Ethan Edwards
Supporter
((Pardon me while I go through old files in search of a muse...))
At Last
Then:
Despite snow falling on the streets of Boston, the bar was crowded for a Friday night. Dark suit creased, top button loose and tie askew, Ethan Edwards took one last drag on his cigarette before mashing it flat in a nearby ashtray. He snatched up the glass of scotch, ice softly rattling within, and leaned back in his chair.
A newspaper was folded and forgotten in front of him, bold letters in one corner quoting Egypt’s Nasser making threats over Israel again, this time because the French were helping the tiny country with building an atomic reactor. The Arab leader promised war "… if we become sure that Israel is building an atom bomb…" and that his nation would “… take every step in order to preserve our country and to destroy our enemy.”
Fucking posturing -- Ethan hated it. He frowned for what was probably the second year in a row, and glanced up at the multi-colored Christmas lights strung along the ceiling. He then looked to his right and shook his head at the sad, aluminum frame covered in green tinsel that passed for a tree in one corner. Going through the motions… Ethan took a deep swallow of his scotch, the liquid burning its way into his belly, and warned the bartender to ready yet another with a gentle swirl of his fingers.
He reached for some pretzels.
Nearby, someone walking the same road as Ethan, staggered from the jukebox, having just filled it with pocketful of nickels. Behind its glass front, a mechanical arm reached out toward a row of vinyl discs, selected the correct one, and positioned it onto a turntable. A newer song was soon playing, and Etta James’ voice drifted from the chrome and glass Wurlitzer parked in one corner of the room. Her voice was crisp, the tone longing and the words haunting – for Ethan.
He sat next to the bar, slowly placing the glass down on the scarred and scuffed mahogany while his frown faded. Ethan leaned forward, listening to the words, elbows against the bar while his hands rested against his short, slicked hair. His mind fell away, and the ice melted
Before:
The dance floor of The Palisades was filled to capacity, and the salt-air was cool as it spilled through open windows gazing toward the Pacific. The crowd danced slowly as the band played; all brass, and strings, and ivory keys – tuxedoed musicians stretched across the ballroom wall. A man and woman stood on a small stage, and a spotlight focused upon them as they sang. Smiles beamed, and their eyes sparkled – the man in yet another black tuxedo, the woman in a sparkling evening dress, a pale yellow corsage pinned to the front of it. She gazed up at the dark-haired man and sang, her voice soft and wistful.
At last
My love has come along
My lonely days are over
And life is like a song
The skies above are blue
My heart was wrapped up in clover
The night I looked at you
On the dance floor and deep within the crowd, Ethan held Olivia close, her face pressed against the dark fabric of his Marine Corps Winter-A’s. Her yellow hair was loose, silken-locks spilled across her eyes to fall onto his chest. The young couple swayed in time with the music, but neither was really there. Both existed in the hazy twilight of being held by the one you love, in the arms of the one person who connected them to the world… They drifted together, as lost in one another’s arms as they would have been anywhere else in the world. To Ethan and Olivia, the crowd wasn’t there, and they were alone on the dance floor while Glenn Miller played….
Now:
For once, the streets outside The Roman Wail were dry, and the sun hung brightly in a blue sky -- the weather was downright pleasant. The door leading inside stood propped open, the store just opened for the day. Billy Conroy smiled as a breeze drifted in while he put out stock. Music blasted from speakers bolted to the painted brick, and posters covered much of the walls.
Row after row of bins lined the store, each of them filled with vinyl clad in cardboard sleeves -- old 33’s and 78’s from a bygone age when nothing was digital. A single wall bulged with shelves stacked floor-to-ceiling with the album’s own enemies: compact discs in plastic cases. Billy walked past them with an armload of records. He rolled his eyes, blowing a shock of hair from them. The CD’s themselves were an endangered species, being slowly cornered by an Internet and the era of the download…
“Open for business?”
Billy turned and grinned over the stack in his arms. A tall man with wide shoulders stood in the doorway wearing a t-shirt and jeans. His dark hair was a tousled mess. “Ethan, what are you doing here?” He sat the inventory down on a table and walked over, left hand slipping his hair behind an ear. Billy shook the man’s hand firmly, head tilted with the question.
Ethan shrugged. “Well, you did mention you worked here, and I thought you might be able to help me find something?” The big man handed him a slip of paper, which Billy read. His eyes narrowed slightly in thought.
“You don’t want the usual version? Not many know Miller released it first – but that’s from the Forties.” Billy walked over to a computer to access the database while the other man stood across the counter, shaking his head.
