- by Allen L Burnet

© 2005

    Eddie enjoyed being the center of attention; he was good at it. But there is a singular point about being the center – there’s only room for one. Eddie hadn’t made many true friends over the years; the few he had made are here today. Mick is here, Ed’s best friend. So is Jennifer, the girl that kept Eddie’s heart. She had never asked for it, but somehow she’d ended up with it, and Ed never seemed to want it back. Jennifer and Mick sit together, quietly holding hands. There are others here. Eddie’s sister, Megan, sits with a small group of family. One man sits alone in the back, an outsider in a gathering that is otherwise connected, Dr. Wylie – Eddie’s doctor. Father Pritchard stands at the pulpit of the small church. They’re all a part of a single tapestry and Eddie is the common thread, separate patches of Eddie’s life all drawn together for this final occasion: Mick, Jen, Megan, Dr. Wylie, Father Pritchard and Eddie. Somewhere between denial and acceptance memories are especially vivid…
 

  Eddie’s Best Friend  

    “But Eddie, listen, the whales don’t even eat the seals. They just bat them around with their tales, flip them into the air. When the seals try to escape, the killer whales swoop under and slap them with their flukes again – send them spinning. The whales keep it up until they kill them, then they swim off and leave the seals floating there.”
    “I watch the Discovery Channel; I’ve seen it. But there’s worse.”
    “Ok, you tell me what’s worse.”
    “How about goldfish?”
    “What?”
    “Like a carnival goldfish, the ones you win by tossing a ping-pong ball into a fish bowl. You spend a few bucks on ping-pong balls – before you finally land one in a bowl. Then, for a few more bucks, they sell you the bowl and some marbles to put in the bottom. By the time you’re done, that twenty-five cent goldfish you won cost you fifteen, twenty dollars.”
    “Nah, what you won was the smile on your daughter's face because Daddy won her a goldfish.”
    “I don’t have a daughter, Mick.”
    “What’s your point, Eddie? You’re out twenty bucks? How is that worse than what the killer whales do to the seals?”
    “I’m getting to that. It’s the goldfish. We just set it on a shelf in that bowl. Feed it once a day. The fish lives maybe five years like that, nothing to do but wait for a feeding.”
    “And that’s worse than being beat to death by killer whales?”
    “Oh, yeah. There’s adrenaline in that, the fight for survival, a glimmer of hope. The goldfish has nothing. I’m sure he’d rather take his chances in the open ocean than endure the days in that fish bowl.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “My life. I’m a goldfish. I endure every day in a safe little bowl.”
    “Man, Eddie, we’ve got to get you laid.”

    That’s the way it was with my best friend Eddie. We met every day for coffee before work. With Eddie you didn’t talk about the weather or last night’s ball game. With Eddie you talked about goldfish. The conversation could be interesting, even enlightening at times, but mostly it wore you out waiting for him to get to the point. But we’d had that discussion for more than twenty years. It started in college, the subject varied – politics, oil, big business – but the conclusion was generally the same: we were fucked. Most people would call Ed a pessimist, but he had his own word for it.

    “What’s that title you give yourself, Eddie?”
    “Title?”
    “Yeah, not a pessimist, but…?”
    “Oh, no, Mick. A pessimist sees the negative in everything. That’s not me. I can find the silver lining in a gunshot wound; time off work, a big insurance settlement, visits from old friends.”
    “Right, you’re not a pessimist, you’re a…?”
    “I’m a futilist. All things tend to end where they start. Say you’re sitting at home on a Saturday night, you think, maybe I’ll go out for dinner and a movie. First, what’s playing? There might be one or two flicks you’d be willing to see. Maybe even one you kind-of-want to see. You pick a restaurant close to the theater – food’s average, but the timing works for the film. So you go, make some idle chitchat with the waitress, get your food almost how you like it, and rush to make the movie on time. Then you see a predictable film with a patented Hollywood ending. Before you know it, you’re back on your couch wishing you had your three hours and twenty-five dollars back.”
    “And you don’t see that as a touch pessimistic?”
    “No. If anything it’s realistic – but mostly it’s futile. Hell, the same story sums up your marriage except you don’t have a couch anymore and the last time you saw twenty-five bucks was in my wallet.”
    “Blow me.”
    “You’re going to tell me, if you could just push a button and make the last three years go away – you wouldn’t do it? The fuck you wouldn’t.”
    “Call it futile if you want Ed – futile is your excuse for never trying.”
    “All I’m saying is your life is pretty much the way it was before your marriage, except you’re out three years and your credit cards are maxed out.”

    Sometimes talking with Eddie could be a real kick in the nuts. But it hadn’t always been like that. In college we’d go out to eat and catch a movie almost every weekend. Life was never futile; it was a blast. Eddie and I started at UNLV the same year, 1982. I met him at orientation – a bunch of freshman acting like we belonged there, but not feeling it. Ed walked up to me and said, ‘One day, you and I are gonna run this place.’ And like that, we were friends. We never ran the place, but we sure started to feel like we belonged. That campus was our kingdom.

