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Authors: Craig Lancaster

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600 Hours of Edward (6 page)

BOOK: 600 Hours of Edward
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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.

I am feeling apprehensive about the painting. The ten-day forecast looked good, so I am reasonably confident that I can get the mocha chino applied and even the bronze green before Billings gets a blast of snow or rain. I don’t know this for a fact, of course. That’s the problem with forecasts. They are notoriously off base.

So it’s not the painting, per se, that makes me hesitant. I don’t quite know what it is. I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn’t dumb of me to buy three kinds of paint, all of which I will have to see on
the garage before I am satisfied. I know this about myself, and I’m now regretful that I couldn’t have chosen just one color and been done with it. Even though I want to blame the unhelpful paint man, I cannot. It’s my fault for being so compulsive.

But what’s done is done. I cannot reverse it now.

I wonder if Joy will think I’m weird for painting the garage three times. Maybe I can wait before telling her. Maybe I’ll put it off to sometime between our first meeting and our discussion about the kids.

– • –

I am in nearly the same spot on the garage and at nearly the same time as before when Kyle shows up. I prefer to be more precise than “nearly,” but I did not write down the time of Kyle’s last visit, as I did not expect that it would be the sort of regular occurrence that would require data keeping on my part. Here, again, is the problem with assumptions. They are sometimes wrong. I prefer facts.

This time, I don’t almost hit my head on the eave when he speaks, because I hear him coming. I also expected that he might show up, and I am right. Sometimes, expectations aren’t so problematic.

“Can I help?” he asks.

Again, I back down the ladder and face him.

“Yes. I have paintbrushes for you.”

Kyle goes over to the lined-up brushes, chooses one, dips it into the mixing pan, and starts sloshing the Behr mochachino on the garage door.

“You should use a steady stroke in the same direction.”

“Like this?” He is holding the paintbrush rigidly and moving it up and down quickly.

“Relax your wrist and slow down a little bit, and paint in one direction.”

“Like this?” He has done as I asked.

“That’s better.”

“Why are you painting the garage again?” he asks.

“It’s part of my plan.”

“Like a secret plan?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“And I’m like your partner.”

“Yes. On this garage plan, you are my partner.”

Kyle giggles.

I let him paint.

“Hey, Edward.”

“Yes?”

“I’m nine years old and two hundred and fifty-one days today.”

“Yes.”

– • –

Boys who are nine years old and 251 days talk…a lot. I am leaning against the hood of my 1997 Toyota Camry, drinking a can of Diet Dr Pepper while I watch Kyle paint. His Diet Dr Pepper is sitting in the driveway, unopened.

Kyle talks about his school. He doesn’t like his teacher. He likes math. And he likes a girl. I ask him if she knows that he likes her. He says no. I ask if he’s going to tell her, and he giggles again.

Kyle talks about his house, the one he and his mother moved into on September 12. He has a PlayStation 2 but wishes he had a Wii, because those “totally rule.” He asks if I want to come over
sometime and play PlayStation 2, and I pretend that I didn’t hear him, and he goes back to painting.

He talks about his mother. She is a nurse at Billings Clinic, and she works Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays in the emergency room. She is thirty-four years old, he offers. She has lived with many men—I count a Donald and a Troy and a Mike in his anecdotes. He tells me that the reason they moved into this house is that Mike hit her, and she filed a restraining order against him. I ask him if he saw Mike hit his mother, and Kyle says softly, “Yeah.”

“Where do you go on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays when your mother is working?”

“I stay with my grandma in Laurel.”

“Your mother’s mother or your father’s mother?”

“My mom’s mom. I don’t know my dad.”

“I know my father.”

“What’s he like?”

“He is a Yellowstone County commissioner.”

“What’s that?”

“He runs stuff around here.”

“Oh.”

“He’s not very nice sometimes,” I offer. “Maybe it’s better that you don’t know your father.”

“I don’t think so.”

– • –

A little before 5:00 p.m., while Kyle and I are washing out the paintbrushes, his mother walks across the street.

“Kyle, it’s about time to go.”

“I know.”

“OK, run home and grab your overnight bag for Grandma’s house.”

“See ya, Edward,” Kyle says, and he lights out.

She smiles at me.

“Hi, Edward.”

“Hello.”

“Kyle wasn’t any trouble, was he?”

