My father had to come down to the office after I removed every file and shook its contents onto the floor. The new clerk and recorder told my father that she was going to call the deputies if he did not remove me immediately.
After that, I did not have to work anymore.
– • –
The Muscular Dystrophy Association office is in the West End of Billings, a few miles from the house on Clark Avenue, which is in a part of Billings that I suppose you would call central. But I have read histories of Billings suggesting that where I live, at Sixth Street W. and Clark Avenue, used to be the western edge of town. I suppose that the idea of what is north, south, east, or west of something else depends a lot on what point of history you’re looking at. These are facts that change. This flummoxes me.
At Nineteenth Street W. and Central Avenue, I see the Exchange City Par 3 Golf Course. My father loves golf, so much so that he wears golf shirts no matter what time of year it is. He looks like a tool. (I love the word “tool” in the pejorative sense. I also love the word “pejorative.”) He and my mother go on vacation in places like Pebble Beach, California, and Hilton Head, South Carolina. I’m not sure what my mother does in those places, but my father plays golf.
When I was a boy, my father took me to the Exchange City Par 3 Golf Course and tried to teach me how to play. We went once, and I have never been back. Golf is a stupid game. You cannot hit the ball the same way every time and get the same result—not even Tiger Woods, the best golfer in the world, can do this. I do not like such unpredictability. Our golf outing ended when I threw three of my father’s golf clubs into the water. He didn’t talk to me for two days after that.
I take a right turn on Monad Street (I like right turns), then a left on Twentieth Street W. (I don’t like left turns so much), cross over King Avenue W., and see the Muscular Dystrophy Association office. I pull into the parking lot.
I am a little bit nervous. As I reach for the keys, I hear through the car speakers the opening bars of R.E.M.’s “Try Not to Breathe,” and it seems to me that this is just about the worst possible advice right now.
– • –
Inside the Muscular Dystrophy Association office, I am met by a woman named Sonya Starr, who smiles a lot and wears too much makeup. She firmly shakes my hand, and I think she notices that I recoil a bit at that, but her smile stays firmly attached to her face.
“Thank you so much for coming in and helping us, Mr. Stanton.”
Sonya Starr has more teeth than anyone I’ve ever seen, although I know this is just an illusion. The normal adult human mouth has thirty-two teeth, and it defies all statistical probability that Sonya Starr has thirty-three teeth and everyone else has thirty-two.
“You’re welcome.”
She smiles again. “We had expected to have two of you making calls today, but unfortunately, our other volunteer had to cancel, so it looks like it’ll just be you.”
“Do I have to do the work of two people? Because I don’t think I can do that, since I’ve never done this before, and if that’s the requirement, I should have been told of this when I called last week.”
Sonya Starr is not smiling anymore.
“It’s no problem, Mr. Stanton. You do what you can do in the time that you feel you can give us. You are a volunteer, and we appreciate you for offering your time.”
“Yes.”
Sonya Starr is definitely not smiling anymore.
– • –
Sonya Starr explains to me what I will be doing today. I am to call businesses on a master list and ask if they would like to participate in the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s Turkey Time fund-raiser.
I have a script for this:
“Hello, Mr./Mrs. _______________. This is (your name) from the Muscular Dystrophy Association of Montana. I am calling to see if your business is interested in helping with our Turkey Time fund-raiser. Are you familiar with Turkey Time?”
(If the answer is no, read the next paragraph. If yes, skip to the next paragraph.)
“Turkey Time is a fund-raiser in which customers are asked if they would like to buy a turkey for one dollar to assist the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Customers who choose to buy a turkey get a paper turkey on which they can print their name, and the turkey is displayed at your place of business. The money generated goes to the Muscular Dystrophy Association in support of our range of programs for children afflicted with this terrible disease.
“Are you interested in taking part in this fundraiser?”
(If the answer is yes, proceed to the bottom and explain to the business how the program is administered. If the answer is no, read the next paragraph.)
“I’m sorry to hear that. The program is very easy to administer, requires no up-front cost to you, and helps many, many children and their families deal with the effects of this terrible disease. Are you certain that you’re not willing to take part?”
(If the answer is yes, politely thank the business for its time. If the business now expresses interest, read the last paragraph.)
“We thank you so much for your participation. I will now ensure that I have the correct address for your business, and then we will send you a packet with the turkeys and an explanation of how to get the money back to us.”
(Now verify mailing address and contact information before hanging up.)
“Again, thanks so much for your time and your generosity to the Muscular Dystrophy Association of Montana. Good-bye.”
This is going to be exhausting.
– • –
After showing me to a cubicle and teaching me how to use the hands-free headset, Sonya Starr asks me if I have ever seen the Turkey Time fund-raiser. She says she wants to hear from the “front lines” how recognizable the program is.
“No,” I say.
“It’s in all the grocery stores this time of year, as Thanksgiving approaches. Are you sure you haven’t seen the little paper turkeys at the checkout stands?”
“I use the self-checkout stands. It’s easier not to talk to anyone.”
Again, Sonya Starr isn’t smiling.
