The Return of Edgar Allan Poe

There I was, on a Friday afternoon, contemplating a Labor Day weekend with temperatures around the 100 mark, and me without air conditioning, when there was a knock at my door. As usual the cats scatted for the bedroom. I wasn't expecting any deliveries and, as a practicing curmudgeon, I don't get visitors.

I should have realized by the sound that the knock was actually a rapping at my chamber door because there, on the stoop, stood the reincarnated soul of Edgar Allan Poe, his plastic raven on the shoulder of his tiny manufactured body. Next to him stood a new dog, and damned if it wasn't a little flat-faced pug. I didn't know what had happened to that midnight black terrier of his and Edgar wasn't talking (pictures later, I don't have my USB cable). Edgar and his dogs remind me of the homeless hit man and his pack of mutts, in the film Amores Perros, before he pulls that gut-shot fighting dog from that horrendous car wreck, nurses it back to health, and later finds the animal has torn his little charges limb from limb.

You all know Eddie. We hadn't seen him since our little jaunt into San Francisco, over a year ago. He had disappeared into Chinatown and I, for one, had thought him forever lost in a drifting opium dream or forced into slave labor making pork fried rice in some godforsaken asian hell.

No, as usual Eddie had landed on his stiff little feet. Apparently, after he had wandered away from me, because the body into which he had been reborn was so short, he had started writing tourist's names in Chinese calligraphy. In chalk. On the sidewalk. For money.

I guess he had quite a go of it. When his craft wasn't being washed away by street cleaners or the brooms of proprietors of little shops selling fake jade lions and clothing imprinted with "My parents left their heart in San Francisco and all I got was this lousy t-shirt", he had to run for his second life from the front stoops of various Tongs or social aid societies. And now here he was, on my doorstep again.

"How'd you like to go to Reno for the weekend?" Eddie asked. "I happened to acquire a couple train tickets in a friendly game down at that quaint little establishment with the puking gentleman always out front - College Lane - down on Ferry St. in your tiny burg of Martinez, here. We leave in the morning."

Ready for anything that would provide me with an escape from the heat, I acquiesced.

more later
  • Current Mood: cloudless blue skies
Yay!! More adventures with Edgar!

You get LJ of the Year if I see a photo of Edgar with a Reno prostitute.
Only you could send me out wandering the periphery of a sinful city to find a hooker to play with MY DOLLY!!!
Oh, buck up little're in RENO. Finding a hooker there is about as difficult as finding a Starbucks....anywhere.