600 Hours of Edward

by Craig Lancaster

  I have trouble enough. I down the last pill and get on with it.

  – • –

  Inbox (1).

  I have been waiting for this.

  I click the link.

  Dear Edward,

  Awesome! Seven p.m. it is at the wine bar. Your totally cracking me up with this Dragnet stuff. You have to tell me all about it.

  I will see you Friday.

  Joy

  – • –

  The wind and rain are complications I do not need today, but they will have to be dealt with. If I am to go on an Internet date, I will need new clothes. The ones I have are fine for painting the garage, or puttering around the yard, or seeing Dr. Buckley, but they are not acceptable Internet date clothes by a long shot. Today has to be the day for that. It is Wednesday. My date is Friday. Were I to wait a day to buy the clothes, I would not have time to return them if something were to go wrong, like a button falling off or a shoe not fitting or something else that I cannot anticipate. Logic demands that I try clothes on today, buy them today, try them on again tomorrow, and then hope for the best on Friday. I cannot do more than that.

  And so it is that I will drive to Rimrock Mall, in the wind and the rain, and then deal with the crowds at the mall. These are not things I enjoy. Worse still, I have to make many left turns to get to Rimrock Mall. Given where this house is and where the mall is, I have no alternative.

  – • –

  Here are a few things you should know about Rimrock Mall so you’ll understand why I am dreading today’s visit there.

  Rimrock Mall is the biggest mall in Montana. Because Billings is such a geographic oddity—at 100,000-plus people, it is the largest city in a 500-mile radius—it isn’t just Billings people who come to the mall. I read somewhere, maybe in the Billings Herald-Gleaner, that half of Northern Wyoming does its monthly shopping in Billings, and it stands to reason that a good number of those people end up at Rimrock Mall.

  If you walk through the Rimrock Mall parking lot on a weekend—I would rather not, but I am setting up a hypothetical statement—you will see license plates from all over Montana and Wyoming and even other places. Montana makes it easy to pick out where license plates are from: The first number is the county code, and the counties are numbered by the population size of the counties when the system went into effect. Yellowstone County plates have the number three on them, because it was the third-largest county, population-wise, back when the system started. It should be number one now, but that would make the people in Butte-Silver Bow County angry, so it stays at number three.

  Anyway, when I am driving in Billings and someone in front of me makes a wrong or erratic turn, I get angry if I see a three on his license plate, as he is from here and should know better. If I see a twenty-seven—that’s Richland County, an agrarian (I love the word “agrarian”) outpost in far Eastern Montana—I don’t get so mad. That’s someone who perhaps doesn’t spend much time in Billings, and I have to be a good person and remember that Billings can be confusing to outsiders.

  I am dreading today’s visit to Rimrock Mall.

  – • –

  At 9:00 a.m., I am sweeping the kitchen floor. The big department stores in Rimrock Mall won’t be open for another hour, and I’d just as soon spend part of the day on housework and let everybody get to work before I venture out in the rain.

  I’m bent over, straining to get the broom under the cabinets, when the phone rings. It startles me every time, because no call is ever expected. I have the phone for emergencies and so my parents can reach me. I have a pretty good idea which one this is, although I won’t know for sure until I pick up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Edward.” It’s my father.

  “Yes.”

  “Quite a stunt you pulled, calling me like that last night and yelling at me.”

  “Quite a stunt you pulled, Father.”

  He sighs heavily into the phone. “You may be right about that, Edward.” And then, in an instant, he’s no longer making a concession to me. “Of course, you forced my hand with that business at the hospital.”

  “That’s over. It’s a nonissue.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you had any dealings with that woman or her boy?”

  I do not like deception or equivocation, but clearly this is a question that demands the sort of answer former President Bill Clinton might offer.

  “I don’t see them.”

  “That’s good. You understand my concern here, right?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a hard case, Edward.”

  “I am what you made me, Father.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “I don’t think you can talk about fair.”

  My father now sounds exasperated. “You know what the funny part is, Edward? I called to apologize.”

  “I can think of something funnier.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You never managed to do it.”

  My father has hung up on me.

  My heart is beating fast.

  I’ve never stood up to him before, not like this.

  I’ve either won a round or ensured that Father’s lawyer is going to accumulate more billable hours.

  – • –

  The only bright spot of being at Rimrock Mall is that I know exactly where I am headed. That knowledge makes it easier to start the slog that begins at the front door near the food court and extends deep into the place. I am not here for pizza or for greasy Asian noodles. I make a left turn at the Starbucks kiosk and walk a diagonal line to the far wall, and then I walk toward Dillard’s at the south end of the mall. I’m dodging baby carriages and listless teens who ought to be in school and slow-moving old people who come here to walk.

  Dillard’s looms like a beacon, an outpost of affordable, fashionable wear for men and women and even a big-and-tall section—the kind of place that will have something for my six-foot-four, 280-pound frame. I am almost there.

  I’m just steps away when a middle-age woman in a pink T-shirt (“Beauty Queen”) and too-tight gray sweats plows into me, spilling her supersize Orange Julius down the front of my pants.

