Eddie seems depressed. Since I don’t know him very well, I don’t have a past relationship to judge one way or the other. Maybe he’s like this all the time. He sits in his room drinking beer in the dark, staring down the hallway and only gets up to pee or get more beer.
I ask him, “Where did you get the beer? You don’t have a car.”
“Walked to the store,” he says.
I notice it’s not my brand. Rogue Dead Guy Ale. “Can this be anymore cliche’?” I ask.
“It is what it is,” he says.
“”The convenience store down the street doesn’t carry this brand.”
“I found that out,” he says, “but that Publix does.”
“You walked all the way down and back? That’s got to be four miles round trip. When did you go?”
He shrugs and I don’t think I’m going to get an answer, but then he tells me, “When you were in Clermont. I had time.”
“You need to do something besides sit in here all day drinking beer. It’s not healthy. For you or me,” I suggest.
“Look,” I tell him, “I’m having people over this weekend for a writers marathon. They’ll be here all day.” I notice a spark of interest.
“People? Any of them women?” he asks.
“All of them. Why?”
“Any single women?”
“Maybe one or two. I don’t know for sure how many. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. Get me another beer?”
“Only if you clean yourself up. You’re getting gamey,” I tell him.
“Right. Got any jewerly cleaner for my gold harringbone chain? And can you take me to the drugstore? I’m out of cologne.”
Great. I think he’s coming out of his depression. I may regret getting involved.