Your Man, Eddison Jones - INCOMPLETE

Eddison woke to the mind piercing sound of his alarm clock at 6:30 in the morning, as he always did. He placed his hands on the underlying bed that he lay upon, and slowly pulled himself to a sitting position, where he swung his bare legs over the mattress and rested them on the floor. He sat there for a moment and looked around his small one bedroom condominium that he had lived in for so long. He was alone, of course, so there was simply silence, except for the faint whisper of the rain which lightly sprinkled the city that he inhabited. “Rain” he thought to himself, “best I get a rain coat”. And so he did, after bathing himself and putting on his sandy brown suit, his brown lacquer shoes, and his brown and tan, pin striped hat. He had a job to do with his “business associate”, Ronald, who appointed Eddison random shady jobs to support himself, until he finished his writings and could hopefully live off the profits made by its selling. And, like always, he left his room, wrapped his large sports-coat around himself loosely, locked the door, briskly walked down two flights of stairs, and finally yelped a greeting of “hello”to the passing folk, as they had done unto him. Passing the street corner with the coffee shop, and crossing the Bridge of Sorrows, he reached 32nd Street, where Ronald resided. He looked down at his watch – 8:27, 3 minutes early; “Surely Ronald won't mind” Eddison said to himself.
         He climbed the four flights of stairs that led to Ronald's apartment and reached apartment 813, on whose door he knocked. He waited for a tedious 30 seconds, until finally Ronald answered the door with a bright greeting of “Hey! Eddy! What's going on man?”
         Ronald was a shorter, darker, younger, rough looking man, whose eyes bled with confidence and charisma; and, as compared to Eddison, who was mildly tall, looked quite squeamish. Eddison answered Ronald's greeting with his usual, “Hello, Ronald.”
         “What do you have for me to do?” asked Eddison, in his deep solemn voice.
         “Well, there's a man by the name of Johnny Jackson – I knew him in high school and - “
         “He's a drunk now, drowning his sickness in more poison?”
         “Uh yeah – I really don't wanna see the guy die; and, what I know of you, you seem to be ensuring and comforting with words, so, if you can, talk to him.” Ron responded, promptly.
         “Well, Ron, I'm certainly not one to give emotional direction in others' lives, but I agree with you firmly on his welfare – I don't want to see another man die; not by my own lack of action, anyway.
         “Alright, thanks, buddy. Do you know how to get to the Irish Pub? That's where he's at.”
         “Believe me when I say that I've had my fair share of experiences with the Irish Pub.” Said Eddison, with a quick scent of humor and integrity.
         “Alright, just remember: be sensitive and be especially careful.”
         And with that Eddison left the way he had come. Instead, this time, he got into Ronald's car, a 2006 Volvo, pulled out from Ronald's apartment complex, and drove smoothly toward the Pub, which was located 15 minutes away from his own apartment. He eventually reached the Irish Pub, a crooked, scrappy old place that reeked of lost lives, broken dreams, and greasy, gritty darkness, stained by cheap beer and punctured by poorly placed dart boards. And as Eddison entered, he was slapped by the smell of overly applied deodorant and tobacco smoke. And directly in the center of the bar, sitting on a peculiarly short bar stool, putting his head cowardly in a pit formed by his extremely hairy, sweaty arms, sat – from what Eddison had described him as earlier – Johnny Jackson. Eddison walked towards  him briskly and sternly, evading the belligerent, vacant stairs of the wasted, grungy individuals that sat around him. He took a seat next to Johnny, said a brief “hello” to the bartender, from whom he ordered a glass of ginger-ale, and lay his hand on Johnny shoulder and squeezed lightly. Johnny looked up, his face searing with a reddish tinge, and said, “What the Hell do you want?”
         “I was sent by your friend Ronald. I understand you have some issues?” responded Eddison
         “Yeah...I got some problems” He began to cry. “What're you gonna do about it?”
         “Well, do you mind my asking of what exactly is your problem, now?”
         “All sorts of shit, man. I got nothin! Fucking nothing anymore, man...I'm a damn waste.”
         “Now, now. We all have our issues. Calm yourself, friend, I'm sure you can elaborate.”w
         “It's that fucking bitch! That fucking bitch stole my money, took my fucking daughter...you hear that? My FUCKING daughter! And wins in fucking court 'cause she can afford a decent lawyer, using my stolen money.”
         “This woman: was she a wife? Girlfriend? Fiance?”
         “She was my girlfriend, for a while anyway. She already fucked every man in this city...I should've seen it coming...never loved me...never showed me any respect...”
         He began to talk inaudibly. Eddison thought to himself.
         “Look, friend. We all need to think things over, but this” Eddison picked up his can of beer “this helps no one. Drinking will not get your daughter back, and killing yourself won't either. Listen, do you truly love your daughter?”
         “She's is everything to me. She's a such a perfect little angel. Everything she does – it's all so perfect. Her teachers tell me extraordinarily bright; they tell me she's creative and sweet to everyone. They tell me she's sociable, that everyone one is her friend. She's the only thing left I have to be proud of, and dammit, is she stays with her mother – that evil, disgusting, beast of a woman – she will be ruined. But what can I do about it. I'm nothing.”
         After that Eddison felt a deep pain in his chest. Guilt, he felt. Injustice, he felt. Anger, he felt. He hated all of them, constantly wishing they would go away; he hated his emotions, truly, and thought they were a weakness. Eddison knew, however, that he was, although brilliant, educated, and as stern as a man should be, a slave to his emotions. He felt what Johnny felt, and for a second he reconsidered his position. Would he be able to help such a man without feeling what he feels? Could he simply rely intellect to solve every problem he had? The answer was a resounding no. And for a moment Eddison let himself go. From every gland, bowel, and crevice in his body, there screamed sadness and emotion for this man, and surprisingly sadness for everything bad thing that ever happened. For the first time, he had let himself feel; not analyze, not observe, not implore the scientific method, not call a logical fallacy, he simply felt and off of that he was determined.
         “Look” Eddison said, his voice shaking “I want to help you, Johnny. I want you to get your daughter; your everything back. So, here's is my telephone number and my email address. If you need for anything, please, contact me.”
         “Alright, thanks, man” Johnny replied. Then Eddison gulped down his ginger-ale, scurried to Ronald's car, and drove back to Ronald's house.