– • –
The calls are a disaster.
First of all, I’m supposed to ask for the manager or owner. I rarely get that person. I get a lot of answers like, “He goes home at ten,” or “He won’t be in this week.” I get so many of these, in fact, that I soon regret that I’m not counting and classifying the answers I’m getting.
Second of all, I get a lot of hang-ups. I’ll be halfway through my opening—“Hello, Mr. Business Owner, this is Edward Stanton with the Muscular…”—and I’ll hear, “We already gave,” and a click. This is frustrating.
Third of all, I get a lot of dodges. People tell me that only the corporate office can approve things like the Turkey Time fundraiser, and so I ask for those numbers and fill up another sheet of paper with more numbers to call.
Fourth of all, Sonya Starr’s preferred method of keeping track of the calls is terrible. She wants me to mark successful calls—as of noon, I have two of those—with a yellow highlighter. The calls that don’t connect with an owner or manager—as of noon, I have fourteen of those—take an asterisk so they can be called back. The ones that turn me down—as of noon, I have eighteen of those—are to be marked with a strike-through.
If you ask me, which Sonya Starr did not, it would be better to mark the callbacks with a yellow highlighter and the successful calls with a green highlighter. (The strike-through, of course, makes perfect sense.) The reason is simple: Green means go (as in, these Turkey Time turkeys are ready to go), and yellow means wait (as in, you will have to wait and try these numbers again). Anybody who drives a car knows the value of these particular colors.
At 12:30, Sonya Starr tells me I can go to lunch. There has been no coffee break.
– • –
At 1:29, I return from lunch and stop in at Sonya Starr’s office.
“Yes, Mr. Stanton?”
“I was wondering if I c
ould change the way I mark the calls.”
“Why?”
“This way is dumb.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a yellow highlighter for a successful call and an asterisk for a callback. It should be green highlighter for a successful call and a yellow highlighter for a callback.”
“Does it really matter?”
“Yes. Colors have meanings. Yours don’t make any sense.”
“But everybody in the office knows this color scheme.”
“It flummoxes me. It’s probably why the calls have gone so poorly.”
“I doubt that.”
“I’m sure of it. Well, I’m not entirely sure. I would have to do a detailed analysis to be sure and talk to all of the business owners and ask them what is causing them to say no, and I doubt that I could do that, since I have had so much trouble reaching them thus far. So it’s not right for me to say I’m sure. I prefer facts. But the fact is that I’m flummoxed by this.”
Sonya Starr smiles at me.
“Mr. Stanton, I think we won’t be needing any more of your help. Thanks ever so much for coming by.”
– • –
On my drive home, I’m stopped at every traffic light by yellow. I do not keep data on traffic lights, but I cannot remember this ever happening to me.
– • –
As I near the house, I see that Kyle is standing on the sidewalk where it crosses the driveway. His back is to the street. His hands are jammed in his back pockets, and he is staring at the garage.
I toot the horn, and he jumps aside and waves at me. I pull the car forward, set the brake, shut off the ignition, and get out.
“The garage looks good,” Kyle says.
“Yes.”
“We did a good job. Do you like the color?”
“Yes. But I’m painting it again tomorrow.”
“What? Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
“Can I help?”
“If you want to.”
“Will I get paid?”
“No.”
He smiles. “I had to ask.”
And then he’s gone, running again. I can’t remember the last time I ran. I don’t keep data on that.
– • –
Dinner is leftover spaghetti with meat sauce, warmed up in the microwave. I eat spaghetti nine times a week, every week, and it is my favorite food. And yet, tonight, I wonder if I am in a rut.
– • –
Tonight’s episode of Dragnet—the twenty-second of the fourth and final season—is called “DHQ: Night School,” and it is one of my favorites.
In this episode, which originally aired on March 19, 1970, we see two Dragnet rarities: First, Sergeant Joe Friday spends most of the episode not wearing his customary gray suit, as he is attending night school. Instead, he wears a red cardigan sweater that I can only assume was a popular item in 1970, although I don’t like to assume. I prefer facts. Second, Sergeant Joe Friday has a female interest in this episode, a young nurse who is also attending night school. I guess night school was the sort of place where you met someone in 1970, before the Internet and online dating.
Sergeant Joe Friday is doing very well in night school, but he spots a classmate carrying marijuana, and because he is a cop and cops are never off duty, he arrests his classmate after school. This greatly angers the teacher, played by an actor named Leonard Stone, who also played Sam Beauregard in the movie Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, which is one of my favorites. He’s the one who says, “Violet! You’re turning violet, Violet!” Sam Beauregard is also supposed to be from Miles City, Montana, which isn’t all that far from where I live.
Sergeant Joe Friday ends up getting kicked out of class on a vote of the classmates for breaking their trust. Sergeant Joe Friday stews about this, then comes back and asks the teacher for one more chance to talk to the class, with the agreement that if he doesn’t sway two-thirds of the class, he’s still out. The vote is in favor of Sergeant Joe Friday, but not by two-thirds, and he is prepared to leave until a lawyer wearing an eye patch tells the teacher that he has no right to deny Sergeant Joe Friday an education and that he will file charges to keep Sergeant Joe Friday in the class if the professor persists.
