Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift (4 page)

As I wrote earlier, this is just a sampling of the chores left undone by my involuntary separation. By the time I finish these items, there will no doubt be many more things for me to do. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that maintenance at so large a plant is an ongoing concern. I stand ready to assume my previous position and assist you with these tasks.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Regards,

Edward Stanton

I am proud of this letter. I fill out the envelopes for Jay L. Lamb and Mr. Withers, seal the letters inside them, affix a stamp upon each, and clip them to the mailbox so they go out first thing tomorrow.

For the first time in three weeks and a day, I feel content. I like it. I feel so content, in fact, that I will lie down for a nap after I take my medicine. It’s not even 3:00 p.m.

When I wake up with a start at 10:48 p.m., four unrelated thoughts are in my head.

The first is that I have to pee really badly. I run into the bathroom, which fortunately is adjacent to my bedroom, and I just manage to get my pants down before the pee comes. It’s like my tallywhacker (I love the word “tallywhacker”) is a miniature fire hose, the way the pee shoots out of me. It is a clear, strong stream, and just when I think I’m about to be done, more comes out. I don’t think I’ve ever peed this much, although I must concede that it has never occurred to me to measure my pee output on a
consistent basis. While the idea has some appeal—I love keeping data on things—I quickly recognize this as one of the compulsions that Dr. Buckley always told me I had to work hard to control.

In any case, I can now see that Dr. Helton was right: my new medicine will make me pee a lot. Not enough to lose 31.08 percent of my body weight, but a lot. (I just made a joke. I’m pretty funny sometimes.)

My second thought concerns the new TV show I’m trying to get into. When I call it a new show, I mean it’s new to me. It’s actually an old show called
Adam-12
, and it was produced by Jack Webb, the star of
Dragnet
, so it ought to be good. My mother gave me the DVDs for the first season of the show back in February, after I got the news about Dr. Buckley’s retirement. My mother thought it might cheer me up, but it didn’t. I just put the box on a shelf in my den. It wasn’t until Mr. Withers fired me twenty-two days ago that I started watching
Adam-12
, since I had nothing else to do. While I can definitely see some similarities to
Dragnet
, in that it’s about Los Angeles cops, I’m a little frustrated by the show. That’s what I’m thinking about now. Take as an example the episode I was supposed to watch tonight, if I hadn’t fallen asleep. It’s the twenty-second episode, and it’s called “Log 152: A Dead Cop Can’t Help Anyone.” It comes immediately after “Log 102: We Can’t Just Walk Away From It,” and immediately before “Log 12: He Was Trying to Kill Me.” I’m sure you can see what my trouble is. The stupid logs don’t go in order. I guess the characters, Officer Pete Malloy (played by Martin Milner) and Officer Jim Reed (played by Kent McCord), are all right, although they’re no Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon. But this show leaves a lot to be desired in terms of consistency.

My third thought, however, is the reason that I’m getting up and putting on my clothes. If I wait for Mr. Withers to answer my letter and rehire me at the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
, precious time that could be spent on shoring up the property will be wasted. Furthermore, the unseasonably warm weather we have been enjoying could turn quickly—I have years’ worth of data that show this tendency conclusively—and preclude my accomplishing some of the tasks I outlined for Mr. Withers. It’s already been a very cold day. More bad weather could be on the way.

As I am fully awake and dressed, there is no reason I cannot start on these chores now. I will be happy to do them without recompense (I love the word “recompense”).

In the basement, I pull together the things I will need for this task: safety goggles, a chisel, a sledgehammer, a whisk broom, a hammer, a stiff paintbrush, boards to build forms, nails, and a plastic drop cloth (and it occurs to me now that “drop cloth” is a silly term for something made of plastic—it’s not cloth at all). It takes me three trips, but I manage to hustle all of that upstairs, out the back door, and into the trunk of my Cadillac. In the garage, I get a garden hose, a wheelbarrow (which I strap to the roof of the car), a shovel, a bag of ready-mix concrete (I am glad I always keep one on hand), and the bonding agent.

I count everything off one more time, just to make sure I have it, and then I remember: It’s nighttime. I’ll need light, too. I run inside and grab one. And that’s when I’m reminded of my fourth thought. I’m terribly hungry, not having eaten all day. I grab a package of cheese-and-peanut-butter crackers out of the pantry as I pass back through the kitchen. These are not on my new diet. I hope Dr. Rex Helton doesn’t find out.

It is 11:38 p.m. and, after brushing away the accumulating snow—a potential trouble spot on this job—I have begun hammering together the wooden forms for the concrete steps when Elliott Overbay, the fat man who runs the copy desk at the
Herald-Gleaner
, comes outside.

“What are you doing?” he asks me. He must be stupid.

“I’m repairing these steps. You need to move. You’re standing in my light.”

“Why?”

He’s really stupid.

“As you can see, they’re crumbling. You could see that if you ever looked, Elliott Overbay.”

