Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift (7 page)

It’s 11:23 p.m. I have spent the past six hours and thirty-four minutes playing with my bitchin’ iPhone, minus the time it took for eight pee breaks.

It is the greatest thing I have ever owned. That might be hyperbole, but I don’t care.

I will be able to get rid of my television set.

I will be able to get rid of my VCR, which I don’t use anymore anyway, now that my
Dragnet
tapes are gone.

I will be able to get rid of my DVD player.

I can watch Dallas Cowboys games anywhere.

I barely need my computer anymore.

I have every song R.E.M. has ever released saved to my phone.

I just plotted out the entire trip to Boise, including gas stops, food, and lodging in Butte the first night, then I sent the files to my printer from my “cloud” so I have backup paper copies, which is just smart planning.

I love my “cloud.”

I don’t think my bitchin’ iPhone is enough to countermand (I love the word “countermand”) my declaration that 2011 has been a shitburger of a year, but maybe it can make 2012 the best year ever.

I leave tomorrow.

FROM BILLINGS TO BOISE: A TWO-DAY ITINERARY BY EDWARD STANTON

Dates of travel: December 9–10, 2011.

Beginning address: 639 Clark Avenue, Billings, Montana.

Ending address: 1313 N. 25 Street, Boise, Idaho.

Beginning odometer reading: 27,156.8 miles.

Anticipated ending odometer reading: 27,848.3 miles (this accounts for the 686.5 miles from here to Donna and Victor’s house, plus gives me 5 extra miles for getting off the highway for food and gas. I wish there were some way to be precise about this, but there isn’t).

Anticipated gas mileage: 22.7 miles per gallon on the highway, based on current figures.

Size of gas tank: 18 gallons.

Number of fill-ups needed to complete trip: Two. In Butte on Day 2, and later that day in American Falls, Idaho.

Anticipated amount/cost of fill-up in Butte: 9.925 gallons at $3.23/gallon, for $32.06. Gas prices are highly volatile, however, and this estimate is based on online reports of the average cost of gas in Butte, Montana, today. I have no way of knowing what the prices will be the day after tomorrow.

Anticipated amount/cost of fill-up in American Falls: 12.078 gallons at $3.18/gallon, for $38.41. See my note above about the volatility of gas prices.

Anticipated amount of remaining gas upon arrival at Donna and Victor’s house: 8.666 gallons, or enough for 156.9 miles of city driving at 18.1 miles per gallon. That’s way more than I should need, I would think. The facts will reveal themselves in due time.

Planned accommodations in Butte: I have reservations at the Best Western Plus Butte Plaza Inn on Harrison Avenue. It has a four-and-a-half-star rating on the basis of five reviews on Google. Pros: Easy access from the interstate, a Perkins restaurant adjoining (I love the word “adjoining”). Con: $110 a night. But fuck it. I’m loaded.

Snacks procured: Dr. Rex Helton would no doubt prefer that I eat carrots and celery, but I cannot do that. Aside from the fact that I don’t like celery, there is the issue of freshness to be considered. I am driving 691.5 miles. Therefore, I have unsalted sunflower seeds and a case of bottled water.

Music: Everything R.E.M. has ever released, piped in through my bitchin’ iPhone.

Other details: A few things I need to keep in mind:

1. Remember the medicine and take it every day.
   
2. Remember to take a walk every day and to keep a log for Dr. Rex Helton. I haven’t started this yet, and I need to.
   
3. Keep the car at 65 miles per hour at all times on the interstate. Others may drive faster. At 65, I will get excellent fuel efficiency at a legal speed, thus better ensuring that my fuel usage estimates have a high degree of accuracy.
   
4. Be on the lookout for interesting things on the drive. Stop and take pictures with the bitchin’ iPhone camera. Enjoy the trip.
   
5. Be safe.
   
6. Stop making this list.
   
7. OK, stop now.
   
8. Now.
   
9. Shit.
   
10. I can’t end on 9, so I will end here.
    
11. Thank goodness.
    
12. Shit!
    
13. I
    
14. Guess
    
15. I’ll
    
16. End
    
17. It
    
18. At
    
19. Number
    
20. 20.
    

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 2011

From the logbook of Edward Stanton:

Time I woke up today: 6:17 a.m. The first time all year I’ve been awake at this time.

High temperature for Friday, December 9, 2011, Day 343: 33

Low temperature for Friday, December 9, 2011: 21

Precipitation for Friday, December 9, 2011: 0.00 inches

Precipitation for 2011: 19.40 inches

Addendum: I will be on the road for a few days, so I will have to rely on out-of-town newspapers for the official Billings weather data. That should not be a problem, although I am worried about whether those newspapers use the same source of information that the Billings Herald-Gleaner does. I will have to accept their numbers, I guess, and reconcile them against the Herald-Gleaner when I get home. It’s not an ideal situation.