This episode, I think, is about standing up for what you believe in, no matter how unpopular. I need to be a lot more like Sergeant Joe Friday.
Sonya Starr:
I wish to express my extreme displeasure with your intractability on the issue of how to label the calls made on behalf of the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Your refusal to listen to my concerns and then your abrupt dismissal of me were not professional representations of your organization.
I think that people who stand up for what they believe in, no matter how unpopular, should be celebrated, not cast aside. I believe that my ideas about green highlighters and yellow highlighters could have served the Muscular Dystrophy Association well, if only they were given a proper and considerate airing.
It is my hope that should we have occasion to work together in the future, you will exhibit a higher standard of professionalism.
Respectfully submitted,
Edward Stanton
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 17
It’s hazy in here. The edges of my vision have a gauzy feel. An R.E.M. song I like, “Daysleeper,” calls it “headache gray.” Michael Stipe, R.E.M.’s lead singer, puts words together in odd yet pleasing ways.
Suddenly, she comes into view. I think I have seen her before, and yet I cannot put a name to her. She is looking at me in a way that sends a tingle through me. She licks her lips and moves closer to me.
She is naked.
I am naked.
She reaches down. Oh my goodness. This can’t possibly…
– • –
My eyes fly open. My breath is shallow and rapid. It’s 7:39 a.m. It is the twenty-third time this year that I have awoken at this time, although never before like this. I breathe deeply and purse my lips and expel the air in a single blast. I reach for my notebook and pen, flip to today’s page, and write down “7:39 a.m.,” and my data is complete.
Also, my balls ache.
– • –
When I log on to Montana Personal Connect, I see something I haven’t seen before:
Inbox (1).
I had not anticipated this. I try not to anticipate things at all, as that is just supposition about what will happen, and supposition is not fact. I prefer facts. And yet I know that anticipation is also human, and so am I, no matter how much I try to resist it.
I had not anticipated this. It seems silly to say, but I am not sure what to do.
I had not anticipated this. I guess I should click the inbox link. Yes, that’s the thing to do.
I had not anticipated this.
Click.
Edward:
I really liked your profile. So many people on here try to “sell” themselves. Its all so fake. But your profile is simple and to the point. I like that in a man.
And your funny too. Anyway I hope you will check out my profile and maybe write back.
Have a great day!
Joy
I am flabbergasted. (I like the word “flabbergasted.” It’s not quite an onomatopoeia, another word I like, but it’s close.)
It’s not a perfect letter. Joy does not seem to know the difference between “you’re” and “your,” or how to use an apostrophe or a comma, and she didn’t mention anything about tracking the weather.
It’s also the first response my profile has received. Beggars can’t be choosers, as the saying goes. My father says that a lot, but I don’t think it’s a philosophy to him. He just doesn’t like poor people. It’s not a philosophy to me, either. I prefer facts.
Joy’s profile picture is very pretty. It would be a stretch to say she’s beautiful. Beautiful is Angelina Jolie or Merry Anders, one of my favorite ensemble actors on Dragnet. Joy is not that. But she is
very pretty.
She has short blonde hair and blue eyes that are very bright. She smiles very well, and she has dimples. She looks very sturdy, too, which isn’t always considered a beautiful trait, but I like it.
This is what her profile says:
The guy I am looking for is secure and wants a woman who is secure too. Ive been there done that with guys who are controlling or insecure and never again. I am a simple girl with simple tastes. Take me out to a movie and dinner once in a while and its all good. I prefer H/W proportionate but its the spark that counts. If you can make me laugh its all good. If your in a relationship or living in your parents house don’t bother. If your rich that’s even better. Ha ha. I have 2 kids who live with there dad. I would like to have more kids.
Joy is forty-one. If she wants to have more kids, she needs to hurry.
Her grammar is atrocious. I am worried about this desire for more kids. It is a lot to think about right now, since I haven’t even met Joy. I can’t think about kids yet. It’s too much pressure. Also, she lives in Broadview, a small town that is thirty-one miles away. A lot of reasons not to respond are piling up. I am thinking about hitting delete on her note and waiting for another response. It could be a long wait, though.
Dr. Buckley has encouraged me to challenge my tendency to not want to talk to or meet people. I wonder what she would think of this.
She might tell me that Joy was very nice to have responded to my profile and that I ought to be equally nice in return.
She would probably tell me to be more forgiving about the atrocious grammar.
Maybe I should write back.
Maybe I should paint the garage first and figure out what I want to say.
– • –
After eating a bowl of corn flakes and recording yesterday’s weather data—high of fifty-seven, low of thirty-four on the 291st day of the year (because it’s a leap year), and now my data is complete—I drag the Behr mochachino paint, the mixing pans, and the paintbrushes into the driveway. I have extra brushes for Kyle, in case he decides to show up after school.
600 Hours of Edward Page 4
