Eddie Scott

                                                                                    Eddie Scott                                 

The sounds of the ocean and birds wake me up every morning, my chosen phone alarm.  After sitting in bed for fifteen seconds, enjoying the last bit of cold darkness in my basement room,  I struggle to get my feet on the ground but once I do, I slowly start my day with a neutral frame of mind, both negative and positive thoughts entering and exiting my conscience.  After doing the morning essentials of urinating, brushing my teeth, washing my face and forcefully eating blueberry Greek yogurt and drinking a short espresso, I open my garage at 8:15 in the morning and transform into a gardener.

The season is winding down as fall has come and had its bittersweet effect on nature with leaves having already transformed colors and having descended from tree branches, where now the only color of leaves to observe is a musty and moldy brown.  When clean- ups are done, usually around the end of November, the only work the business does is when snow precipitates on Toronto’s cool winter ground.   I've told myself this is the year I get down to work on my resumé, hopefully leading to an office job so I can use my university degree like one should.  I have pressures from all angles on whether to work for my father and eventually take over his business.  I have nothing against that option, as he is a hard working family man and I only hope to grow up as half the man he is, metaphorically speaking as he is only 5 feet 6 inches. I am by no means financially set though I have a vision containing a lavish and healthy future, what can I say I enjoy the finer things in life, the freedom of wearing Roots sweat pants everyday and growing a beard when I desire to do so.  Now, the thought of how to live such a life?  I could expand my father’s company, that would be the secure decision or I could start my long trek of  using my human energy on one of the major banks but in my heart I know I want to become a writer, novelist, author.  My family is supportive with writing in my spare time but to become a freelance writer would be “too much” for them.  I have friends both open and closed minded, that leads to various and different input advices on what the next step of my life should be.  I take in and accept advice from outer influences but in the end I am the president of Eddie Scott and will have to make my own life journey; Eddie vs. The World, Galaxy, Universe and more importantly myself.
  
It has been 2 weeks since I have tried to work on my writing but I have been busy with resumé tune-ups and job interviews. I just heard back from a bank that was interested in my hiring.  Although I am not too excited starting off as a bank teller, society tells me that I have to ‘put in my time’ to move on up the corporate ladder. They really ask you to donate your life to them, while they find an efficient median where you just have enough money to survive with a few luxuries and yet, are not bothered enough to find another career or start your own venture.  
  
I am currently writing in Starbucks and enjoying the holiday décor along with the Christmas music, almost everyone walks around with an indescribable glitter in their eyes for the month of December.  Even though the climate is colder in Toronto,  the winter holidays bring an intangible warmth.  The bright winter sun shining with purpose, this one particular ray reflecting through the glass and into my retina caused me to quickly move my head down and toward the left. I noticed an interesting looking older man, with a full head of hair and an even fuller beard, mostly salt but still some pepper.   I predict that he is also working on his writing as he looks to be in a deep trance.   One can tell that he has had a long tough life but is a survivor and has many more experiences and lessons to share, than me.  I am even confident enough to say that he either lost the love of his life or even more disturbing a child based on the high waves of skin around his eyes and forehead, maybe he is writing about me and how the times have changed from his mid-twenties.   One second, he is calling me over with one finger, exactly like one would call a waiter over to get another drink.   After approaching his table he kicked the chair across from him in a rough yet efficient way, as the chair did not fall over.  I must admit I was intimidated, I immediately felt his masculinity.    
The first thing he asked was, "You trying to become a famous writer boy?"  
 I then sat down and responded, "A writer yes but to be a famous writer is a little too optimistic to..." Before I could even finish my sentence he said, "You have already reached your goal then as a writer, you have a keyboard and page that is no longer blank, any writer that has made it in measures of fame was too optimistic at one point."    
Silence followed. It was neither awkward nor comfortable. It was the silence of minds thinking, both young and old.   
I then tried to ask without sounding sarcastic, "Are you a famous writer?"  
He moved his head horizontally and then the old man raised his voice and sat up saying, “Famous, no, but I have written four novels that my wife liked throughout my life and I am content with that accomplishment, as I was famous in her eyes.”
Another awkward moment of silence as I felt we just hit a soft spot in his armor, I transferred my weight in front of me and stood up, then shook his hand but he didn’t let go.
He held my hand tightly and said, “Do not make the same mistake as I did.  Do not let people choose what you do in life, do not give them that power.  Write if you wish to write, do not be cerebral about it; remember risks and odds are just a forecast of people’s guesses.  People’s careers are often dominated by left-brain thinking, use your right-brain kid, if you desire to do so.  I am just trying to inspire a young writer to believe in himself and claim within himself that he is the best writer alive, that your words are a gift to any reader willing to commit their time to read them.”
At the time I didn’t realize the weight his words would have on me and simply responded, “Thank you, best of luck to you too.”
He then released my hand and even though this stranger inspired me, I was just as happy that he released my hand as my fingers were starting to look more like talons.  I am once again sitting in the same spot as yesterday.  This time the old man is not here and even with his speech of encouragement; I allowed the external forces and secure emotion to win this battle.