Because I wish to travel light, I am not carrying my full accompaniment of weather data notations, so I say this in the admittedly sketchy vein of personal recollection: this is the prettiest December I’ve ever seen. I notice this in particular at 8:03 a.m., twelve minutes after I departed, as I’m merging onto Interstate 90 westbound, staring at a clear sky and the Crazy Mountains in the distance.

I’ve eaten my oatmeal and consumed my fluoxetine, lisinopril, potassium chloride, metformin, actos, and furosemide. I’ve packed a large duffel bag with all the clothes I will need for at least a week. Donna and I did not agree on a date when I would return home. It’s unlike me to be so informal about things, and yet somehow, today, that does not bother me. Which bothers me.

I set the Cadillac DTS on cruise control at exactly 65 miles per hour, and I take a swig of water from the bottle in the cup holder beside me. I’ve always heard singers pay tribute to the open road—it seems that you cannot be a singer for long without singing about being on the road, as if that’s required by the international singers’ union or something—and for the first time, I think I understand what they mean. I’m not sure why I waited until I was forty-two years old to do this.

Michael Stipe, incidentally, is not singing about the open road. He’s singing about a crush with eyeliner through my bitchin’ iPhone, which is plugged into my Cadillac’s speakers. Michael Stipe is pretty inscrutable (I love the word “inscrutable”) sometimes.

Thirteen-point-seven miles into my trip, Michael Stipe is singing about how everybody hurts—a song that has resonance with me—when I realize that I hurt, or at least my tallywhacker does.

I have to pee really bad.

Luckily, I am close to the exit for Laurel, the town directly west of Billings, when the urge to urinate strikes. I pull off the interstate and into the parking lot of a gas station, and I hustle inside, holding my tallywhacker through my pants as I look for the men’s room.

As I’m standing there, draining my ever-filling bladder, I think of a word I like: “retromingent.” This means “to pee backward.” I am not retromingent; I pee forward. Cows are retromingent, though. I find this curious.

In the gas station’s store, I buy a pack of sugar-free gum. I don’t like gum very much, but I don’t think it’s right to use the store’s facilities without contributing to its economic well-being. This seems like the right choice.

Soon I’m back on the interstate and headed west again. Michael Stipe is singing about his harborcoat. I have to say, putting my extensive collection of R.E.M. music on shuffle was a smart move by me. While I know that each song will be R.E.M., I have no idea which exact song is coming up until the first notes are struck. I am enjoying this spontaneity.

And yet this enjoyment is balanced by a sadness I haven’t been able to shake since September 21, when R.E.M. announced that they were disbanding. I still wish I knew why Michael Stipe and the rest of R.E.M. had to leave me.

I want to talk about why I’m going only 223 miles on the first day of my trip. Certainly, driving the entire 686.5 miles from my house to Donna and Victor’s would not be impossible to achieve in a single day. If my father were still alive and making this trip with me, I have little doubt that he would say something like, “Teddy, buckle up. We’re going the whole route.” I don’t like to be called Teddy; my name is Edward. But if it meant that I could see my father again and hear his voice, I would be willing to endure it.

The reason I am going only 223 miles today is it’s hard for me to concentrate on a singular task like driving for much longer than
that. This is one of the byproducts of my condition, Asperger’s syndrome with a strong streak of obsessive-compulsive disorder. My mind wanders, and that can become a dangerous situation when one is driving a car, especially alone without anyone to talk to. I’m going to try to drive the remaining 463.5 miles tomorrow. If I make plenty of stops to allow my brain some rest time, I should be able to do that, and once I am at Donna and Victor’s, I will be able to get as much rest as I need to recover from the arduousness (I love the word “arduousness”) of the trip. If I cannot go 463.5 miles tomorrow, I am prepared to spend a second night in a motel. My condition sometimes allows me to do some dumb things, but failing to make contingency plans for a trip like this is not one of them. I have already scouted out the lodging options between Butte, Montana, and Boise, Idaho. I am developmentally disabled. I’m not stupid.

It’s 140.7 miles from my driveway to Bozeman, Montana, and it took me two hours and thirty-two minutes to cover that distance. That segment of my trip took longer than I anticipated because I had to stop to pee twice.

The first time was just outside Columbus, Montana, at mile marker 418. The rest area sits atop a high hill that overlooks the Yellowstone River valley. After taking care of my business, which is a euphemism, I walked along the sidewalk and took in the view. On an unseasonably warm December day like this one, with the sky clear and no haze, it was as if I could see forever, which is of course an optical illusion.

As much as I was tempted to sit down in the grass and look at the scenery for a while, I pushed on. I had many miles to go, and
I would not want to disappoint Donna, Victor, and Kyle by being later than necessary.

Thirty-eight miles on, near the small town of Greycliff, I stopped again. This peeing business is getting a bit ridiculous, although I suspect that I make it worse by drinking so much water. By the time I got to Greycliff, I was on my second bottle, and I hadn’t yet covered a hundred miles. As unlikely as it seems, I may have to invest in a second case of water.