I will say, however, that you acquitted yourself nicely on your next album, In Reverse.
As ever, I remain your fan,
Edward Stanton
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 15
When my eyes open, I’m lying on my back. The clock says 7:38 a.m. This is a relief to me, after the waking-time debacle from yesterday. That’s 222 days out of 289 this year (because it’s a leap year) that I’ve stirred at 7:38. There is something in my physiology that favors this time. I do not know what it is. I am not a physiologist.
I reach for my notebook and my pen, flip over to today’s page, and record my wake-up time, and my data is complete.
– • –
Today, I am going to paint the garage. I have been in this house that my father bought for eight years (eight years and eighty-eight days). I paint the house and the garage in alternating years. I would prefer to paint them on the same date each year, but weather is too much of a variable.
Technically speaking, I do not need to paint this often. A good paint job, the only kind that is acceptable, can last ten years or more, even in a climate as erratic as Montana’s. Dr. Buckley tells me that I will feel better if I remain as busy as possible, and I have found that physical busywork is more beneficial than mental busywork. For example, I like putting together plastic models of trains and automobiles and such, but often, I will start thinking not of the glue or the paint involved in the model but about something someone has done to irritate me—that someone often being my father—and I end up writing letters of complaint that I am tempted to mail, and this interferes with my project. Dr. Buckley does not want me to mail my letters of complaint. I also like painting the house and the garage, and my mind does not go to other things when I’m doing so because the work is more physically demanding. That’s why, today, I’m going to paint the garage.
But I can’t paint every day. For one thing, paint needs time to dry. For another, Montana’s weather is such that there is precipitation—that’s rain or snow—every single month of the year. Even if paint somehow magically dried (and there is no such thing as magic) two seconds after you applied it, you would still have to deal with rain and snow. Someday, scientists might make super fast–drying paint. Controlling the weather would be much harder, even for scientists.
There is also a third reason, which I don’t want to talk about for very long, as it will make me angry. The third reason is my father. There is no way that my father would buy enough paint for me to paint the house and garage every single day, even if I could. I have to fight with him just to paint every year, and I know he will be mad when he sees that I’ve bought nine gallons of paint for a tiny one-car garage. It wasn’t my fault, though. Home Depot had too many choices, and the paint man was not helpful. I need to write him a letter.
– • –
After eating a bowl of corn flakes and taking my eighty milligrams of fluoxetine—and after changing into my painting T-shirt and jeans, which are very ratty and thus are kept deep down in my bottom drawer so I don’t have to see them except when they’re needed—I log on to Montana Personal Connect. eHarmony and its twenty-nine levels of compatibility found no one for me, but there are no levels of compatibility on Montana Personal Connect. You just write a profile and post it and wait to see what happens.
My profile looks like this:
Edward, age 39
Status: Single
Seeking: Dating
Lives: Yes
Location: Billings
Region: US-Mountain
Looks: Average
Hair/eyes: Brown/brown
Body: Average (although I don’t know what average really is)
Height: Tall (although I don’t know what tall really is)
Smoking: No
Drinking: No
Drugs: No
Religion: No. I prefer facts.
Sun sign: Capricorn
Education: High school graduate
Children: No
Career field: Not answered
Politics: Not answered
More about me…
I keep track of the weather and I like to watch Dragnet, but only the 1967–1970 color episodes.
There are no messages waiting for me. Montana Personal Connect seems a lot less scientific than eHarmony, but at least it let me post a profile.
– • –
Because I paint the garage so frequently, I need only wash it before painting. When my father bought this house eight years and eighty-eight days ago, the painting on both the house and the garage was in very sorry shape and probably hadn’t been tended to in twenty years. It was so bad that I wanted to write a letter of complaint to the man who sold the house to my father, but my father would not give me his address. That frustrated me.
The first year I painted the house, I had to use a wire brush and a putty knife to dig out defective paint, and then I sanded down most of the house by hand. The next year, when I painted the garage, I knew better and bought a power sander. My father was not happy about that expenditure.
Now I need only wash the garage. It should dry quickly. The Billings Herald-Gleaner said the temperature was going to reach seventy-two today, which is very warm for this time of year. By contrast, the high temperature a year ago was forty-six, which I know because my data is complete. I won’t know for sure whether the temperature reaches seventy-two today until I see tomorrow’s newspaper. Today’s has only a forecast, and forecasts are notoriously off base. I prefer facts.
– • –
My garage, which is detached from the house, is very small. In 1937, when the house was built, people didn’t build the huge houses that are built today, unless they were very rich or very ostentatious. (I love the word “ostentatious.”) The house is 1,360 square feet—680 upstairs and 680 in the basement. The garage is twelve feet wide by fifteen feet deep, or just big enough for my car, a 1997 Toyota Camry, and some tools and other things.
