BY THE WAY: A CRABBY IMAGE IS SOMETIMES WORTH PROTECTING

At first glance, I thought the patrons at Hennesseys were having cruel fun at Crabby Ed's expense.

The cardboard sign hanging on the wall at this St. Louis pub read: "Happy Birthday Crabby Ed."

It didn't take long for me to find the man of the hour. There he was, stooped shouldered and leaning over the solid oak bar wearing a demeanor that suggested he did some work to solidify his nickname.

So downcast was this man, shrouded in a heavy fog of gloom, that his beer seemed to be crying over him.

Ed continued to nurse his drink, every now and then casting a forlorn glance toward the door. I thought maybe he was expecting someone to show up at his party and was saddened that the special friend had not yet arrived.

I decided I needed to find out why a man with such a sour disposition would merit so much attention from the bartender and people surrounding him.

Even if they were approaching Ed's birthday with sarcasm, it became increasingly evident that these people had a genuine appreciation for him.

After talking to him for a few minutes, I realized that Ed was anything but crabby. In fact, he seemed to carry himself with uncommon distinction.

Ed was telling me that he usually becomes nostalgic with the passing of another birthday, reflecting on one or two women in his life who made a difference.

He told me that he and his ex-wife get along better now that they're divorced than they ever did as a married couple. Ed's hard features began to soften even more when he began talking about one of his past girlfriends.

"She was a music major, I remember that," Ed said with a wistful look. "I suppose most people would have thought she was pretty ordinary. I mean, she didn't have any outstanding features or anything. But to me, she was beautiful inside. That's were it counts most with me."

Ed proceeded to recount a tale about a weekend float trip. "Usually when you put a man and woman in a canoe, you're inviting disaster," he said. "Not this woman. We floated down that river in perfect harmony. I never really appreciated that at the time. But the longer I think about it, the more I wonder if that wasn't a sign we would have been good together. You know, as husband and wife."

Crabby Ed continued to check the entrance of this Soulard pub. I decided to ask him if he was expecting someone. "Not really," he said. "I guess I have a habit of doing that when I start thinking about what might have been with that woman. It's not like I expect her to show up after all these years. I'm sure she's got a nice life with someone somewhere."

I thought this would send Ed back into a deep blue funk. Instead, it seemed to lift his spirits. "Any regrets Ed?" I said. "I mean, after thinking about what might have been with the woman you obviously loved, do you feel you let happiness slip from your grasp?"

"Nah," he said. "That woman could walk through the door, see how crabby I look and turn right around. That would just devastate me. I'd rather have the weekend canoe trip as my lasting memory of her and of us together."

A man who identified himself as Ed's best friend decided to buy a round of drinks for everyone at the bar. Ed actually seemed to be smiling. When I asked him if he was finally willing to relinquish his crabby image, Ed let his smile wither.

"If I do that they probably wouldn't have any reason to throw me a party next year," he said, determined to let the best part of his personality glow from within.

~Bill Heitland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.