Brooklyn Eddie


Little Ed probably wouldn’t want to know that he was nicknamed that – Little Ed, but plain old Ed just didn’t seem to fit one of the characters I met during my girls weekend away. He is really a lot more deserving of a name with a bit more panache; like Eddie “The Gent” or  “Greasy Knuckles” Ed. For now Little Ed will have to suffice.

We had just finished up leaving a bar called Dicks, which was interesting in of itself, and wanted to find a cool little local dive. The bouncer told us of a place a few blocks up that he liked – “Big green awning, we couldn’t miss the place”, so we headed up the street to look for it.

Let me preface this by saying my radar was off for the weekend. Deliberately turned off. I didn’t want to meet anyone outside of just talking and having a simple good time. I didn’t even have a caveat of “I’m not aiming to meet anyone, but if it happens I’m okay with it…” – I really truly have turned off the radar. Which might have been part of the attraction of Little Ed towards me.

We found the place easy enough – the awning helped. They served pricey beer in small plastic cups – but we weren’t looking to make this place a home. We wanted to do a pub crawl without paying fifteen bucks a pop at a crowded douche-y bar. At least initially, because I think that we did end up in the a-typical douche-y like bar at some point, but oh well.

While I went to get drinks, my friends had already met up with a couple of local guys. This left me a moment  when I came back and I could sort of sit back and get a feel for the place. Surveying the situation. No sooner had I sat down then the little local lothario set his eyes on me. He still had a bit of swagger left in his step when he laid the line on about how he saw the two of us in Paris for the weekend. Smokey cracked voice, with a very Brooklyn accent and attitude. “Lemme tell ya something …” he must have said a half dozen times. I could totally see this guy walking into a very family owned place with a name like Vinnie’s or Sal’s, with a broad draped in chinchilla furs on his arm in something like, 1968. He loved women, and I’m betting the women liked him back.

So I get the Paris for a weekend line which was a good opener for me. I had to laugh. It was original. We talked for a bit – moreso he talked, as I peppered him with questions and held back no verbal punches. He could punch back with sarcasm and laughter. He kept telling me how much he liked my type, and I swear I bet he had to bite his tongue from using vernaculars like dame or broad. As the conversation continued and things got a little more real for him, Paris became Palm Springs, even though I kept asking for my original offer to be placed back on the table. He confirmed the New York – Brooklyn to be precise, but he had been in California for longer than he ever lived in NY. I guess born with the accent, die with it.

I asked him how old he was and he said, “62!” with almost a roar. Defying me to question it. This guy was probably closer to 72, but I still liked his …. Moxie. Yeah he was definitely a guy that you would describe had tons of moxie. He made me laugh, which anyone knows is my Achilles heel. He asked me to feel his arms as he flexed a muscle for me. Flashed me his smile in that very knowing way, followed up with a wink I might have just imagined. He kept telling me how there was just something about me he really liked. To be honest there was something about him I kinda liked too. You could tell that he would be one of those who completed adored the woman he was with. He would go out of his way to make her laugh. Unfortunately there were a few things that just weren’t going to work for me either. Like the fact I was becoming more certain with time that he might have been closer to 75, and the fact that romantically I wasn’t interested.

I stood up at once point to stretch and gather a good feel about his height with my heels on. While I didn’t exactly tower, I was definitely taller. That’s not so much an issue for me most of the time, as long as I am with someone confident enough not to care. I asked him if he cared and he said he preferred his women taller. Good answer. Plus it just seemed to fit the scenario of my fantasy of who this guy was.

He kept asking me for my number, and I kept laughing and making excuses. I asked him for his and he said he never gave it out. He would only exchange. He was sincere about this. I asked if he texted and he came back with a reason about new phones and such. Then he pulled out a flip phone (no joke) and told me to call him. This way we both had one another’s numbers. We could meet somewhere between San Diego and Orange County for a nice dinner, or he could drive up my way.

I was a little speechless to be honest. I had no real reason to say no. He had been funny, polite and charming. I couldn’t call him a liar on his age, or comment on the very obvious dye job he had on his summer red/blonde hair. So I chuckled inwardly and did a mental “what the hell” and called him to register our numbers on each others phones. I knew his number would be the only unrecognizable 619 area code, so I didn’t even have to make a new contact for him. He then put on his shiny Dodger Blue windbreaker, he promised to call and we said our goodbyes.

Saturday afternoon down by the hotel pool, I checked my phone periodically just because and sure enough around 1 in the afternoon  there was a missed call with that distinct area code. I laughed and told the girls that Little Ed had called me. He left no message. They asked if I would call him back and I answered “Probably not.” I think sometimes when you meet the Little Ed’s of this world it’s best to leave that happy little memory, the one that makes you laugh slightly, in its place. Don’t make it to be more than it should be.

Plus with my no dating caveat, and Paris off the table, it could lead to something awkward.



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