  “Jesus H. Christ on a Popsicle stick!” My father says that a lot. I am surprised to hear it come out of my mouth.

  – • –

  I race-walk into Dillard’s, trying to look like someone who didn’t have an accident in his pants. Judging from the stares I’m getting, I am failing. I duck into the big-and-tall department, which thankfully is just inside the door.

  “Can I help…?” The sales person’s smile disappears.

  “Someone ran into me with an Orange Julius.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I’m here for some dress clothes, but I need jeans now.” I rattle off my size to her, and she fetches a couple of possibilities, and then she leads me to a changing room.

  After a few minutes of writhing out of my soaked jeans and into the two she has offered me, I make my pick: a pair of dark-blue Joseph Abboud jeans. Tag price: $65. My father will not be happy.

  I emerge from the changing room and tell the woman that I’ll wear the Abbouds out the door. She clips the scan tag, then smiles and says, “What else can I help you with today?”

  – • –

  My final haul looks like this: three button-down dress shirts (lavender, white with thick blue stripes, and white with thin brown-and-blue stripes). They are fine items of clothing, fitted Gold Label shirts from Roundtree and Yorke, and I found them at a closeout price. These $75 shirts are being sold for $17.50 (75 percent off).

  I also have two pairs of trousers, blue and chino, also Roundtree and Yorke, and also on closeout, $20 apiece (again, 75 percent off).

  I also have the most wonderful belt I have ever seen, one that reverses and thus is black or brown, whatever I need. Its cost: $35.

  I also have a pair of brown, size twelve, Rockport lace-up dress shoes. Cost:
$65.

  I also have a blue suit with tiny little tan pinstripes. The name on the tag is George Foreman—“The same guy who does the grill!” the friendly saleswoman tells me. It looks good on me. Cost: $300.

  Grand total: $492.50.

  Holy shit!

  – • –

  As I’m making a left turn from the mall parking lot onto Twenty-Fourth Street W.—with the blessing of a left-turn arrow on the traffic light, I might add—the front of my 1997 Toyota Camry is clipped by a car making a right turn out of the strip mall directly across the street. The rain, now coming down in waves, is pelting my windshield so hard that I don’t see the other driver, and by the time I bring the Camry to a stop, set the hazard lights, and climb out of the Camry, the car that hit me is long gone.

  “Cocksucker,” I yell after the car, which I can’t see.

  My new Joseph Abboud jeans are soaked.

  – • –

  I wait until I get home to inspect the damage. It’s not bad: a small paint swap on the front right fender (my assailant’s car was white), some scratching, a dent perceptible only if you run your hand along the fender, which I do.

  But there is a principle involved. I had the right of way. The light favored me. What was that idiot in the white car doing? And why did he or she not stop? That’s breaking the law.

  Also, I will have to talk to my father about this and find out what he wants to do about repairing the Camry. I am not looking forward to that.

  – • –

  At 4:03 p.m., I hear a knock at the door. I look through the peephole and see Donna Middleton under an umbrella.

  I open the door.

  “Hello, Edward.”

  “Hello.”

  “Listen, I hate to sound pushy, but I’m getting soaked out here. Can I come in?”

  “Um. OK.”

  I step back and open the door for Donna Middleton as she closes her umbrella.

  “Leave that on the porch,” I say.

  “Yeah, OK,” she says, and she sets the umbrella down.

  She steps into the house and takes a sweeping look around the small living room. To her left are the two bedrooms, one of which I sleep in, the other of which holds my computer and desk. Dead ahead is the bathroom. To her right are the kitchen and the dining room. Through the kitchen and downstairs is the basement.

  “This is a cute little house, Edward. You keep it so clean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I sit down?”

  “Yes.”

  She picks the love seat along the west wall of the house. I pick the couch that runs perpendicular to it and the cushion farthest from her.

  “Edward, I want to thank you properly for that…What is it called? That Blue Flash? Anyway, I want to thank you properly for that. You’ve made Kyle a very happy little boy.”

  “Blue Blaster.”

  “Blue Blaster! Yes,” Donna Middleton says, laughing. “Anyway, Kyle has had so much fun on that thing. He’s bummed that he can’t ride it today in all this rain.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At home, soothing himself by playing PlayStation Two. Guitar Hero. I had to get out of there. There is only so much ‘Slow Ride’ I’m willing to listen to.”

  “Foghat.”

  “Is that who it is?”

  “Yes. I’ve never played Guitar Hero. But it’s definitely Foghat.”

  “You should come over some time and play it. It’s fun in small doses. I’m terrible at it.”

  “Does it have Matthew Sweet or R.E.M.?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Those are my favorites.”

  “I like R.E.M. I haven’t heard of Matthew Sweet, I don’t think.”

  “He had that song ‘Girlfriend.’ That was his big hit.”

  “Nope, don’t recognize it. Why do you like those guys so much?”

  No one has ever asked me that question.

