Slide - Kyle Beachy [77]
We all touched bottles and drank and then sat quietly for a few minutes. Shannon's was filling up quickly. Groups were forming around the bar, then being pushed into the middle of the room as newer groups formed closer in. The smoke was growing thicker, and the layers of chatter soon became loud enough to drown out the music. I saw Edsel on the outskirts of a group, working his way to its inner circle. He nodded and shrugged and shook hands. It was a terrific sight to behold, his first nibbles at legitimacy. Reminded me of that movie where the reformed hooker runs for Congress. Soon he was inside, centrally located, towering over the heads around him, having punctured their circle and this new world. He was just so big. Someone behind the bar turned up the music.
I must have blinked, because suddenly something had changed—the group had moved several feet away, leaving the ogre standing alone. I couldn't believe how quickly it went down. He seemed dazed, then began looking for another group.
Matt leaned in and said, “He overshot.”
“By a good yard, at least,” Eric said.
“Who can be comfortable around a person that size? Look at him. He was already tall. Still is. Then he added all that muscle and he became a cartoon.”
“It would be another thing for a guy who wasn't coming in cold.”
“You're right. Nobody here has any idea who he is.”
“The contrast between his cheeks upward compared to the mouth and chin area isn't helping. It looks like some spa treatment Melissa gets.”
“Did he shave with bleach? Is this some attempt at a joke?”
“Good look, otherwise. Good slacks.”
“But where's the jacket? Does he even have a jacket?”
They were right. Though he'd made his way into the circle, nobody around Edsel seemed to be interested in his presence. He stood peering over shoulders, his massive head jutting upward like an unwanted thumb. They had regarded him, humored him, and now he'd become the eight-hundred-pound ogre no one would discuss. It was almost heartbreaking. Matt and Eric were extremely satisfied with their cool piece of judgment. They sat on their diagnosis like telephone books. Edsel leaned in and said something to the group's lone woman and she ignored him. They all ignored him.
“He's done for. What a clown.”
“Jesus. He totally blew this, huh?”
“It's a joke. He's a clown.”
Matt tapped a finger to the music. Eric sipped beer, then inhaled through his teeth. Here was the risk of the attempt: failure, public, spotlighted for these hundred eyes, the opinions and pity and casual judgment. Edsel's attempt at climbing out of his personal muck, and these young men with their voices, words, eyes and faces, ties and glittery watches. I thought of the right word and leaned across the table for their attention.
“Smug,” I said. “Both of you. I never liked you guys but until now I couldn't say exactly why. It's smugness. You assholes ooze it with the grins, shit-eating grins and smugness to spare, wearing your slacks, talking your smug shit. Festering smugness, all cozy and smug, got your wives, income, why bother to even try anything. Try something.”
I stood up and waded through the thin crowd of people, most of whom appeared to be in their twenties. At the bar, I turned and stepped onto the foot railing to boost myself over the canopy of heads. Improvement. The legendary notion of personal advancement, of bootstraps and pulling upward, here condensed to its purest form.
Edsel was sitting alone at the table when I returned. I sat with him. The beard had served as both weapon and shield. Now he was naked and revealing more than he should have. Didn't he know this was no place to exhibit gloom? I slid one of the two beers across to the maudlin ogre.
“Something's gone wrong. I miscalculated, Mays. I shit the bed.”
“It was your rookie attempt,” I said. “They say disappointment keeps you irritated and therefore motivated.”
He spent the next minute staring into my face while I took sips from my beer and tried to act naturally. Occasionally I watched back.