Matt Greene

It is to this door, and this establishment, to which our attention is drawn.

Our awareness, as if carried by an unfelt breeze, has brought us here. To bear witness, even if we, ephemeral as we are, can act not. As we make our way through the door (in our current state we miss, and mourn, the touch of that relentlessly polished knob…while it would probably be cool to the touch of our hands—if we possessed any now—we nonetheless suspect a strange and unexpected heat, were we able to grasp it) the steady and hypnotic drone of River Road—its pulse—rises briefly to a crescendo that feels almost like static before falling away with a deafening and sudden silence.

The effectiveness of the door is overwhelming. Far too old to have been engineered to block sound, it nonetheless does so completely. It feels as if we can hear the whispering of the dust in the air at 177 River. Looking around, there seems to be ample material to generate such sound. It is everywhere, hanging like a fog in the beams of the late summer sun pouring through the front windows. We see, through this golden haze, E.S.T is lined with shelves; floor to ceiling, and tracing the entire perimeter of the store. The shelves are, rather unsurprisingly, filled.

If there is an organizational system at work here, or in fact a theme by which to classify E.S.T as business, it escapes us. A quick glance around the room reveals discordant and overwhelming information. The sheer number of objects on display, as well as their apparent total lack of connection to each other, feels staggering.

There is a shelf apparently devoted to dress shoes and bookends. A pair of men’s wingtips lies sandwiched between the front and back halves of a cat, which is carved out of some dark and oily-looking wood.

In the corner, an antique jewelry case stands. Its elegant legs seem too thin and old to support the glass display which rests on them. Perhaps it is bolted to the wall; which would explain why it was relegated to the corner, rather than on display in a more prominent location. As it is, it feels as if it is crouching in the corner, ancient hand-carved spider’s legs tense and ready to pounce.

The rest of E.S.T’s display space seems to be similarly poised. There is a profound sense of potential energy here. Tension. Being in this space is to be subject to this odd sensation; the dust nearly everywhere—caught in the beams of light flowing through the storefront windows—seems to hover, poised and waiting in the air.

In fact, the only space in this room seemingly free from dust is the counter. It appears to be an old bar of unidentifiable but clearly ancient wood, stretching in a single mammoth slab from one side of the room to the other, polished almost to a point of luminescence. No register adorns this counter, though there are various scraps of paper, pens, and the occasional napkin. On the far left lies an espresso machine, shining in bold and gleaming copper above the worn wood. Though the morning is already warm, we can see tendrils of steam rising lazily above it. To the right of the machine, on the counter, we see why.

With one hand curled around a steaming mug and the other gripping a pen, his brow furrowed in a focus that appears almost painful, Edward Thomas is writing with a speed and intensity that seems to do more than border on mania. His focus and drive crossed that line ages ago; cleared some land and built something permanent. If we had to speculate, just based on his appearance, we would guess that this bit of writing is not the only thing he approaches with at least a hint of madness.

We want to place his age in his late thirties or early forties; but that doesn’t seem right. His face is deeply lined, his dress screams ‘older gentleman who has long since let go of the fear of other people’s opinions’ in the most enchanting of ways. A crisp linen shirt lays beneath a herringbone vest—matched to his pants as well as the coat thrown over the back of the chair in which he sits. Is that a watch fob? We just know it is; and yet, do we not also see a watch on his coffee arm? We do. Edward is, apparently, a man who does not want to be late (or, at least, wants to know exactly how late he is). What we first felt inclined to label as ‘youth’ appears, at second glance, to be an attempt to describe the energy of this man. He conveys (like much of his surroundings), a sense of restrained intensity—there is a deep sense of probable and energetic uncertainty about him, coupled with a sort of rough kindness. We wouldn’t hesitate to ask him to dog sit; but it lies unspoken that the dog will be on the couch while we are gone, being hand-fed choice scraps from Edward’s plate; though both he and the pup will deny it.

We would do well to not loan him a pen, however. The nib of the Montblanc fountain that he is wielding bends under his efforts. He has torn the paper in several spots, and appears less than concerned with the wood underneath. Despite the frenzy of his actions, we notice that his penmanship is exquisite. Elegant copperplate script loops and whirls its way across the page, though we can not make out the message or individual letters. He has filled many pages, it appears—a loose and messy sheaf surrounds him, scattered on the bar nearby.

He pauses suddenly, ink bleeding and spreading through the paper at the point of contact. For a fraction of a second, we are startled, worried that he can somehow sense us as he looks around his shop. He rolls his head gently on his shoulders, laying down his pen and flexing his hand. A sip of coffee, still steaming, seems to land just right—judging from the contented sigh and smile which follows.

Edward resumes writing.

We can leave him now—his brow furrowed in equal parts pain and concentration, steam and pen the only movement in his dusty, sun-dappled shop—and direct our attention elsewhere.