i'm pretty sure edison has ghosts. talking to frog tonight really sealed the deal. "it's an indian burial ground, you know." he said. i nod in affirmation.
frog grew up here. his name is actually thomas, and i'm not sure where his nickname came from. he's usually donning some frog paraphernalia of some sort. he's tall and lanky with long black hair and a goatee, with a hoodee and a baseball cap and skate shoes he blends right in. but he's different. he's a bit of a local celebrity, and an edison authority. frog lives down the street in a house with his grandma, protecting her from aggressive vacuum salesmen and other opportunist-type people who would like to take advantage of an elderly woman. what all i know about frog: he has a heart of gold. he stashes tall cans of rainier in between slough food and Marilyn's house. he fell out of a tree when he was young and was paralyzed. he learned how to walk again, but one of his hands doesn't work the way he wants it to. he likes to buy me and james drinks, preferably shots. he is extremely sentimental, and emotional, and will sometimes cry when a meaningful song comes on the juke. tonight, it was someday never comes by credence. at fourteen, he used to sneak into the town's then-slaughterhouse office and call 900-numbers with his buddies. he saw many a cow get axed, and even tried to rescue one. he dragged the calf all the way home, clipped its ear tag and shaved the burned-in numbers from it's fur to hide it's identity. not knowing what to do from there, feeling helpless, he let the cow go free. he doesn't know what happened to it.
i love frog, he makes life better here in this tiny town. he makes life in edison more colorful, more meaningful. he helps me realize that a town is not just made of it's buildings. it's not just the architecture or the environment. it's the people. that's what makes this town special.