Fast forward 3 weeks, first day of training, time to be initiated into the corporate world, soldier Eddie Scott. I woke up 53 minutes before the birds and ocean could wake me, with excitement?  Generally, one should be excited to take another step on the staircase of life, the red oak stairs smoothly layered by a laminate gloss, with matching railings on both sides, guiding one, to the next stair. External forces build one rail’s foundation, with the parallel rail cemented by internal forces.  The most secure way is to balance your weight evenly on both railings, with your hands, then ascending with your feet, one step at a time.  Although I am taking the next step in my life, I must be honest and admit roughly 80 percent of my weight is on the external rail, while 20 percent is on the internal rail, +/- 5 percent for approximation error.

I decided to take a steaming hot shower, the type you don’t enjoy departing from.  People often underestimate the importance of a shower, not only for cleanliness of the body but also of the mind.  Andre Agassi’s Biography “Open” was the catalyst for this realization.  After the shower and conducting my morning routine, I still had 25 minutes before I would depart.  I decided to treat myself to a Fitzgerald short story. My father dropped me off at the subway station, right on time.  He wished me good luck as I made my way with the rest of the morning crowd.  This January day was unusual as it was 8 degrees Celsius outside (the average temperature in Toronto for January hovers somewhere between -4 and 0 degrees).  The snow’s past precipitation has evaporated and the fog that is floating around the lower sky is somehow soothing, a feeling of walking through a cloud will do that.
“Union station, next stop Union station.”  I have arrived at the station of my life’s next step.  One month of training is almost done as I have only one more day remaining, I have become friends with the other soldiers-I mean trainees- and today we find out what location we will be spending our time as tellers.  We were trained in a boardroom: white painted walls, grey carpet with specs of black, projector screen, and rectangular tables put together to form a bigger rectangle, I was in a room of rectangular fractals wherever I observed.  The windows were at least perfect squares and had a third story view of Toronto’s skyline, I will never forget the scent the room consistently had, a stale, almost moldy smell, I assumed the smell came from the evening vacuums that were used, as if the vacuums formed a mold that was definitely not biodegradable. 

I was sentenced to start at the bank’s branch next week, located at the heart of Toronto’s white-collar business people and first class shoppers.  For those who are not familiar with Toronto, I am talking about Yorkville.  To aid in your perception, a handful of stores on the strip are Gucci, Fendi, Ferrari, Tiffany’s, Hugo Boss, Hermes, etc. Monday came quickly and I was anxious to meet my new co-workers, hey, you never know when you will find your muse.  I decided to drive all the way down, traffic was sluggish due to the freezing rain but was not disturbed as the sound of the frozen raindrops hitting the cold metal brought a certain secure emotion.  I started the late shift, it began at 11, I was parked and ready at 10:15, I put on sports talk radio and had time to murder. 
I felt sorry for the high-class crowd I encountered as I walked east to west.  There was a shallowness present, trying to fill the shopping bags that were held by the newly acquired owners; chins held up high, no one using there peripheral vision, if arrogance could be envisioned, there would be a hotbox of smoke, still visible but vaguely able to see more than 3 feet in front.  Ironically, I was attracted to the women walking around with their sturdy, either brightly colored or darkly shaded, non-environmentally friendly bags.  They had a certain confidence about them, they could take on any problem in the world, of course they had money but I didn’t think that deeply as my reptilian part of the brain overtook my neo cortex.