  “I watched a lot of MTV several years ago. I liked the video for the R.E.M. song ‘Losing My Religion’ and—”

  “That’s a really good song.”

  “Yes. So I started listening to more of their songs, and Michael Stipe, their lead singer, uses really interesting word combinations.”

  “Interesting. What about the other guy?”

  “Matthew Sweet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know, I guess. He sings a lot of songs that are sullen, and I feel that way sometimes. He is also really good at melodies, and I like those. Do you think there’s a chance that he is on Guitar Hero?”

  “Well, it’s Kyle’s game. He could tell you everything that’s on it, how well he scored, the words to the songs. Until that Blue Blaster showed up, Guitar Hero was just about all he did, other than sleeping, eating, and going to school.”

  I give Donna Middleton a half smile.

  “Edward, can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do? Do you have a job?”

  “No, I don’t work. I do things around the house. I paint the garage. I build things. I keep track of the weather. I watch Dragnet. Things like that.”

  “How do you pay for everything?”

  “My father does.”

  “Edward, I want to tell you something. That day at the hospital, your father told me about your condition. Does it bother you that I know?”

  “No, I heard him tell you that.”

  “Is that why you don’t work?”

  “Jobs are hard for me. I’m good at the work, but it’s hard to deal with bosses and coworkers sometimes. My therapist, Dr. Buckley, and I have been working on that. Maybe someday I could have a job again.”

  “I talk to a therapist, too. Life is hard. Sometimes, it helps to talk about it, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.”

  – • –

  For nearly an hour, Donna Middleton sits on my love seat and tells me about her therapist, about how she put herself through nursing school after Kyle was born, about how she lived at her parents’ house in Laurel, and about how her mom helped raise Kyle. Kyle’s dad was Donna’s high school boyfriend. They had broken up after graduating from high school, and then they ran into each other at a bar several years later. She tells me about how one night changed everything for her. After she got pregnant, her old boyfriend would have nothing to do with her. That’s when she knew she was going to have to do better for her boy.

  “He looks so much like his father, and that is hard sometimes,” Donna Middleton is telling me. “But he’s such a sweet boy, and that’s not like his father at all. He’s the greatest gift of my life.”

  – • –

  In that same hour, I tell Donna Middleton about my therapy, about my difficulties with my father, about how I came to live in this house. I do not tell her about the online dating, and I cannot explain why except to say that it doesn’t seem right. I do tell her about the letters of complaint. This intrigues her.

  “Any letters of complaint to me?” she says.

  “Two.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “Can I read them?”

  “No. They don’t get read, and they don’t get sent. They are a therapeutic tool.”

  “Interesting. And you write one of these letters every day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you ever run out of things to complain about?”

  “Not yet.”

  – • –

  Donna Middleton bids me good-bye. I open the door for her, and she gathers up the umbrella, opens it, and holds it tight against the wind and rain. I watch her look both ways on Clark Avenue, and then she dashes diagonally across the street and back to her house.

  – • –

  Tonight’s Dragnet episode is called “The Big Explosion,” the second installment of the first season of the color episodes. It originally aired on January 19, 1967, and it is one of my favorites.

  Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon are investigating the theft of 400 pounds of dynamite from a construction sit
e. Because they are good police officers, they eventually trace the missing dynamite to a white supremacist named Donald Chapman, who borrowed a friend’s car and stole the explosives. A witness saw the license number, which leads to the friend, who leads Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon to Donald Chapman. You have to be tenacious (I love the word “tenacious”) to be a cop.

  This episode is interesting in another way. It is full of actors who went on to be members of the Dragnet ensemble and other Jack Webb projects. Kent McCord, who played Officer Jim Reed in Adam-12, is in it. So is Bobby Troup, who played Dr. Joe Early on Emergency! and who in real life was also a jazz pianist and married to Jack Webb’s ex-wife Julie London. Don Dubbins plays the white supremacist, Donald Chapman.

  Jack Webb saw the benefit of having friends and relying on them. I’m beginning to see that myself.

  – • –

  Before bed, I prepare another green office folder.

  Unnamed motorist who hit me on 24th Street W.:

  You made a lot of mistakes today. First, you turned against the light, clipping my 1997 Toyota Camry. Second, you left the scene of an accident without swapping insurance information, and that is a crime.

  Why run? The damage is not much—so little, in fact, that I suspect my father will not opt to have it fixed, as the deductible will be charged to him. Had you been responsible about the situation, your insurance would have covered the damage. Now I am having to confront the likelihood of having to drive a dinged-up car. This is not fair to me.

  Driving is not a right. It is a privilege. Unfortunately, you left the scene of an accident and will be able to keep driving. I hope that you don’t affect other motorists the way you have affected me.

  Finally, I would just like to add that you have confirmed the reason that I prefer right turns to left turns. Left turns, statistically, are more dangerous than right turns, especially on two-way streets, as 24th Street W. is. Had I been making a right turn, our paths would not have crossed, although that would not have mitigated against the fact that you were turning against the light.

  Please, for your own sake and the sake of the many drivers who share the road with you, be more mindful of the situations you are in.