    “The Eddie I remember in college lived for dinner and a movie. You were the first one to crack a beer on a Friday night and start planning the weekend.”
    “Yeah, I used to piss down the heater vent in your dorm room too – doesn’t make me a visionary.”
    “And I can’t thank you enough for that little olfactory trigger. Now every time I walk into a particularly foul restroom, I’m back in school. Asshole.”
    “You’re welcome. I remember being that guy, perched on a Friday night – like the whole world was out there waiting for us to swoop down on it. I don’t know when it got so small and predictable.”
    “I don’t think it’s the world that changed Ed. I think it’s us. You. You call yourself a futilist…”
    “Yeah, but I’m not happy about it.”
    “The fuck you’re not. You wear the title like a medal. And you’re willing to share it with anyone who’ll listen.”
    “I’m just trying to work through it. Sometimes you need to say a thing out loud to get your mind around it.”
    “Well, you don’t need to drag my marriage though your bullshit scenarios. At least have the balls to go out there and fail on your own.”
    “Fair enough. When I’m on my soapbox I’ll leave Jen out of it.”

    Jen – Jennifer, my ex-wife. I met her through Eddie. They had had a fling at the beginning of our third year at UNLV. She was a nineteen-year-old freshman and Ed and I were cool college men at twenty-one. Hell, we could buy beer. She lay around Ed’s dorm room in a tee-shirt and panties for two weeks. I found every excuse I could to hang out – the three of us pretending to write papers and read books, but mostly eating Chinese and drinking beer. Something clicked between Jen and me, and a couple of weeks later she was lying around my dorm room – Eddie never said a word about it. Jen and I stayed together until I graduated; then we drifted apart. Fifteen years later we crossed paths at a convention in Chicago and everything still fit together like we were back in that dorm room. One weekend at the Chicago Hyatt, and we were getting married – Jen was moving back to Vegas.

    “I don’t mind talking about Jennifer. Like you said, sometimes you need to say it out loud to get your mind around it.”
    “Sorry, Mick, I was just pointing out that beginnings and endings to have a lot in common. I didn’t mean to use your marriage as an example.”
    “Sure you did. Jen’s back in Chicago, I’m back in an apartment, and you and I are still sitting in this coffee shop having the same old conversation about goldfish. Every thing’s the same as it was before.”
    “So, would you push that button – make those three years disappear?”
    “Why the scorched-earth policy, Eddie? Jen’s only been gone for two months and we’re going to burn her memory? Hell no, I wouldn’t push that button – and neither would you – you looked as bad as I did when she left.”
    “I’m not down on Jennifer, Mick – I’m down on marriage – marriages end, friendships don’t.”
    “We can’t both dance around the edges, Ed. Jen wanted more than a couple of drinking buddies and a place to crash for the weekend.”
    “You’re right. When you moved back from California – we’d been out of college for what, about three years?”
    “Yeah, almost three.”
    “Jen had already graduated and gone, but we both kept imagining we’d see her around town. We’d talk about her and wish she were still here.”
    “I remember. We had to reinvent our routine. It wasn’t the same without Jen.”
    “Well, shit, Mick, she’s gone again.”
    “I know, Eddie. But sometimes a thing gets so broke you can’t fix it – better to let her go while I can still sit around and talk nice about her.”
    “It’s odd how your perspective can get so rooted in one position. Everything is so clear. Then something comes along and shifts your world just a little bit, and the whole thing looks different; no matter how hard you try, you can’t see things the way you used to.”

    In college, Eddie had been a big part of Jen and my relationship and on our wedding day he was at my side. Jennifer looked amazing as she walked up that aisle. Ed and I shared a kind of nostalgia and pride just watching her and I knew that part of the ceremony was for Eddie too. Over the next three years, even as the three of us built on the friendship we’d started in college, Jen and my marriage was dissolving. In the end, Jen left for Chicago – and with a snotty nose and blurry eyes, I saw that Eddie had found a safer place from which to love Jennifer.”
 

  Eddie’s College Fling  

    “Eddie, how come you never asked me why I left you in college?”
    “Well, Jen, I can’t say I didn’t think about it. That first night you spent over in Mick’s dorm room really fucked with my head.”
    “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
    “I actually paced outside Mick’s door with a baseball bat, listening to you two laugh. Then it would get quiet for long periods, and that was worse.”
    “We never knew. I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to say that for fifteen years. I’m sorry, Eddie.”
    “Thanks. The longer I stood out there, the less mad I was. Then I asked myself, what am I mad at – it was all ego. It was all about you picking Mick over me.”
    “What else was there to be mad at?”
    “I should have been upset about losing you. Heartbroken. But I wasn’t, it was just a big ego-fuck. So, I thought, let them be. Mick is my best friend, and Jen’s this hot piece-of-ass I’ve only known for two weeks – I mean, I know you now, but…”
    “Don’t apologize, it’s been a long time since I’ve been referred to as a hot piece-of-ass. I can live with it.”
    “I don’t know, I felt like the only way to redeem my ego was to pretend like I hadn’t noticed. So I pretended. After a while the three of us fell into a groove. Things seemed to fit better – you being with Mick. Sheri what’s-her-name helped a little too.”
    “Sheri Delphinine! Oh that bitch pissed me off. She knew I’d been going out with you – but what could I say?”
    “So, why did you?”
    “Why did I what?”
    “Why did you pick Mick over me?”
    “You won’t like the answer, Ed.”
    “Damn.”
    “No, it’s not bad. There is no answer. I never really picked. I was just nineteen and having fun. I didn’t know how everything would turn out. I was really scared the next morning, but you acted like nothing had happened. It stung a little.
    “Good. You deserved it, Jen.”
    “Yeah, I did. I thought, damn, I just lost a hot piece-of-ass.”

