Eddie is going to be a lapidary. So he says. But Eddie is going to be a lot of things.
I ask Eddie what a lapidary is, and Eddie says a lapidary is someone who cuts gems. Polishes, cuts. Sometimes engraves. On Reddit, Eddie says, lapidaries advertise their cuts. He says there is this school in Utah, maybe Nevada, where they turn rough stones into diamond rings. All Eddie needs is five thousand dollars for a faceting machine and three thousand dollars to take the class. Two thousand for flight and hotel, but no more than ten grand, tops.
This machine’s the best, Eddie says. We sit in rocking chairs. We sit on my front porch, not drinking, and Eddie shows me pictures from a catalog. Eddie is my best friend, has been since we were five, and now we’re thirty-five. For five years, I’ve taught history, college level, on the tenure track. Next year, I go up for tenure. Next month, Eddie flies to Utah, or Nevada, if his parents lend him the ten grand.
Before he was going to be a lapidary, Eddie was going to be a dog groomer. He was fired after his scissors took off a Min Pin’s ear. Eddie superglued the ear back on, but backward. The dog owner, leaving Petco, noticed before she’d even left the lot.
Before he was going to be a dog groomer, Eddie was going to be a snail farmer. Only, the snails he had shipped from France turned out to be illegal in Florida, so Eddie ate the evidence.
Before snail farming, Eddie took up falconry. The falconry phase did not end well.
Before falconry, Eddie was a cater-waiter. He stole booze, huffed glue, hid from his manager in bathroom stalls and, one time, fucked a groom.
Around the time he got let go from cater-waitering, Eddie asked me if I thought he had a drinking problem. I told Eddie he very much had a drinking problem, and Eddie called me a bad friend and told me to go fuck myself, because, when Eddie’s drunk, he says things he doesn’t mean, or means, but doesn’t mean to say. But Eddie’s been saying things he doesn’t mean since we were five. So, when he called me a bad friend, I told Eddie to stay away for a week, and, when the week was up, Eddie knocked on my door and said he was sober, and I said no shit, and he said no shit, but you can still drink in front of me, and I said I’ll never drink in front of you again, and I haven’t.
Being unemployed keeps Eddie sober, Eddie says, and I believe him.
This time, Eddie says, I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna be a lapidary. The rockers on the front porch creak under the weight of us, and Eddie talks about flights from Pensacola to Utah or Nevada. Round trip would be nice, he says, but he’d settle for a layover in Dallas/Fort Worth.
Eddie’s parents might not lend the money on account of the falcon is dead and Eddie ate the snail farm, but Eddie says if he asks real nice his aunt in Jacksonville might bankroll the whole shebang. He could pay her back, plus interest. Could pay her back double in a month, is how lucrative the gemstone business is.
Before he was a cater-waiter, Eddie took up juggling, and before he took up juggling, Eddie learned a magic trick or two. Before magic, Eddie gave front yard haircuts, and before front yard haircuts, Eddie tried and failed to end his life.
After Eddie failed to end his life, Eddie tried again and failed, this time for real.
If I had it, I’d lend it, I say. Hell, I’d give it.
I know that, Eddie says. Don’t you think I know that, shit for brains?
Our rockers rock. The porch boards squeal. Sitting in my bank account, right now, is just over ten grand, but Eddie knows better than to ask.
Sure is a pretty faceting machine, Eddie says. He turns the page. He holds the catalog aloft so I can look. I nod. And we watch Pensacola turn to night. Frog song and cicada hiccup. A mile away, waves trace a beach too far from here to hear.
Sometimes, I imagine Eddie on that beach. Not just Eddie, every Eddie. Lapidary Eddie with his faceting machine. Falconer Eddie with his bird of prey. Snail Eddie and magic Eddie and Eddie gluing the ears of small breed dogs back on.
All those Eddies, those he’s been and those he’ll never be, crowding a wet and crowded Florida shore. Pulling a dove from his pocket. Spinning a stone to catch the light. Searching the horizon for what comes next.
