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Aesthetics
by Eric McKinley
Edgar sat alone on a bench in the park, reflecting on bullshit. It was mid-Tuesday. Dogs were being walked. Some were doing the walking. Green leaves blew with October’s chill breeze. Little children who were already wrapped in long scarves and topped with knit hats were running around crazy. A few had made a game of stamping, crunching the leaves. Their faces were uncontrollable. They yelled, screamed joyous and proclaimed as kids do: it’s mine or you’re it or mom, mom, mom . . . Taking a brief respite from bullshit, Edgar recalled his own children. They’ve been grown awhile and, as a consequence, their faces are very much controlled. Edgar considered them distant.
The bullshit came in the form of statements. They had been made to him, were about him, and were thrown by those feeling a temerity of authority in his life. These speakers had all since taken their leave, dispatched to other men’s lives. Remembrance of their words today was spurred as Edgar watched people. Aside from making sure his sport coat was fastened, and intermittently pivoting to study women, Edgar sat still.
A couple walked by. Edgar sensed that they were college aged, although anymore it was hard for him to tell. They were in heavy discourse. At least, Edgar thought it looked heavy for mid-Tuesday in the park. The woman held a forlorn gaze. The man was really giving her the business. He did not seem angry, but beseeching. Edgar thought this man was defeated without realizing it. He read it in the woman’s slouch and nod.
Edgar had stewed his own slouch and nod to perfection. It had evolved over many years, many aimless conversations. This couple sparked the memory of one such discussion, performed over forty years before. Edgar was a third year sophomore. A prissy, red-haired girlfriend, who was smarter than him, and of whom he was not that fond, told Edgar:
“You know, I worry because you’re so aesthetically motivated.”
Unsure what she meant, Edgar asked her, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’ll leave me for the next better looking thing. It means you’ll be the kind of man who cheats on his pregnant wife and blames her weight gain.”
Edgar was aghast.
“First off,” he said, “I’m already a man, a grown man. And second, I would never do such a thing. I would never have a wife, much less a pregnant one.”
From then until she left him, Edgar considered this woman with not much more than a minor slouch and a condescending nod. Later, he looked up the word aesthetic. Edgar laughed. Red had made the most obvious point around.
On the bench, he also moved to take sips from his coffee cup. While doing so, after the couple had disappeared, a man passed who was close to Edgar in age. This man
was smartly dressed. Smarter than Edgar. He had dark skin. Darker than Edgar’s, but not by much. Edgar thought that if it came to it, he could take this man. He was fitter, due to labor and fortunate genes. Plus, this other man looked content, and therefore weak. His mustache was thin. Thinner than Edgar’s beard. Edgar recalled a former member of his union, Vernon, who had once asked:“Edge, you really think your shit doesn’t stink, don’t you? Well, it does. Despite what you think, you’re no better than any of us. Seniority is not the same as merit.”
Edgar was confused. He and Vernon were in a meeting of electricians. At the union hall. It was not the right place for this kind of square off. Edgar would’ve preferred a barroom. But, never one to decline such an invitation, he accepted.
“Well, two things Vern. First, in this local, you’re correct. Seniority is not the same as merit. Seniority, Vern, supersedes merit. And second, the only person who can call me Edge is your wife. Tell her to give me a call when you get home.”
The meeting ended after that, as did Vernon’s union membership. Edgar continued to lead the local, and no other electrician lobbied to have him apologize.
His coffee was cold. Dusk was approaching. There were fewer children running. No more were crunching. An elderly woman pushed by with a square, metal grocery cart. Like the children, she was overdressed. The woman’s ankle socks were gray. Her shoes were black and sturdy. The woman herself, wearing small wire glasses and a thick overcoat, looked equally sturdy. Her wrinkles looked placed by age rather than worry. She walked with an aura of independent wisdom. Edgar thought that her words were
probably foretelling. He had sometimes felt that way about his mother.One summer evening, when he was nearing middle age and she was close to death, Edgar’s mother had called him to her row home. They sat on her porch, eating tuna salad. They discussed his father, her late husband. Edgar’s mother spoke of bonds. After a pause in their talk, she said:
“You know, you’re sitting here with me, and this is all nice and everything, but if you don’t get better to people, you’ll be sitting one day, wondering why no one is sitting with you.”
As the leaves continued to blow, Edgar had no answer to that.
Eric McKinley is a Philadelphian. He is a former public defender in the former most dangerous city in America, Camden, New Jersey. Now, Eric is an MFA in Fiction Candidate at Rosemont College. He writes a story every now and again. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Aurelian Literary Journal, Tuesday Shorts, The Battered Suitcase, apt, audience, Conceit Magazine, Pequin, Forge, Weave and Faraway Journal. Samplings can be found at www.ericmckinleyfiction.com