    Eddie, Mick, and I. For those two years at UNLV we went everywhere together – all the clubs, the late-night diners – I spent more time in Mick’s car, sitting between those two, than I did in class. I have never felt as special as when I was with Eddie and Mick. There’s something about intimacy that builds a certain trust in young couples – and I had been with them both. It was like we had a bulletproof-secret that no one before us had ever known. And it was all because Eddie hadn’t let his ego consume our friendship. Ed and I had lots of time to talk after Mick and I got married. He’d come by every morning to pick up Mick for work. We’d sit and chat while Mick finished getting ready. I think Ed came early on purpose – just so the two of us could talk.

    “Do you ever wonder what would have been, if we’d stayed together Ed – if I’d never started seeing Mick?”
    “Sure, I used to think about it a lot in college, when the three of us would be at dinner or a movie.”
    “You never seemed uncomfortable.”
    “I wasn’t. But I remember that first two weeks, when it was you and I, and not you and Mick. Mick felt like a third-wheel. It was awkward with him around.”
    “Yeah, like only having enough ice cream for two.”
    “That couldn’t have gone on long, Mick would’ve stop hanging around us.”
    “So, when Mick and I got together, why weren’t you a third-wheel?
    “I’ve thought about that. I think it was a combination of things. You two felt guilty, so you made room for me. I wanted to act cool about it all, so I hung in there. And, you. I still liked being around you.”
    “Listen to you.”
    “Really, Jen. You’re the closest thing to a girlfriend I’ve ever had.”
    “That’s sweet… and sad.”
    “Don’t call it sad. Those are my memories, I’ll make of them what I want.”
    “But that was fifteen years ago and we were only together for two weeks.”
    “No, it was two weeks for you – it was two years for me.
    “Then, what am I to you now?”
    “Mick’s wife. It’s the only way the three of us work. Time hasn’t changed that.”
    “It was so long ago, I don’t remember actually meeting you guys.”
    “You were in the South Quad, on one of those old stone benches, reading a book. You were wearing an orange shirt. That’s my Jennifer. Those are my two weeks.”

    I’d never thought about it, but Eddie was right. It was never Ed tagging along with Mick and me. It was us wanting to be with him. He had a way of standing off to the side while remaining at the center. But as the party faded, he would be the one alone. We never heard about Ed’s problems: bad grades, no money, his parents getting on him. Mick and I were always having one drama or another. When Mick didn’t keep his grades up, his dad would threaten to pull him out of school, or the week my sister stayed in my dorm room hiding from our parents. It wasn’t that Eddie didn’t have his share of troubles; he just never brought them up.

    “How come you didn’t come to my graduation, Ed? You only lived twenty minutes from the campus. Mick drove in from California.”
    “Yeah, I felt bad about that, Jen. I promised myself I’d go.”
    “It had been two years since I’d seen you two. I was so excited when I saw Mick in the audience; I was sure you’d be there too.”
    “I’m sorry. Mick stayed at my place that weekend. He said you looked great.”
    “I did. Mick made up some lame excuse for you, but it was BS. It’s been almost fifteen years and I’m still a little pissed at you over that.”
    “I really intended to go; Mick and I had planned your graduation for weeks. We were going to take you to all our old haunts, try to relive the Jen-days.”
    “Why didn’t you? Mick and I ended up standing around making polite conversation for thirty minutes; then he shook my hand and left – back to your place I’d guess. Why couldn’t I have been there with you two?”
    “Come on, Jen, seeing you again wasn’t easy. Mick was putting his degree to work in California. You were graduating – something I’d never managed to get done, you might recall.”
    “So what.”
    “It’s easy to say, so what now. Easy to say, I should have been there. But back then, I couldn’t have looked you in the eye. I was still living in the same apartment I’d moved in to senior year.”
    “That wouldn’t have mattered to me, Eddie, I loved that apartment.”
    “Let’s just say things went downhill a lot over those two years.”
    “It is ironic though, that your ego undid our friendship after all.”
    “That’s not really fair, Jen.”
    “You’re right. What I should say is: If you’d shown up for my graduation, it would have meant the world to me – if you ever get the chance to mean the world to someone again, don’t screw it up.”

    It really would have meant a lot to me if Eddie had been at my graduation. The fact that he was only a few minutes away and didn’t bother to come, hurt. It’s unfair how something happening in the present can alter the way you feel about the past, with one single inaction, Eddie had belittled my memories. All those cherished times with him and Mick were somehow tainted. During my marriage, after I had got to know Ed again, I realized he really had wanted to be there that day – but Eddie loved only from a safe distance.

