Edvard [2]

He doesn't sell many movie posters; it just doesn't seem possible to generate sales without customers. We've all seen the mobster movie where Al Capone launders money through some dry cleaning business. Why not a poster shop? The other night as I walked by, the door to the back room was left open, allowing a heavy, yellow light to make its way into the store. Our shopkeeper was asleep at his desk, take-out box left open. Pausing long enough to take in a scene from the back room, I noticed two men sitting at a green, '70s-style card table. They were smoking. One man was leaning forward with his palm on his forehead, cigarette dangling. The other was leaning back, arms folded across his chest. You can only imagine their dilemma: "I don't think ol' Edvard is gonna' keep us underground for long, Lukas. His hearse, those glasses, everything about 'im is too obvious." Casson was sitting up straight now, gesturing expansively with his meaty left hand, cigarette still dangling. "We all know that by now, Cass. It's only a matter of time. Our man Edvard has a lot of history in the company, but his history lessons 'bout movies or old friends don't get us anywhere now. Everything's changed."

Edvard and his take-out [1]

The first thing I noticed was a flickering, blue - a flash - then a steady black and white. The large, brown-rimmed bifocals reflected the television set, his head tilted to look up at the small screen, his lap holding the square styrofoam take-out box. I only get quick glimpses of him as I walk by his I guess I should call it store. Usually, the crusty brown door is closed fast, with a cast-iron gate locked over the top of it - as if the door wasn't enough to keep people from stealing what amounts to a collection of old junk. The faded sign outside the door says "Original Vintage Movie Posters," thus explaing the forest of rolled up posters that surround him as he eats. I've only seen him on the street once; he was parallel parking his curtain-windowed, silver hearse.