Ed

Sometimes it was difficult for Ed to deal with the fact that his beer glass was not in the CENTER of his "We're glad you're here" coaster. There was no dealing with this trouble on a crowded night-- but on a slow night at the Charleston he could remain alone, struggling with diameter, circumfrence, length, distance, height, volume-- no need to socialize when such barfellows provide extensive accompaniment.

Ed sold guitar strings for a living. Not at a superstore on North Avenue or even in a record store or guitar shop- in a small unsuspecting storefront on Cortland Avenue-- smack dab in the middle of two three-story walk-up buildings. Some people are born into businesses- golden geese that produce fortunes for generations of faithful (or faithless) family members. Ed, however, was born into an obscenely large collection of guitar strings- new, old, used, famous, broken, nylon, metal- and an empty storefront that could not be bought for any price touted by hot-sheeted developers in Chicago. When his father and mother passed away the clause remained in the will that the storefront was to remain as such forever-- regardless of their son's desires.

Ed wasn't much for change anyhow, so it was a miracle that the storefront ever became more than a front in the first place. Finding himself unemployed and broke, and having at least a shred of practicality in him- push did come to shove. Ed put two and two together-- or zero and two together-- and opened a guitar string shop.

Ed's guitar string shop didn't advertize its arrival. The front door was unlocked after thirty years, the stoop was shoveled and salted and Ed read the morning paper behind a glass case of guitar strings instead of a box of cereal.