    “How come you never talk about your family, Eddie?”
    “I do, I tell you stories about my sister all the time.”
    “But, what about the rest of them? I never really hear you say anything.”
    “I don’t know, I mean family are like old friends that you grew up with. You have a shared history – but it’s not like you got to pick them.”
    “So if you got to pick your family, you’d have chosen differently?”
    “You don’t get to pick, Jen. There’s no point in considering it.”
    “But I’m asking.”
    “That’s a funny little ball of string. You start tugging at it; you don’t know what’s going to come unraveled. The question’s too big.”
    “Is that a yes or a no?”
    “Ok, I guess I have picked. I picked you and Mick. If I won the lottery, or was diagnosed with cancer, you and Mick would be the first people I called. How about you – who would you call with that news?”
    “As you said it, I thought I’d call you guys too. But then you said, cancer, and I knew I’d call my sister – my family in Chicago.”
    “It’s not that I don’t like my family, Jen. I just don’t know them. I mean be honest, you don’t have any real memories until you’re around eight, and by the time you’re seventeen, all you can think about is getting out of there. That’s nine years – I’ve spent more time with my dog.”
    “And now your dog is gone and buried, and you haven’t called your mom or dad in ten years.”
    “You asked me why I never talk about my family. This is why.”
    “I’m sorry, Ed. It just seems like you’re always on the outside looking in.”
    “Yeah, well, you ought to feel that from out here.”

    I’m not going to say I felt sorry for Eddie, I didn’t. But he always managed to stay out of reach. Even when it was only the three of us – Eddie, Mick, and I – if a topic came up that exposed vulnerability, the conversation would be pointed at Mick or me. Eddie truly seemed to care about us; he just wouldn’t let us care about him. If we were worried about something he was going through, he would dismiss our concern, dismiss us.
 

  Eddie’s Sister  

    "Who died?"
    "Cute. My sister the comedian. Are you saying I don’t call much?"
    "Well, let’s see Eddie – I guess the last time was my birthday, a year ago."
    "See, like clockwork, happy birthday Megan."
    "So you only call to remind me I’m getting old."
    "Thirty-nine isn’t old – now forty, that’s old."
    "I am forty you ass."
    "I know. Remember when you were in the third grade and I was I the fifth – we had just moved and we didn’t know anyone yet, so we stuck together through recess?"
    "Sort of, there was a big sandy area with swings and stuff."
    "Right. One day we sat out there and figured out what year it would be when we turned forty."
    "I remember that, Ed – yeah, we’d be older than Mom. It would be a new millennium. We might-as-well have been talking about flying cars and robot servants."
    "Well, here we are Meg."
    "Great. Did you get me a robot for my birthday?"
    "Yep, it’s on its way to your house in my flying car – I really miss that."
    "Miss what?"
    "That wonder, the excitement that everything in front of you is new, and the certainty that it will stay that way."
    “Have a few kids Ed, trust me, things will stay exciting.”
    “An endless list of tasks is a sorry trade-off for all the potential your future held.”
    “This is my future, Ed. There’s a sense of reward in my tasks. My family depends on me – whether I’m at work, making lunches, or starting a pillow-fight – they need it all.”
    “And that’s enough? Don’t you ever look forward and dread the predictability?”
    “Sure I do – then Taylor loses a Crayon up his nose. You want excitement and unpredictability, fish a Crayon out of your son’s nose.”
    “I was thinking more like playing Carnegie Hall – besides, Taylor is thirteen, why is he putting Crayons up his nose?”
    “Yeah, thirteen – you don’t want to know where he’s trying to put the Crayons these days.”
    “You’re right. Okay, so you don’t play Carnegie Hall, maybe you could dive the Andrea Doria?”
    “Dive the Andrea? You’re not talking about me, Ed; you’re talking about yourself. You want the whole world to standup and applaud you. I’m happy just tucking my family in for the night.”

    Even when we were kids, Eddie was always falling short of his dreams. He’d head out to the garage with an idea to build a robot. He’d take an old toaster, some wooden crates, and a box of spare bike parts; he’d nail, solder, and tape his creation together, then he’d show it to our parents and all of the neighbors. They would be genuinely impressed. But I always knew Ed wasn’t happy; he really believed the robot would work – that those old parts would take life and prove to everyone that Eddie was a boy-genius. I’m sure, if he had succeeded, Eddie would have given that robot to me for my birthday.

    “When you were a little girl, I remember you saying, when I get married and when I have kids, you never said, if.”
    “I think that’s just something little girls do, Ed.”
    “It’s not just girls, Meg. Guys do it too, maybe not out-loud, but I always assumed I’d be married and have kids one day.”
    “I think you missed the starting-gun.”
    “Yeah, I didn’t know it was a race. It always seemed like a family was out there waiting – whenever I wanted to start it.”
    “You never know, Ed, there’s still time.”
    “That’s the thing, Meg, you never know – unless you do it. The choice just sits in your future as a maybe. If it were a straight-up question I would have answered it. But time never asked; it just kept slipping forward day-by-day and quietly shut the door.”
    “You never wanted kids anyway, Ed.”
    “Maybe not, but I loved having the choice. That’s it, right there! The first half of your life is spent making choices, and the second half is spent living with those decisions.”
    “You always hung on to your test until the last second, Ed.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “In school, during a test, I’d answer all the questions with confidence, then set my paper on the teacher’s desk with time-to-spare. You, you’d hang on to that paper – erasing and making changes – until the teacher had to pry it from your hands.”
    “Okay, that’s true. But I was in the middle of a life-defining epiphany.”
    “I heard you, Ed. You want to be known as the man who summed-up mid-life anxiety into a single axiom. Well, its time to turn in your paper and trust your answers – don’t worry so much, Ed, you always got good grades.”
    “I did alright.”
“You did. Now, you’ve made some choices you’ll have to live with, that scars you – hell, Ed, I make choices for my kids everyday – decisions they’re going to judge me on for the next forty years. So you’re not going to have kids – get over it – at least you’re not going to screw the little bastards up.”

