The island of misfit toys

For every happy, well adjusted person whom life has smiled upon there is someone else who has, sometimes through no fault of their own, been turned away from the system. Misfits. The socially inept. For whatever reason, these people are trapped in a state of perpetual emotional rejection, some shunned for so long that they are no longer able, even at middle age, to have normal social relationships. I see many of these people at the strip club; people so desperate for affection and reassurance that they will seek out any venue in order to recieve it, even if they have to pay for it. This is the story of my friend Ed.

I met Ed about two years ago when my bar was still in its infantile stage. He shuffled in the club, head down, and made his way to a back corner table, as far from the other patrons as he could get. His hair was long and disheveled, and he had a baseball cap pulled down tight over his head. He sat against the wall, staring down at the buttons on his shirt. I could almost feel his willingness to disappear.

"Hi honey, what can I get you to drink," I said, placing my hand on his arm.

Ed jumped as if someone had slapped him. He briefly looked up into my eyes and then immediately looked back down at his shirt, as if making eye contact was painful.

"Oh, um, well," he stammered, "I guess you could get me a beer. Don't go to any trouble or anything, if you're not too busy."

"Sweetie, I'm never too busy to get someone something to drink, that's my job. What kind of beer can I get you?"

"Oh, well, you know. Whatever, I'm not picky. Just whatever you don't mind bringing me, I guess."

Somewhere along the line in this man's life, he had been beaten down emotionally so badly, or for so long, that he couldn't tell me what beer he wanted, for fear whatever he chose would be the wrong one.

I had some time, we weren't that busy, so I spent the next few minutes with Ed, playing a beer version of the twenty questions game. I finally got him decided on a Michelob. When I brought the beer back and set it on the table, Ed jumped again. He paid for his beer and tipped me a dollar.

The rest of the night was pretty much the same. I'd stop by the table to check on him. Ed would make brief eye contact, but mostly he just stared down at his shirt. He drank a few beers, and left before I realized he was gone.

And that's how it was with Ed. Over the course of the next six months, whenever I was working, Ed was there. Over time he was able to talk to me. I found out he had been in the military, he was shipped off to Germany, and then he did two tours in Vietnam. When he came back home he ran, trying to escape the things he had seen and the people he had killed. For ten years after, he traveled from state to state; attempting to find peace in a tormented soul. He spent most of his time at the VA, and when he wasn't there, he was here. He would show up at my club right after we opened, and more times than not he would be there when we closed. Sometimes he slept in the corner, and I let him. I knew it was against the rules, but I figured he didn't want to go home---wherever home was.

Ed was a very, very kindhearted man, if not just a little misplaced. He started bringing me presents, but not in the way you might think. Ed would bring me random things from his house--ashtrays, Christmas tree ornaments, refrigerator magnets. I accepted every gift as if it were a six caret diamond necklace.

Slowly, Ed started to change. He no longer sat with his back against the wall, his new favorite table was low on the floor, directly between the two stages. He would often have well over three dancers sitting with him at one time, and frequented "pervert row" to tip directly at the stage. Then, one day, Ed stopped coming, At first I was a little worried, but close to a year went by and I put him out of my head.

He showed up again last weekend, for a birthday party for one of my dancer's. He looked happy, and I hope that he is.

I think, deep down, we are all misfits, just waiting for our own private island where we can be accepted and flourish. I hope that Ed has found his. I hope that someday I will find mine.