Still, it takes me a while to wash the garage, mix the paint (I’m going to try Behr’s parsley sprig first), and get my various brushes lined up in the order that I’m going to use them. I also have a ladder for those hard-to-reach areas.
By 11:00 a.m., I am painting, working in the same direction that the sun is moving.
I am happy.
– • –
“I like that color.”
I’m on the ladder when I hear the voice, and I’m so startled that I nearly hit my head on the eave. I set my brush on the shelf on the ladder. My heart is beating fast. I steady myself and back down the ladder, and then I turn around.
It’s the boy I have seen across the street.
“What?”
“I said, I like that color.”
“It’s Behr parsley sprig.”
“What does that mean?”
“Behr is the company that made the paint. Parsley sprig is the color.”
“What’s parsley sprig?”
“Do you know that green stuff they put on your plate at a restaurant?”
“Yeah. You’re not supposed to eat it.”
“That’s a parsley sprig.”
“Oh.”
The boy has his hands in his pocket and he fidgets. This makes me fidgety, too. I don’t like it.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Go away, then.”
“Well, maybe…”
“What?”
“Can I help you paint?”
– • –
I am agog. (I love the word “agog.”)
There is an eight- or nine-year-old boy painting the garage. Holy shit!
I do not curse often, but I am partial to the phrase “Holy shit!” Many years ago, I saw the movie Animal House, which is very funny. In one scene, Bluto and D-Day and Flounder from Delta House take a horse into the dean’s office—I am not sure why; the scene flummoxed me—and Flounder shoots a gun in the air, and the horse has a heart attack and dies. The other two guys come in and say “Holy shit!” a l
ot. It is a very funny movie.
I am giggling now, thinking of this.
“There’s an eight- or nine-year-old boy painting the garage.”
“Holy shit!”
“He’s eight or nine, and he is painting the garage.”
“Holy shit!”
“The garage is being painted by an eight- or nine-year-old boy.”
“Holy shit!”
I am pretty funny sometimes.
– • –
The boy does not paint the garage exactly as I would prefer, and I would say something to him if not for the fact that he never stops talking as he paints.
“What’s your name?” he asks me.
“Edward. What’s yours?”
“Kyle. Did you know that your house will be brown, but your garage will be green?”
“Yes. I will paint the house next year.”
“Why next year?”
“That’s the way I do things.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-nine. How old are you?”
“I’m nine. I was born in 1999.”
“That’s the year Kevin Spacey won the best actor Oscar for American Beauty.”
“What’s that?”
“A movie.”
“I like movies.”
“So do I.”
“Are you going to pay me for painting your garage?”
I am taken aback. It’s not quite the same thing as being agog.
“Did we have a deal?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not going to pay you.”
“I am saving up my money for a bicycle. That’s why I was wondering. I have fifty-three dollars, but that’s not enough for the bike I want. My mom said that I might get one for my birthday, but she’s not sure.”
“If you expected money, you should have negotiated a deal with me before you started painting. That’s the fair thing to do.”
“It’s OK. I like painting.”
“When is your birthday?” I ask him.
“February ninth.”
“That’s when you’ll be ten?”
“Yes.”
“You’re nine years and two hundred and forty-nine days old.”
“Cool! How did you do that?”
“I’m good with data.”
His painting is haphazard. Sometimes his strokes are up and down, and sometimes they are side to side. Little dots of paint are missing the garage and landing in the driveway. And I am surprised that I don’t seem to care.
I will have to talk to Dr. Buckley about this.
– • –
The garage painting is finished by 4:30 p.m. It looks pretty good, especially considering that a nine-year-old boy did some of it. I offer to shake hands with Kyle, but he insists on a high five, something I’ve never done. I’ve seen the Dallas Cowboys do it, and it looks like great fun. I hold up my right hand, and Kyle slaps it hard. It sort of hurts. It’s not that much fun.
“See ya, Edward,” Kyle says, and he’s dashing across the street to his house, his blond hair flying behind him, his arms flailing.
– • –
At 8:07 p.m., after I’ve had my spaghetti, I hear a knock on the door. I am flummoxed. Visitors are rare at this house. I have not had a visitor since July 21.
I open the door, and standing on the stoop is the woman I saw mowing her yard yesterday morning, the woman I presume to be Kyle’s mother.
“Hello? Mister…I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name. You’re Edward, right?”
“Edward Stanton. Yes.”
“I’m Donna, Kyle’s mom. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Not until now, no.”
“Kyle told me he helped you paint your garage. I hope he wasn’t any trouble.”
“No.”
“I just thought, if he’s going to be hanging around over here, I should know who you are. I hope you’re not offended.”
“No. But he just helped paint the garage.”
“Of course. I don’t want to be rude. You just can’t be too careful, you know? I’m sure you understand.”
“I didn’t let him go up on the ladder.”
“OK.”
She’s now just looking at me. I stare back at her.
“Is there anything else?” I ask her.