    Most of my memories of Eddie are from our childhood. Whenever we spoke, after a few moments, we were kids again – kids with grownup problems. I could always see through Ed, because I knew what made him what he was. I grew up with Eddie; I’d watched him build the walls, so I knew the way back in. He was saying he was afraid of his choices – what he meant was, he was afraid of how people would judge those choices. In my own harsh way, I gave Eddie what he needed most – approval.

    “This is Ed.”
    “That’s it? That’s how you answer your phone?”
    “Hey Megan. This is Ed.”
    “I gathered that – I’ll get to the point. Are you coming up for Christmas?”
    “I don’t know – Jen and Mick are splitting up, Mick was kind-of expecting me at his new place.”
    “You sound real excited about it.”
    “It’s only Christmas.”
    “Right! It’s Christmas – you make it sound like something you have to get through.”
    “It’s feels that way, Meg. You know when you’re at work with only twenty-or-so-minutes to go?”
    “That can be a long twenty-minutes.”
    “Even worse after you’ve looked at the clock five more times and you still have fifteen-minutes left.”
    “I’ve been there. I start looking for anything to take my mind off the clock.”
    “Right. Well, some days, even when I’m not at work, that’s how I feel. I have no idea how I’m going to get through the next twenty-minutes – the next hour – the weekend. Time is stretched out in front of me like a death-sentence.”
    “That’s bad, Eddie.”
    “Oh, believe me, Meg, I know. And when I start thinking of that time in terms of years and decades – I worry my mind won’t endure it.”
    “You’d better talk to someone about that, Ed. Do you ever bring it up with Mick?”
    “Sure I do. He say’s, ‘Come on over; I’m making spaghetti – there’s plenty. We can play some gin-rummy.’ – but I never go over.”
    “You should, Ed – that’s a buoy, it gives your life direction. It works even better if you plan it ahead-of-time; it gives you something to look forward to.”
    “No, Megan. Life has to be more than spaghetti and cards.”
    “It is. It’s birthdays and holidays, weddings and funerals, school plays and vacations – they’re all buoys, Ed; one event pulling us forward to the next – and sometimes, while we’re navigating that course, we all have spaghetti and play cards. One day you look up at the clock, and a decade has gone by.”
    “You’ve been working on that speech.”
    “Naw, it’s the Prozac talking.”
    “I thought so.”
    “No, really, Ed, that’s what life is. The seasons change and we invest ourselves in the ceremony of it – the festival and ritual – when you look back over your life, those are the events that mark time.”
    “So, you’re saying I should pour some eggnog and hang a stocking?”
    “Please do, Eddie.”

    Ed didn’t come up that Christmas; he didn’t go to Mick’s either. I didn’t expect to hear from him until my birthday. But the following spring, I got a call; Eddie was in the hospital and it was going to be a rough stay. He asked if I might come down to visit, and there was something in his voice that told me – Ed had really regretted missing that Christmas.

    “Flying into Vegas is like landing in an ashtray – it’s hot and dirty. I swear I looked good when I got on the plane.”
    “You look great, Megan, a little scared, but great.”
    “I am scared. Why do hospitals make me so nervous?”
    “It’s a lot more nerve-wracking from where I’m lying. Every nurse that walks in here is carrying a bigger needle than the last.”
    “You’re still afraid of needles, Ed?”
    “Forty-two and terrified. Remember that time Mom took us in for flu shots and the doctor broke the needle off in my butt?”
    “Very clearly. That doctor reached for a pair of tweezers – to pull the needle out – you ran like hell. You’d have gotten away too, if you hadn’t had your pants around your ankles.”
    “Mom held me down while the doctor used a scalpel to cut the needle out.”
    “She did – are Mom or Dad here yet?”
    “I haven’t called them.”
    “Ed, you have tubes hanging out of your nose and arms – you need to call your parents.”
    “I thought you might have.”
    “I did, but that’s not the point. I bet you took the time to call Mick.”
    “Yeah, but I called you first, Megan.”
    “It’s not a popularity contest.”
    “I picked Mick as my best friend, Meg. I never picked you as a sister. But, I called you before I called Mick – See, that means, if I had picked my sister, I’d have picked you.”
    “Whatever, Ed – you don’t get to pick, there’s no point in considering it.”

    I stayed there and visited with Eddie for five days, then I had to fly back home for work. We talked about growing up. We talked about Mick and Jennifer. We talked about my family and our mom and dad. But Eddie spoke as if all that was trivial, as if he hadn’t done the big things – the things everyone had expected of him. As I left, I thought of that needle – so many years ago – and how it still haunted Eddie. I wondered what other childhood-needles dug at him; what caused Ed to believe he needed to do something brilliant to earn our love.
 