Shockingly, I landed my eyes on what felt to be my future wife, my muse, my soul mate, my best friend, my star mate.  The way she led her walk with her flanks boldly leading the way, her diamond blue eyes with a touch of brown around the pupils and naturally curled eyelashes were the first attributes that gained my attention.  I didn’t even realize the sun came out that cloudy Monday morning, until those golden spirals of hair were reflecting the sun- rays brightly ahead.  I am still out of words for how perfectly assembled this woman was, how symmetrical she was, any Italian artist living in the renaissance era would gladly sculpt or paint her from head to toe.  She carried herself in such a sure way, that she actually reminded me of a blue-eyed cheetah cub, both endangered and dangerous.  I quickly let her walk by me without saying a word, an inaction I know I would soon regret.  I put my head down and continued to walk, out of nowhere down one of the side alleys a man with brown suit pants and a matching brown sport coat with a ¾ tope jacket and matching tope fedora tilted to the left ever so slightly; whistled in a “jazz age” way, with rhythm, an upbeat rhythm, almost trumpet like, with his bodyweight lightly placed against the red brick wall. 
“Good day old sport, I noticed, you let that doll escape your reality?”
“I usually do sir, I then let it linger for the rest of my day and especially one that presented herself like that will definitely linger for a week or so.” 
“Ha, ha, women have that effect on us all old sport, the one that caught me still has me lingering emotionally over her.” 
I could see he was no longer in the present as he stared up above the buildings into the sky for a moment; he arrived at an event sometime in his past.
“What was her name?” I asked.
He then looked directly at me and looked away as he said her name “Zelda”.  My stomach suddenly felt the force of gravity and being naturally neurotic especially with psychoses, I assumed that I am probably delusional.
I played along however and said, “Let me guess, your name is Scott?” 
“Actually my name is Francis but most refer to me as Scott or Fitzy”
I could feel my stomach causing my face to turn pale white, my legs dizzy, un-sturdy, I mimicked myself the same as Fitzy, bodyweight placed against the wall and asked him for a cigarette.  “Sure old sport, why the sudden change of skin tone?” 
I didn’t respond immediately, I couldn’t think a conscience thought.
“Sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“Please call me Scott.”
“Sorry Scott but I know you’re a famous writer who passed away in 1940, I am slowly or quickly losing my mind”
“Ah old sport, don’t worry about that, soon enough you wont think time travel is impossible.”
I curiously asked, “So why are you here? In 2012, Toronto, talking to me in an alley way”
“I felt like you could use my guidance Eddie, not only for writing but also for living life a little faster.  Let’s go have a drink somewhere.”
“It is 10:45 and I have my first day of work which starts at 11.”
Before I could finish he interrupted casually, “Working is for the workers and drinking is for the artists. Are you really turning down a bourbon with Fitzy?”
“Well, currently my fundage is low, I should go to work especially to make sure I get mental health insurance, for soon I will be needing it.” 
“This time era is strange, have you not realized that you are considered wealthy if you live a wealthy life enriched with experiences, not by what is in your bank account and what friends you owe?” 
“I don’t agree with you Scott but I can’t refuse a drink with my favorite writer.”

Fast forward button pressed, it was roughly around noon, 5 shots of bourbon and 3 pints of MGD later I let loose and just embraced the experience my mind was creating. Scott looked like he hadn’t even drank, in fact he was reading The New York times and I looked like a 13 year old who just finished drinking what was in his parents liquor cabinet, giggling, I am ashamed to say like a little girl.  I am no drinker, let alone a drinker who drinks before Toronto’s noon sun rays have shined.  Scott was reading and giving advice to me simultaneously, if I had to choose which article of advice had the biggest impression on me; it would be when he said,
“Old sport, just remember, everyone has a writing voice inside themselves, do not try and sound like another writer, it will not work old sport, the sun’s light shines on us individually and uniquely.”
It was approaching one o’clock and we decided to go for a stroll before I would head back home and decided the subway ride home would be the perfect time to come up with the reason of not showing up for the first day of work.  We both smoked and strolled for over 90 minutes, talking about his life and what he would do over.  I suddenly remembered I had a joint, already rolled, waiting to be smoked after my first day of work.  I asked him if he wanted to blaze one? Not knowing what I meant, I asked him if he would like to smoke a Marijuana Cigarette. 
Instantaneously, he said, “I have 2 kidneys and a strong liver, but I only have one of these” as he pointed to the side of his head, with a classic looking smile.  I put it back in my pocket and we continued to walk through a park surrounded by downtown buildings.  It was not big enough to be secluded from the roads of Toronto as if the park was a sand bar in the middle of the ocean, but it still had a certain peace about it, mostly due to the sound of birds talking.

We finalized our short journey in front of the bar where we shared the drink of the ‘jazz age’.  He tilted his hat up and down and said “It was a pleasure old sport, remember drinking always helps a writer express himself, the key is to find a strategy where you do not rely on the drink, as you will too, be short lived.” 
It was snowing pretty profusely and before I knew it, he vanished in the white matter.  It felt too real, maybe that is why the disillusioned rarely know that they are.  The whiskey was starting to get the best of me; I was struggling to keep my eyes open and gladly remembered about the joint in my possession.  I took it out of my inside pocket of my leather jacket, and there was a scroll paper wrapped around it.  It read: “Good Day old sport, your friend F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
I went back to the same park Fitzy and I walked through and got my lighter and illegally lit my joint (I do live in a time where marijuana will soon enough be legalized for the taxable income).  I relaxed and let nature come at me, listening to the birds and quietly hearing the sounds of the ocean.  I then awoke in my car by the sudden increase in sound of birds and water, my chosen phone alarm.  It was 10:45 am, with a big relief of mental worry; I realized Fitzy was all a dream and yet decided then and there not to pursue the bank any further.  Yes, I am not clinically insane yet, I turned on my car and said aloud to myself “next stop library, next stop library” so I could finish writing my story.