“No, the older one means a lot to me,” Ethan said. “It brings back old memories…”
At Last
Then:
Despite snow falling on the streets of Boston, the bar was crowded for a Friday night. Dark suit creased, top button loose and tie askew, Ethan Edwards took one last drag on his cigarette before mashing it flat in a nearby ashtray. He snatched up the glass of scotch, ice softly rattling within, and leaned back in his chair.
A newspaper was folded and forgotten in front of him, bold letters in one corner quoting Egypt’s Nasser making threats over Israel again, this time because the French were helping the tiny country with building an atomic reactor. The Arab leader promised war "… if we become sure that Israel is building an atom bomb…" and that his nation would “… take every step in order to preserve our country and to destroy our enemy.”
Fucking posturing -- Ethan hated it. He frowned for what was probably the second year in a row, and glanced up at the multi-colored Christmas lights strung along the ceiling. He then looked to his right and shook his head at the sad, aluminum frame covered in green tinsel that passed for a tree in one corner. Going through the motions… Ethan took a deep swallow of his scotch, the liquid burning its way into his belly, and warned the bartender to ready yet another with a gentle swirl of his fingers.
He reached for some pretzels.
Nearby, someone walking the same road as Ethan, staggered from the jukebox, having just filled it with pocketful of nickels. Behind its glass front, a mechanical arm reached out toward a row of vinyl discs, selected the correct one, and positioned it onto a turntable. A newer song was soon playing, and Etta James’ voice drifted from the chrome and glass Wurlitzer parked in one corner of the room. Her voice was crisp, the tone longing and the words haunting – for Ethan.
He sat next to the bar, slowly placing the glass down on the scarred and scuffed mahogany while his frown faded. Ethan leaned forward, listening to the words, elbows against the bar while his hands rested against his short, slicked hair. His mind fell away, and the ice melted
Before:
The dance floor of The Palisades was filled to capacity, and the salt-air was cool as it spilled through open windows gazing toward the Pacific. The crowd danced slowly as the band played; all brass, and strings, and ivory keys – tuxedoed musicians stretched across the ballroom wall. A man and woman stood on a small stage, and a spotlight focused upon them as they sang. Smiles beamed, and their eyes sparkled – the man in yet another black tuxedo, the woman in a sparkling evening dress, a pale yellow corsage pinned to the front of it. She gazed up at the dark-haired man and sang, her voice soft and wistful.
At last
My love has come along
My lonely days are over
And life is like a song
The skies above are blue
My heart was wrapped up in clover
The night I looked at you
On the dance floor and deep within the crowd, Ethan held Olivia close, her face pressed against the dark fabric of his Marine Corps Winter-A’s. Her yellow hair was loose, silken-locks spilled across her eyes to fall onto his chest. The young couple swayed in time with the music, but neither was really there. Both existed in the hazy twilight of being held by the one you love, in the arms of the one person who connected them to the world… They drifted together, as lost in one another’s arms as they would have been anywhere else in the world. To Ethan and Olivia, the crowd wasn’t there, and they were alone on the dance floor while Glenn Miller played….
Now:
For once, the streets outside The Roman Wail were dry, and the sun hung brightly in a blue sky -- the weather was downright pleasant. The door leading inside stood propped open, the store just opened for the day. Billy Conroy smiled as a breeze drifted in while he put out stock. Music blasted from speakers bolted to the painted brick, and posters covered much of the walls.
Row after row of bins lined the store, each of them filled with vinyl clad in cardboard sleeves -- old 33’s and 78’s from a bygone age when nothing was digital. A single wall bulged with shelves stacked floor-to-ceiling with the album’s own enemies: compact discs in plastic cases. Billy walked past them with an armload of records. He rolled his eyes, blowing a shock of hair from them. The CD’s themselves were an endangered species, being slowly cornered by an Internet and the era of the download…
“Open for business?”
Billy turned and grinned over the stack in his arms. A tall man with wide shoulders stood in the doorway wearing a t-shirt and jeans. His dark hair was a tousled mess. “Ethan, what are you doing here?” He sat the inventory down on a table and walked over, left hand slipping his hair behind an ear. Billy shook the man’s hand firmly, head tilted with the question.
Ethan shrugged. “Well, you did mention you worked here, and I thought you might be able to help me find something?” The big man handed him a slip of paper, which Billy read. His eyes narrowed slightly in thought.
“You don’t want the usual version? Not many know Miller released it first – but that’s from the Forties.” Billy walked over to a computer to access the database while the other man stood across the counter, shaking his head.
“No, the older one means a lot to me,” Ethan said. “It brings back old memories…”