  Eddie’s Doctor  

    “Perspective’s a hell of a thing, Doc.”
    “How’s that, Ed.”
    “I remember one day in college, early on a Saturday afternoon, Mick and I were sitting in his dorm room. We couldn’t think of anything to do. Mick halfheartedly suggested heading out to the movies. But we both shook that idea off, saying it sounded lame.”
    “Mick’s the fella that visited you yesterday?”
    “Yeah, he’s a buddy of mine from college. So then Mick starts looking around his room; it was trashed, so was mine. He says we should clean our rooms, plus it was our week to clean the third floor head.”
    “Really, we had people for that at school.”
    “Yeah, well, I guess I should have gone to med-school. First Saturday of each month was Mick’s and my turn to clean the restroom. I started setting my attitude for the work in front of us, then Mick brings up going to the movies again.”
    “It sounded better the second time?”
    “Damn straight. Suddenly seeing An Officer and a Gentleman for the third time sounded just about right. Only a minute or two earlier it had sounded lame. The only thing that changed was our perspective.”
    “I can see that. How are you feeling this-morning?”
    “Like I drank a fifth of vodka and stayed up all night fucking.”
    “Yeah, it’s the medication. I’d like to tell you it was going to get better, but it’s not.”
    “That’s what I’m saying, Doc. It’s all about perspective. Just last Christmas I was telling my sister how I had lost interest in everything. I was done. Now, just going out for chicken wings and a beer with Mick would be like winning the Super Bowl.”

    I didn’t know Ed for very long. Normally I wouldn’t have gotten to know a patient so well – professional detachment. But something about Eddie got stuck in my head. Maybe it was that we were about the same age; we had lived through the same world at the same time, but Ed had seen it from another side. He seemed to question the obvious, to look behind things I took at face value.

    “Who’s your favorite ball-player, Doc?”
    “What sport, Ed? I’ve got a lot of them.”
    “Are you sure? Think about it. Do you really follow any players anymore? Aren’t they all retired?”
    “I guess. My Dad was a big Celtics fan, so naturally I rooted for the Lakers. In college I kept up with Kareem and Magic.”
    “And when they retired, you never picked new players to follow?”
    “No. I guess not.”
    “Neither did I. Sports are a young mans preoccupation. A place to channel their aggressions.”
    “We’re not young men anymore?”
    “Hell, Doc, if we were Vikings, at our age we’d be the village elders. Our day of loot and pillage would be old legend.”
    “I’m a doctor, Ed; I don’t want to be an elder Viking. If I were, I’d likely be missing a limb or two – maybe an eye.”
    “That would be your right-of-passage – to show the younger warriors you’d been there – done it.”
    “I think I’d rather watch a ballgame, Ed.”
    “Me too. But there was a time we would have been beating the war-drums – sacking the neighboring village, taking their women and stealing their winter stores.”
    “Where do you come up with this crap, Ed?”
    “It’s true. When the Detroit Pistons lost in ’88, packs of angry fans started breaking storefront windows and lighting fires, they even flipped over some cars. The passion to sack the city is still alive in us.”
    “But it’s not in me and you, right – because we’re too old?”
    “Right. One season we’re flipping cars and breaking windows, the next, we’re the village elders.”
    “It’s testosterone, Ed; our bodies aren’t producing much of it at our age.”
    “What a cruel trick of evolution – let us plan half of our life around the things we’re passionate about, then pull the plug on our passion. All we’re left with is a poorly planned life.”

    I liked talking with Ed. I found myself finding reasons to drop in on him and staying longer than I should. He had a theory on just about everything. If you indulged him, soon enough he’d be connecting Jimmy Hoffa to breast implants. If you listened too long, you’d start to believe him. To Eddie, the world was made up of a bunch of little magic tricks, and he felt it was his job to spoil the illusion for the rest of us.

    “How do you feel this-morning, Ed?”
    “Like someone pull the plugs on all this equipment last night, but they forgot to tell me to give-up.”
    “Okay…”
    “It’s good, Doc. It means I’m ready to keep fighting.”
    “Oh, I knew that. You’re no quitter.”
    “You know… I guess I’m not. But, between you and me, there was a time I thought of ending it.”
    “Since you’ve been sick?”
    “No. Isn’t that a kick? It was when I was holding a hand I wish I’d been dealt now – shit was aces – only I couldn’t see it.”
    “Those thoughts cross most of us at some point, Ed.”
    “I was pretty deep.”
    “But you came through it alright.”
    “Yeah. When I was really feeling down – ready to cash out – I heard a news story…”
    “One sec’, Ed – take a deep breath and hold it – let it out slow… okay.”
    “…a news story about an eight-year-old boy – what is that, second or third-grade?”
    “Third, I’d guess.”
    “His parents were really putting it to him about getting good grades – said, they’d be very disappointed in him if he brought home a bad report card.”
    “And, of course, he did.”
    “No. He never brought it home. He committed suicide – an eight-year-old kid killed himself over a third-grade report card.”
    “Jesus.”
    “Yeah. After that, I figured I’d better rethink the death-card.”
    “And now, here you are, Ed, in a hospital.”
    “Yep. I don’t know if it’s the irony or the medication, but it is funny – right now I’m ready to fight like hell to stay alive.”