“I mean, why are you doing it now? Are you supposed to be here?”

I decide to answer him with a rhetorical question.

“Why not?”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

Elliott Overbay is really stupid, and as much as I am enjoying this, it is interfering with my work.

“You need to go away now,” I say. “I’m busy.”

Elliott Overbay shakes his head and walks away. I really don’t like him. I never worked directly with him, but every time I was in the newsroom at night, he was really loud and obnoxious about all the grammatical mistakes he was fixing. I’m glad to see him leave.

At 11:46, I hear the door open and I look up. Now it’s Scott Shamwell walking toward me. I wonder what he’s doing out here. At
11:46, he should be hard at work on the press, getting it ready for the local run of newspapers.

“Edward, what the fucking fuck, man?”

“What?”

“I heard they shitcanned you. What are you doing here?”

“Fixing these steps.”

“It’s snowing.”

“They’re still damaged.”

“You can’t be here, bro.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t work here anymore, man.”

“That will change.”

Scott Shamwell arches an eyebrow, and just for a moment he looks like John Belushi in the excellent movie
Animal House
, which always makes me laugh.

“How do you figure?” he asks.

“I wrote to Mr. Withers and asked for my job back.”

“What did he say?”

“I haven’t sent the letter yet.”

Scott Shamwell comes closer, until he’s less than a foot away from me. His eyes look sad. He reaches out a big freckly arm and sets his hand on my shoulder.

“Ed, buddy, I really hope that works. But unless you get the job back, you can’t be here, man.”

I drop a board.

“Why?”

“It’s just not the way things are done. If you got hurt—”

“I’m not going to get hurt,” I say.

“I’m just saying, if you do, it will be a bad scene, man. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“I guess not,” I say.

“All right, man. Let me help you put this stuff back in the car.”

We gather up my things and dump them in the trunk. Scott tells me to leave the wheelbarrow, that he’ll bring it by my house in a few hours with his truck so it doesn’t scratch the roof of my Cadillac.

I’m about to leave when Scott Shamwell, who has on a short-sleeve pressman’s shirt and is holding himself in the cold, whistles and motions for me to roll down the window. I hit the button, and the glass recedes into the door.

“Eddie, call me after Christmas, and we’ll go out and do some radical shit.”

“OK,” I tell him.

He turns and goes back into the building at a jog. I head for home, with a right turn on North Twenty-Seventh, a right on Third Avenue, a right on Division, and lefts on Lewis and Fifth Street West before another right onto Clark Avenue, which leads me home. I don’t even care about the left turns. I’m that disappointed.

I leave the tools in the car and trudge into the house. I don’t feel very good. I don’t know what to do with my time. If my life right now were an
Adam-12
episode, it would be called “Log 152: An Involuntarily Separated Employee Can’t Help Anyone.”

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9, 2011

From the logbook of Edward Stanton:

Time I woke up today: I’m not sure what to put. After the debacle (I love the word “debacle,” although I hate actual debacles) at the Herald-Gleaner, I didn’t fall asleep again until after 1:00 a.m., and I woke up to pee at 2:14, 3:31, 4:16, and 5:27. I finally woke up for good at 10:22, when the phone rang.

High temperature for Thursday, December 8, 2011, Day 342: 26

Low temperature for Thursday, December 8, 2011: 13

Precipitation for Thursday, December 8, 2011: 0.06 inches

Precipitation for 2011: 19.40 inches

At first, the ringing phone folds itself into the haze of my dream, a sandy vision in my head that slips away from me the moment I realize that I am awake.

I push myself off the bed and run to the extension in the kitchen wearing my underwear and just one sock, on my left foot.

“Hello?”

“Edward, thank God.”

A funny thing happens when I hear the voice of Donna Middleton (now Donna Hays, since she got married), my best friend. It’s as if my brain fast-forwards through the time that I’ve
known her. I remember when she moved across the street from me: September 12, 2008. I remember when I met her for the first time: October 15, 2008. I remember that she didn’t like me, and because of that, I didn’t like her very much, either. But that didn’t last. She and her son, Kyle, became my very good friends. We had good times together. I even built Kyle a super-awesome three-wheeler called the Blue Blaster. And then Donna met Victor Hays and married him, and he became my friend, too, but later he took them away from here.

“Donna, why are you calling me?”

I realize immediately that I have said the wrong thing. The phone call surprised me.

“Please forgive me, Donna,” I say. “I had a bad night.”

Her words come at me fast.

“Edward, I promise you, I’m going to double back and ask you about your bad night, because I’m really sorry to hear about that. But can I tell you something first?”

“Yes.”

“It’s about Kyle.” Her voice is urgent.

“Kyle?”

Any vestiges (I love the word “vestiges”) of sleep clear my head immediately. My heart beats faster, and I wish at once that I were six hundred miles away in Boise right now with Donna and Kyle and not here in my stupid kitchen in stupid Billings.