Now that I think about it, I arrived at every shoot expecting not to see Edgar, but he was always there just the same. While I was spreading out the tripod and sorting through filters and lenses, he would roam back and forth behind the rest of the crowd. While I was adjusting the camera, he would run his fingers through curly grey hair and lick his lips expectantly. If we were shooting inside, he was right at the door, sometimes scamming his way inside. If we were out on the sidewalk, he would gradually move through the crowd of curious tourists and frustrated, hurrying locals until he was in the shot.
Every time, he was in the shot. It was a joke among the rest of the crew. We wondered how he found out where we were. Sometimes, in the bar after work, we wondered why. Mark, when he trained me, mentioned that Edgar would be there. I didn’t really believe that he meant every time until my tenth time out. Sometimes, we would purposefully stage the reporter with his back to a busy street, or against a wall. Edgar would simply cross the street and stand, his hands in his pockets.
But then, last week, he was gone. The next day, no Edgar. Saturday’s Local Focus, right in the middle of downtown, and no Edgar. Ten years at this, and I had seen him everyday. I started to look for him everywhere. I scanned the obituaries page more closely. He wasn’t in the grocery store or the park, but then, he never had been. We took longer than we had to on location shots, waiting for him to show.
I worried, but the machismo of the group took over. Over beer, it seemed less important. We spun tales of Edgar’s lovers, an old beauty who had seem him on the 5:30 and returned at last.