    It was a fight Ed would lose. But I think he lived more in those few months than he had in the last few years. There was something intoxicating about being around Eddie – something that made me want to ring-out every last bit of life from everything I did. I felt sure if I’d met Ed outside of the hospital; we would have become friends.

    “You like watching those nature programs, Doc?”
    “Sure, I grew up on Jacques Cousteau and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.”
    “I saw this program once; a pride of lions was chasing down a wildebeest. They had him cut from the herd and they were taking turns wearing him out.”
    “That’s rough stuff to watch.”
    “Yeah, and this guy was a fighter. The lions would dig their claws and teeth into his hindquarters and drag along behind him – making him carry their weight.”
    “I’ve watched that kind of thing. They usually cut away about then.”
    “Usually, but this time they kept the film running. After a while, the wildebeest just stood there with these lions hanging off his ass, by then, the rest of the pride had all caught up.”
    “Then it was done.”
    “Not yet. He started kicking and spinning, finally he stumbled and fell. The lions were all worn out too, so they’re just lying around – licking at the blood on his haunches.”
    “And the wildebeest is dead?”
    “No. He’s lying there, looking back over his shoulder while these lions start pealing away the hide on his flanks. All he can do is watch while they bloody their jaws.”
    “Where are you going with this, Ed?”
    “That’s how most animals die. Wild animals don’t die from disease or old age; those things only weaken them so a predator can chase them down. Their last moments are spent running in terror.”
    “Are you afraid?”
    “Hell, yes, I feel like that damn wildebeest. I’m lying here as this disease eats away at me and all I can do is watch – except it’s not going to end in a few terrifying moments, it’s going to drag on for months.”
    “At least you have those months, Eddie.”
    “Isn’t that great? I’m dying in slow-motion and I feel like I don’t have enough time. I can’t keep my mind still; I lay here questioning my past and imagining a future.”
    “I’ll get you a notebook, Ed, write it down.”

    I did get Ed a notebook, and he filled every page; so I brought him more. Once it became clear that Ed’s condition was terminal, he was moved out of my care – but I still made time to see him and bring him new notebooks. Ed wrote about goldfish and wildebeest and Vikings, and how it related to what he was working though that day. As I paged through it, too often, I would see my own reflection in his words; I was reminded that I had half my life in front of me. I wanted to be sure I was living out-loud what Ed could only put on paper.
 

  Eddie’s Priest  

    “Hello, Ed, I’m Father Pritchard. Doctor Wylie thought you might want to talk.”
    “He did? Well, I guess I might. I’ll let you know up front I’ve never really been to church.”
    “That’s okay, we’ll have more to talk about.”
    “And, I don’t really believe in God.”
    “Alright, then we’ll have a lot to talk about.”
    “And even on this deathbed, I’m not likely to change my mind.”
    “That worries me some. How did you come to these decisions?”
    “It’s not so much a decision, it’s something I’ve always known. I mean, did you decide there was a God, or have you always known.”
    “I was raised Catholic. But I’ve developed a personal relationship with God through many years of study in his word.”
    “So it’s not likely that you’ll recant God in your final hour – My God, why has thou forsaken me?”
    “I pray my faith will see me through, Ed.”
    “I’m sure it will. I’ve spent many years developing my beliefs too – I don’t expect to recant those beliefs on my deathbed.”
    “I understand that, Ed. Faith comes hard to some people.”
    “Jennifer – a friend of mine – she used to say that. She was always asking me to go to church with her. I never went – but she did talk me into joining her pottery class.”
    “Did you learn anything?”
    “Yeah, I was doing good – making bowls and plates; then the instructor got pushy. He tried to sell me a potters-wheel and clay for home.”
    “Maybe he liked your work and saw potential in you.”
    “Potential to make pots or buy clay?”
    “You need clay to make pots, Ed. It might be nice to have a potters-wheel out on your patio – during the evening you could throw a vase and have a glass of wine.”
    “Sure – next, they can sell me a kiln – soon enough, I’m a deacon at the local potters guild recruiting other potential pottery-junkies.”
    “No, Ed. You’re just a guy sculpting a pot because you enjoy it – but you have to invest in the means to meet that end. We’re not talking about a ticket into Heaven; we’re talking about investing in our lives while we’re here.”
    “Right now, Father, I think I’m more in need of a ticket into Heaven.”

    I wanted to tell Eddie, the ticket had always been his; he had been born with it – all he had to do was claim it, but he wasn’t ready to hear that. I came by to see Ed a few more times and he remained true to his words – even on his deathbed, he wasn’t likely to change his mind – but as each visit ended, he would ask me to come back. Eddie was rooting for me; he wanted me to change his mind, but he was running out of time.