“No. He’s a very good painter now.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I taught him how to do it.”

“That’s great.”

I nod.

“Listen,” she says, “I want to thank you for being nice to him. He doesn’t get much of a chance to do these kinds of things.”

“OK.”

“I’m sorry if I was accusatory the other day.”

“OK.”

“You don’t have a lot to say, do you?”

I stare at her.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “That didn’t come out very nice.”

“OK. I have to go now.”

“OK, Edward.”

I gather up the brushes and head to the front door, then stop and turn around.

“Donna?”

She’s halfway across the street.

“Yes?”

“What’s your last name?”

“Middleton. What’s yours?”

“Stanton. I told you that the other day.”

“Right. Sorry. I forgot.”

We’re looking at each other.

“Good-bye, Ms. Middleton.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Stanton.”

– • –

First, dinner. I will have the DiGiorno pizza.

It’s good, but it doesn’t taste like delivery, no matter what the TV commercial says. I don’t think delivery has a taste. It’s nonsensical. Delivered pizza has a taste, but that’s not what the commercial says. Imprecision frustrates me.

– • –

Second, I will write back to Joy. I haven’t given my reply as much thought as I’d hoped, what with spending the day with Kyle and, for a few minutes, his mother. But I can’t put it off much longer, for I fear that Joy will think I am rude.

I decide to wing it. I don’t like winging it. I like plans.

Joy:

I hope this note finds you well.

Thank you for responding to my profile. I enjoyed reading yours. It has given me much to think about. It’s hard to know what to think of this online dating. I wish a kind face (yours) were a reliable barometer. But it seems that one has to be willing to take a chance. I don’t like chance. I prefer reliability and facts.

Here are some things about me:

             
* I am thirty-nine. I was born on January 9, 1969, and so I am really thirty-nine years and 282 days old, if you’re counting. I always count.

             
* I like to track the weather and keep track of other things.

             
* I am six foot four and a bit heavy. You said heightweight proportional but also that a spark was most important. I will take you at your word.

             
* I am a nonsmoker.

             
* I have never married.

             
* I have no children. You spoke a lot about children in your profile. I would like to wait to have those discussions.

             
* I live in Billings. You live in Broadview. That’s thirty-one miles. I would be willing to travel for the right person. How do you feel about this?

             
   I hope to hear from you.

 

With regards,

Edward

I hit send. Holy shit!

– • –

Third, at 10:00 p.m. sharp, I will watch tonight’s episode of
Dragnet
.

This one, the twenty-third episode of the fourth and final season, is called “I.A.D.: The Receipt,” and it is one of my favorites. It originally aired on March 26, 1970. In this episode, a woman accuses two detectives of stealing $800 from a dead
man, and Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon are called in to investigate. They eventually prove that the detectives did not steal the money, because they follow clues relentlessly until the truth emerges.

You may be wondering why, in 2008, my favorite television show is one that was made largely before I was born. I will tell you.

Sergeant Joe Friday, played by Jack Webb, is no-nonsense. He wants only the facts, which he repeatedly tells anyone with whom he is talking. The facts lead Sergeant Joe Friday to the truth, and that allows him to put the bad guys away and make Los Angeles a little bit safer. There are not many TV shows like that anymore. The ones today are full of moral equivalencies, and there seems to be little celebration of the truth. I do like shows like
Law and Order
, which is made by Dick Wolf, who is a big fan of Jack Webb. But even shows like that end up mired in the ambiguity that Sergeant Joe Friday disdained.

Also, some of today’s shows have a totally unrealistic view of the world. On that show everybody seems to love,
24
, Jack Bauer can get from one side of Los Angeles to the other in five minutes. This is simply not possible. I went to Los Angeles on a vacation two years ago—my father was apoplectic when he saw the cost. (I love the word “apoplectic.”) I can tell you from experience that you cannot get from Hollywood and Vine to the Sunset Strip in five minutes, and those places are very close together, in Los Angeles terms. Jack Bauer is fooling his audience, but he doesn’t fool me.

– • –

My letter of complaint tonight requires yet another new green office folder. This letter is overdue.

Unhelpful paint man at Home Depot:

As I have had other things attracting my attention, I have been slow to register my complaint about your poor performance on October 14, when I purchased paint in your store. I would be remiss, however, if I did not cover this ground with you.

BOOK: 600 Hours of Edward
11.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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