loss for words. Thanksgiving comes in many forms, I suppose.

“So, what do people do at the beach?”

“Lie on a towel and soak up the sun. Relax. Whatever,” I said.

He looks at me as if I’ve grown a horn from the side of my head.

“Really? What’s the point?”

“The smell of the surf, the soothing sounds of the waves, the call of birds. It’s very relaxing. I think you’d get into it.”

Eddie shakes his head not convinced.

“And girls, lots of girls in skimpy bikinis,” I tell him. I feel like a traitor. At some point I might need to examine that. But it works. His face beams.

“Hot chicks?” he asks.

I don’t have the heart to say, “Not like back in the day.  Americans have beefed up some.”

He didn’t get it. Just as well. And off we go. Beach towel, chair and umbrella in hand. I show him the ropes. Lay out the towel, but not too close to the water. Open the chair and the umbrella.

“What now?” he asks.

“Pull off your shirt and lie in the sun.”

“Not the pants?”

“Not unless you want to get arrested. It’s not a nude beach.”

“They have those?”

“Somewhere. Not here. Focus.”

Eddie keeps his shirt on and sits in the chair at the edge of the water. I can tell it’s working. He likes it. He won’t admit it, but I can tell.

A hot looking lifeguard comes by. They engage in a long conversation about the cruise ship called The World. It’s anchored way out there to watch the air show from Patrick Air Force Base. Eddie learns about the ultra rich folk who live aboard and jaunt from port to port all over the world. He’s amazed. I’m amazed for him.

“I bet they have really good looking chicks on that boat,” he speculates.

“Ship. It’s called a ship. And I wouldn’t know,” I said, “I don’t run in those circles.”

“Too bad,” he says.

While sunning, strangers walk by and comment amongst themselves how Eddie might be an escaped refugee from early 1960′s Cuba. Escaped on a raft to finally beach himself decades later. They take pictures of him and move on.

I notice Eddie getting a little pink. “You need sunscreen,” I tell him.

“That’s for pussies,” he says going back to sleep.

“Yeah, you’ll change your mind about that tomorrow,” I mumble.

It was a great day. Eddie got burnt. But he was okay with it.