A couple of years ago, I found myself sitting in my car in the Double Tree, Edina parking lot.  It must have been for CONvergence or 2D Con.

Anyhow, I remember I was reading Edgar Allan Poe in the car.

Don’t ask me why I was doing it during a convention. I was in a fix to read something.

As I was reading, I had this unmistakable image of Edgar sitting in the chair opposite of me at the nearby TGI Friday’s.

_______

I stare down at my smart phone reading Loss of Breath, popping yet another boneless wing as Edgar fidgets. He seems to be losing his patience with me fast, watching my facial expressions, hoping for some sort of chuckle or sign of exhilaration or exasperation. He brings his hand to itch his mustache, and takes a deep inhale, straightening himself with palms to the table as I finally put my phone down.

We exchange a studious look, one that still remains in the likeness of two very erect statues trapped in the annals of time. Edgar gives an incredulous reaction, his arms tossed up in open-handed anticipation.

“Well!!?” he says. His voice is a tone that sounds like an overreaction even to someone born in an era far later than his. I place my elbow to the table, cupping my hand to my chin, pondering in silence. More time passes as he eyes me closer, waiting for my response. I decide break the silence.

“The language is really thick.” I say.

Edgar stares, stopping dead by my words. His eyes refuse to stir, fixating on me like a widow to a house spider.

“The language… is thick.” He says with judgement in his voice. I have no further resolve but to sigh with burden, and remind him yet again.

“Bruh! This is the 21st century.” I say, as he visibly throws himself up in defeat and collapses on the table. “We just don’t talk like this anymore! … I’d have to relearn many of these words just to understand what you’re talking about.”

Edgar groans.

“Furthermore,” I add “Like… what the hell is happening here?  Is he on drugs?… Like, I totes thought he was dead for like… half the story, and then whoops! I guess he’s alive! Being dissected! And then he’s at the gallows, and gets hung. And then snap! He’s talking to his neighbor resting on the coffin next to him! … Like… What the fuck man!!?”

Ed nearly squeals in anguish. He pulls his head up from his pit of despair, hair just slightly more frizzled than it usually is.

“It is a verbose comedy about mortality and the sorrows of a misfortuned man who suffers his end!”

“Verbose.” I say, mouth full after biting into my Jack Daniels slider. “Yeah. … It’s verbose alright. Like… hella verbose. Sumo-wrestler heavyweight after a chocolate cake food-fight levels of verbose.” I swallow.

Ed stares at me, as if trying to comprehend a word I was even saying. I shake me head, setting my phone down I finish my thought.

“I’m sorry, Poe-Bro! I gotta read more before I’m sold on ya. … You have to remember; this is 2017-“

Edgar, having finally grown tired of hearing from me what year it was, transmutates before my very eyes in a vast puff of smoke, the semblance of a raven. He caws in rage, as he beats his wings, and flies towards my last Parmesan Garlic boneless wing. He snatches it, and proceeds to fly out the front door.