Eddie Munson imagines

Eddie's hair

SFW
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Standing with your back pressed against the formica countertop that surrounded the opening into the greasy, diner kitchen, you could feel the smooth metal pressing a chill through your too-thin uniform shirt. The diner was practically empty, only a few regulars sipping coffee at the counter while they read the newspaper or the paperback novels they brought with them. You ran your fingers through your hair, lifting and shaking the limp roots. You desperately needed the night off you were barreling towards at the end of this shift–you couldn't remember when the last time you had actually washed your hair was, the polish on your nails was chipped, and you had spotted a small breakout in the mirror this morning that you wanted to treat before it had time to swell. You had also noticed how haggard your eyes looked; the purple splotches under your eyes nearly looked like bruises and the lines around your eyes ran deep. "Come on," the other waitress on your shift, Jenny, said. "Come out with us tonight!" Some rich, washed-up jock who had graduated from Hawkins five years ago was having a party tonight, and Jenny desperately wanted backup with her at the party. You knew, however, that going to parties with Jenny always resulted in you either getting left talking to some guy's creepy friend or holding her hair back while she puked. "Nuh-uh," you said. "No way. I'm spending tonight actually getting some rest. Like you're supposed to do on your time off?" Jenny laughed at that, and launched into her favorite lecture for you–you're only young once, everyone dies, don't you want to tell your grandkids about how fun you used to be, etc., etc..

The bell over the door chimed, tinny, as it swung open, but you kept your back to the door and whoever walked in. The watery morning sunlight coming in through the glass windows of the diner this morning had the same impact on your eyes as if you were severely hung over, and you were avoiding it at all costs. Jenny watched the new customer walk in, her eyes tracking them with a slight grimace turning the corner of her mouth down. "Yeah," she said, cutting herself off. "You're taking this one." She shoved a notepad into your hands and then turned away, picking up a coffee pot with an orange handle to refill the mugs lined down the counter. The sigh that broke out of your mouth was only a little louder than socially acceptable as you turned around, looking for the outline of a new person against the harsh gleam of sunlight bouncing off of the chrome napkin dispensers and tops of sugar shakers. In the far corner, where the light was weakest, sat Eddie Munson. Your heart thumped, slightly, against your ribs as he looked up at you from across the room. He smiled, his lips pressed together, and you ran a quick hand over your shirt, attempting to smooth out any wrinkles before you walked over to his booth. "Hey Eddie," you said, voice light.

You had met Eddie Munson in high school years ago. You were warned against him almost immediately–he was a freak, everyone said, and he smoked weed and probably had other stuff, hard stuff like what people get arrested for and your mom would cry about. You had heard your friends bring his name up too many times, always punctuating it with shrill laughs, but you could never convince yourself to laugh at their jokes: you didn't know Eddie that well, but he had always been almost overly polite in the few conversations the two of you had had, and you saw the way he was with his Hellfire kids: how he teased them and then made them smile like he was their big brother. Sure, he wore a lot of black and chains, and you had only heard of most of the band names on his denim vest when your mom was watching a TV special about the rise of Satanic cults in America, but you just couldn't wrap your mind around the idea of Eddie Munson being anything less than...well, than a nice guy.

You were thinking about this as you walked up to Eddie's booth of choice. He came into the diner every now and then–usually early in the morning or late at night, and he always tipped well and made polite conversation with you. The other girls avoided his table, as if bringing him a plate of pancakes with a side of fries would infect them. As a result, you had become very familiar with his routines: early mornings (like this one) were usually accompanied by coffee, no cream, and a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Then, he would sit on the hood of his van in the parking lot, smoking, before getting in and driving away. "Usual this morning?" You asked as you approached him, pen already on your notepad. "Good morning," Eddie said, smiling at you with a soft head shake, like he was clearing his brain. "You look particularly chipper this morning." You laughed, though you weren't sure if the joke was Eddie's sarcasm or how awful you knew you looked. "I know what I look like right now, Eddie, and it's not chipper." "Well," Eddie said, jerking his head slightly to the side, "It's not like I can say 'Hey, you look like shit today.'" You laughed again, a slight blush stealing up your cheeks. "Don't worry," you say, a slight smile on your lips still. "I'll look better the next time you come in." "Well, if that's a promise, I'll go ahead and take my usual for today and make plans to come back tomorrow." He winked at you, handing you the laminated, oversized menu as he did. You would have blushed, but, frankly, this was just how Eddie talked to girls—even the ones who barely looked at him.