    “Am I your only visitor today, Ed?”
    “Ouch. Now, that seems like a pleasant little question, Father, but it’s actually kind of mean – isn’t it?”
    “I was just trying to respect your time, Eddie.”
    “You’re my fifth visitor in the last two days. My sister just left yesterday, Dr. Wylie brought me some new notebooks last night, Mick and Jen were here all morning, and now you’re here – there’s always room for God… and Jell-O.”
    “God has a sense of humor too, Ed.”
    “This must not be one of his wittier moments.”
    “Sure it is. His wit comes through you. You’re using it to endure this.”
    “I see. So, when I’m witty, God takes the credit; does he take the credit when I’m an asshole?”
    “No, Eddie, that’s just you… I’m kidding. It’s understandable to be bitter, given your situation – to question God’s plan for you.”
    “God’s plan? Listen to this: There was a little girl, just ten years old. She was on an Easter egg hunt at her family church – God’s house. As she searched for eggs, someone watched from the woods. When she wondered too far, she was grabbed and dragged out of sight. She was raped and sodomized; the coroner said the act was so brutal that she would have likely died from internal bleeding. But that wasn’t enough – both her feet were cut off, still in her Sunday shoes; she bled to death there in the woods only a few yards from her family. Tell me Father; was that God’s plan for her?”
    “I can’t explain the horrible things men do to one another, Eddie. But I know there’s a lesson in it.”
    “You’re right. And today’s lesson is: There is no God.”

    On the surface, Eddie’s words seemed adversarial. But there was something in his tone and expression, a look in Eddie’s eyes that begged me to prove him wrong – a man on his deathbed convinced he was fading into eternal darkness, hoping I could show him a glimmer of light. Faith comes quickly to a dying man, but Eddie wasn’t looking for his own faith; he wanted to see mine – as if in understanding how I came to my faith, he might open a door for himself.

    “I like what you said the other day, Father – that we must invest ourselves in our lives while we’re here.”
    “It seems obvious enough, Ed.”
    “Yeah. But it reminded me of something my sister said once, she told me to invest myself in the ceremony of my life – or something like that. Then I heard you – a priest – say it. It got me thinking. Religion is more than just the delusion of an afterlife; it’s a collection of wisdom on living a meaningful life.”
    “Eddie, I’ve seen some amazing things happen in the name of the Lord. I’ve seen dysfunctional families come together in healing. I’ve seen people with no place to turn get a second chance. I’ve seen a mother’s grief so deep, she couldn’t have gone on if not for her faith – her faith that God was watching over her lost child.”
    “That’s what I mean; religion is hope – hope offered up through compassion. People have a fundamental need for something noble to believe in – whether or not there’s a God.”
    “There is a God, Ed, and compassion is only the tip of his message. His work here on Earth is only the beginning.”
    “I’d like to believe that – for my family and friends. I’ve been wondering, Father, would you be willing to perform my service? Even if you don’t save my soul.”
    “Of course. But don’t mock me for trying to save you, Eddie.”
    “Sorry, Father. I’ve spent most of my life mocking religion – not so much in deed, but in word. I’ve shared my views on the question-of-faith with anyone who would listen, but it took dying to see I was wrong. I’m finding all the fundamental truths I’ve searched for were uncovered a long time ago – people whose lives were shaped by the same lessons we endure today – they wrote it all down, but I ignored it.”
    “I feel like we’re taking a step, but I’m concerned with the direction. The doctrine of Jesus Christ is more than just a benevolent ideology.”
    “It’s more to you, Father, but not to me. Meet me halfway today – at least we can share a benevolent ideology.”
    “Is that going to be enough for you, Ed?”
    “For today, it’s enough. I’m pretty beat. But drop by any time – remember, Father, you’re like Jell-O – there’s always room for you.”

    That was my last visit with Eddie. I came by two more times, but he was too tired to talk. The next time I saw Ed’s room, the bed was made up fresh and the light was out. I sat next to the bed anyway, thinking over our conversations. I couldn’t help feeling that I’d let Eddie down – he had genuinely wanted me to show him that he was wrong, but I couldn’t find the words he needed to hear. Still, he had requested I perform a religious service. Eddie wanted his family and friends to hear a message he had never embraced.
 

  Eddie’s Memories  

    Father Pritchard stands at the pulpit of the small church. He matches up the faces in the crowd with Eddie’s stories – Mick and Jennifer together, Megan with her family, Dr. Wylie in a rear pew – and twenty or so other people he can’t place. Ed had asked for a traditional funeral, and that will be delivered. The crowd settles and Father Pritchard starts the service – opening one of Eddie’s notebooks, he begins to read.

    “I remember being at my sister’s house last year for Christmas. I brought presents for the kids and a wreath for her door. We stayed up late talking on Christmas Eve, and the next day I helped Taylor put together his new computer desk. As I left for home, Megan joked about not hearing from me again until her next birthday – then we shared a long hug, and I told my sister how much I loved her.”

    “I recall many evening over at Mick’s house for spaghetti and cards – his sauce always tasted like watered-down ketchup, but the conversation was great. I told him how I wished I could have been more like him – completed my degree and had his courage to reach out to Jennifer. We always ended the evening remarking on what an amazing friendship we had, and how lucky we were to have crossed paths in college.”

    “I remember twenty-two years ago, lying in my dorm room next to Jennifer. At night, after we had drifted off, sometimes I would wake and watch her sleep – I’d listen to her soft breath and feel the line of her body as it met mine. It is the closest to contentment I’ve ever known. In one of those moments I whispered something magical to Jennifer – and in her sleepy smile, there was a promise of our future.”

    “These memories haunt me most – these things I never did.”