“No, I guess not. Thanks for letting Kyle help you out, Edward.”
“All right, then.”
I close the door. I can tell from the sound outside that Donna stands there for a few seconds before walking across the street to her house.
I’m as flummoxed as I’ve ever been, I think, although I don’t keep data on that. I may need a new word.
– • –
Tonight’s Dragnet is the twenty-first episode of the fourth and final season, “Forgery: The Ranger,” and it is one of my favorites. It originally aired on March 12, 1970.
A character named Barney Regal, played by Stacy Harris, who died many years before I started writing to Dragnet actors, tries to pass himself off as a forest ranger. In talking to various groups about forestry, he ends up stealing credit cards and other valuables. Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon slowly work him over at the office downtown, methodically poking holes in his story until he confesses that he’s not Ranger Barney Regal at all but a common criminal named Clifford Ray Owens.
I would not want to be a criminal being worked over by Friday and Gannon. They would surely make me admit my crimes. They are very logical men.
– • –
I have a couple of candidates for tonight’s letter of complaint. The unhelpful paint man at Home Depot has avoided my wrath so far, and he is deserving of complaint. But I have to concede that the Behr parsley sprig looks pretty good on that garage. He will get a complaint—he deserves one—but it can wait.
Donna:
I did not appreciate your uninvited knock on my door this evening. Had you granted me the courtesy of some warning of your visit, I would have been better prepared to answer your questions and more comfortable in talking with you.
Also, I am uncomfortable addressing you in a familiar way by using your first name. You have left me no choice, however, as you introduced yourself that way. However, I gave you the courtesy of letting you know my last name, and yet you insisted on addressing me as Edward. This, too, is entirely too familiar given our limited interaction.
Your son, Kyle, is a very courteous young man, if a little exuberant. I can only assume that he learned his manners from someone other than you. That said, I do not like assumptions. I prefer facts. Perhaps we can discuss this issue at a more appropriate time, while referring to each other in an acceptable way.
I thank you for your consideration.
Regards,
Edward Stanton
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 16
My eyes open at 7:37 a.m. I am on my side, facing the clock. This does not happen often. I usually wake up on my back. On the 290th day of the year (because it’s a leap year), I have awakened at 7:37 for the sixteenth time. There is no correlation between those numbers that I can see, but as I have recorded both in my notebook, my data is complete.
– • –
Through the big bay window in the dining room, I can see both the garage (now the color of Behr parsley sprig, although not for long) and, in the other direction, signs of life on Clark Avenue. People are heading to work and school and who knows where else. Today, I will be joining them. I have volunteered to make calls for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. I do not like to talk on the telephone, as I do not do spontaneous conversation well, but I have been assured that I will have a “script” to use, and that I can do. I can read very well. Dr. Buckley encourages me to stay as busy as possible, and volunteering to help the Muscular Dystrophy Association seems like a good way to spend a day.
I found out that the Muscular Dystrophy A
ssociation needed a volunteer through reading the Billings Herald-Gleaner a week ago. I am now reading today’s Billings Herald-Gleaner, and the front page says the high temperature will be sixty degrees today. Of course, that’s just a forecast, and forecasts are notoriously off base. I prefer facts. I will know for sure tomorrow what the temperature reaches today.
Today, however, I know that it reached sixty-six degrees yesterday, with a low of forty-four, and I record those numbers in my notebook, and my data is complete.
In any case, I can deduce from the advisory and from what I can see with my own two eyes that the garage should be dry today, while I am off volunteering for the Muscular Dystrophy Association.
– • –
As I’m dressing—brown corduroy pants and a blue button-down, long-sleeved shirt, as today I will be working in an office—I think that it makes me feel good to have a job to go to today. It’s not really a job, of course, but it seems like one, in that I will be in my car when everybody else is going to work, and when I get to the Muscular Dystrophy office, I will be making phone calls and writing things down, just like a person who has a job. I wonder if I will get my own desk. That would be neat.
If everything works out all right, I might even take a coffee break. I don’t like coffee, but if that’s what they do at the Muscular Dystrophy Association, I think it would only be polite to do the same.
I used to have a job, many years ago. In 1993, my father helped me get a clerical job with Yellowstone County. I liked the work very much. I maintained files in the clerk and recorder’s office, and it was very orderly work. Paperwork would come in, and I would find the file where it belonged and put it away. I was very good at keeping everything in order, and when I was asked to retrieve a file, I could do so quickly. My boss was very complimentary of my work, and I was left alone to do it. I liked that job very much.
But I stopped working for Yellowstone County in 1997. A new clerk and recorder was elected the previous November, and she wanted things done completely differently from the way I was doing them. She did not like my work at all, and she told me that I had to do it a different way, her way. I did not like her way, and I told her so. She told me I had to do it anyway. I told her that I wouldn’t. She told me that I would or I would have to find somewhere else to work.
600 Hours of Edward Page 3
