Usually when you saw him he was pushing a battered grocery cart loaded with cast-off pine boards and cardboard boxes down the sidewalk. He always wore a skirt, and sometimes women’s shoes: doubly odd when you considered his men’s flannel shirt and full beard.
Back then we didn’t know about post traumatic stress disorder or cross-dressers or mental illness, so we just called him “Crazy Ed.”
“Hey look,” someone would say as Ed’s cart squeaked past, “Crazy Ed’s got an old fender from the junkyard!”
Ed didn’t make much sense when he talked, and sometimes kids were mean, but he never seemed to notice.
He’d go to the coffee shop downtown and slap his $0.50 down, mostly pennies and nickels, telling anyone who’d listen about the people he knew in the Army. Then, instead of a tip, he’d leave a matchbook or a few pebbles and be on his way.
