Dawn of the Edgari
There is a wonderful scene in the film "Shaun of the Dead" in which a group of people studies a zombie they've impaled to a tree so they can mimic its behavior to pass unnoticed through a huge throng of zombies that stands between them and a pub they want to hole up in. "Take a good look at its face," their thespian coach says while pointing at the gently groaning zombie. "It's vacant, with just a hint of sadness."
I was reminded of this scene the other day when I sat at one of my favorite bars in downtown Riga, carefully studying the inscrutable physiognomy of the barman.
I've seen this man countless times before, in the sense that I've seen him countless times before, and many others exactly like him. He perfectly embodies a very specific type of Latvian male, which I will term an Edgars, since that happens to be the barman's name, or Edgari, to refer to them generically.
Edgari fascinate me. They are generally handsome, in a banal sort of way, and well-built, in a pumped up bullfrog sort of way. Edgari are deeply confused individuals by and large, although they are adept at masking it through all manner of tricks, such as firm handshakes, unwavering opinions about hockey and by generally having an attractive girlfriend to hand.
Edgari carefully cultivate an outward show of machismo, but you almost suspect they really want to do nothing more than put on a woman's dress, or weep on to a stranger's breast, or do anything other than be themselves for 10 minutes.
I must stress that Edgari are not bad people. Far from it. They are generally kind and do not in any way ever attempt to consume live flesh. In my frequent dealings with them, I have found Edgari to be pleasant, well mannered and even amusing.
It's just a very particular look in their eyes that really sets Edgari apart. They are immensely uncomfortable looking intimately at anyone who they haven't known since kindergarten, and there is a certain something desperately lacking in their eyes. The next time you see an Edgari, take a good long look at him and perhaps you'll see what I mean. They're vacant, with just a hint of sadness, or even madness, depending on how tightly his belt is done up.
