Ed was always doing really
stupid things. He just thought differently than you and I. His world was a
pulp fiction epic; full of dazzling
highs and devastating
lows. 15 minutes was an eternity to him.
Gratification came in only one flavor:
Instant.
I loved Ed. I loved him with an
unnatural intensity and he saw that and made it his
own. I was his right-hand man, the
verifier, the
chronicler. When Ed relived his adventures, the crowd all turned to me to get
that nod. "It's all true. I was there" became my
mantra, and my coward’s heart reveled in his
brazen lust for death and thrills.
High school was our
era, our
epoch in the sun. I was fresh and new to Ed, having transferred to the school from out of town. I was not from his common flock of grade school
spectators. No, I was fresh, closed and reserved. I was impossible to
stun, and it made him
crazy. He loved the challenge. Our first meeting was
prophetic. I sat engrossed in a book when he happened upon my new face.
"What’s your name kid?" he asked, casually
poking me with a boot, his hair in its usual tossed state. His
wild eyes probed for approval and attention.
"Hal. You must be Ed,” I offered. His eyes exploded with
glee! His reputation had finally traveled fasted than he could offer it up. This required a memorable
performance.
"That's me!" he beamed. "
Check this out!"
All of Ed's
most talked about tricks started with that immortal
phrase. It echoed like the peal of a
great bell in the hallway, as most of the kids there had heard them before. It was crafted of the same stuff as "
Fight! Fight!" and illicit swears. I was
dumb to their vast import. This fed Ed like a wind in a
firestorm.
He produced a long yellow 2HB Ponderosa
pencil that was sharpened to a deadly point from his bag. He handled it like a deadly
cobra. He placed the point in the center of his palm and looked at me. It was a wild
stare, like a tiger in tall grass. 'Come on, mouse... Make a move!' it
begged.
I stared back with all the interest of a
dead fish.
Blank.
It was to be a
duel.
He raised an
eyebrow and pushed the fist-gripped pencil into his
palm. It slid under his skin and the sharpened point
vanished. It was in his hand.
Deep.
I lifted an unimpressed
eyebrow and turned my gaze down to my
book.
That was too much for him.
With a
flurry of movement and primal yell, Ed smashed his hand on the wall, pencil
first. It popped out the other side in a bloody
spurt. He was
sweating, as the pain reddened his features. Water pooled in his
eyes.
A
drip dropped on my book.
I smiled, and Ed was
addicted. I had tamed the
avatar of
ADD.
He started toward it, clutching his now painful
wound. The
rush had started to wear off and Ed lived in the aftermath, bewildered but
giddy as usual. He made a movement to pull it out. I stopped him.
"Don't pull it out." I said. Ed paused, with an almost thoughtful look on his pained face. He asked
why without so much as a word.
"So we can
freak out the secretaries." I answered. We crafted the intricacies of our performance on the way to the office.
And all was right in the world.