To do so, I resolve to not check Montana Personal Connect until this evening, after I’m done. I’m anxious about Joy’s reply—and, I have to admit, freaked out (I love the phrase “freaked out”) now that she has invaded my dreams, although I know logically that there are no giant TV remotes, no plasma screens on buildings in Billings, and that I never, under any circumstances, type on my computer when I am naked. There is some explanation for these dreams, and I will look to Dr. Buckley to provide it.
I have read that everyone dreams, and that even animals dream. There is a whole field of study, called oneirology, that is dedicated to examining dreams. The statistical probability that, before the past few days, I did not dream is beyond remote. But I do not remember dreams before the past few days; the ones lately I cannot seem to forget.
One of my favorite R.E.M. songs is called “I Don’t Sleep, I Dream.” It contains words about dreams that an oneirologist would probably find fascinating. I’m not sure what it’s all about. Michael Stipe uses words in fascinating and strange combinations. I don’t know, for instance, why he says “hip hip hooray” in that song or what a cup of coffee has to do with anything. I think not knowing is probably part of the point for someone like Michael Stipe. I do know that Michael Stipe sang a lot more about sex on that album
Monster
than he did before or since. It wasn’t
until today, the 294th day of 2008 (because it’s a leap year), fourteen years after that album came out, that I realized the title of this song could now be about me.
– • –
By 2:00 p.m., I have made good progress on the garage. The bronze green is covering up the mocha chino, and I like this color a lot better. It’s the best of the three. I think I will be able to stick with this, at least until the year after next, when it will be time to paint the garage again.
I take a break from painting before I get to the garage door. I open the garage and look at The Big Project, gleaming in freshly painted glory. I dab at the body of it with my left forefinger, testing the paint and lacquer. It seems to be dry. I think it’s ready.
I roll it into the front yard.
– • –
Kyle is a predictable boy, at least in terms of coming and going. I’m working the same corner of the garage eave, at the same time, when I hear his voice. This reliability is comforting to me.
“Whoa! What’s that?”
I climb down off the ladder, grinning. “You don’t know?”
“No. It looks awesome! What is it?”
“It’s for you.”
“Really? But what is it?”
I start telling Kyle a story. When I was a little younger than him, for Christmas 1977, my parents got me something called a “Green Machine.” They tried to tell me that it had come from Santa Claus, but the idea of Santa Claus never seemed logical to
me, and by then I knew the truth. By then, I was tolerating their pretending that a fat man in a red suit could live in a place as inhospitable as the North Pole and deliver toys to kids all over the world in one night. The whole notion is preposterous.
I leave out the fallacy of Santa Claus in telling my story to Kyle, though. It’s not my place to tell him such a thing. He’s a smart boy. He probably already knows that it’s not true.
I tell him about the Green Machine. I say it was the greatest Christmas gift I ever received.
It was like a Big Wheel in that it had a big wheel up front, but it was unlike a Big Wheel in every other way. You didn’t steer the big wheel. You had two levers that controlled the rear axle, which would swivel the smaller back wheels. You would sit recumbent style, pedaling the big front wheel, swiveling the back wheels and tearing around all over the place.
“This,” I tell Kyle, “is your own Green Machine. Except that it’s not green, it’s blue. And it’s built out of way better stuff than the Green Machine. The sad truth of the Green Machine is that eventually the plastic would wear out and holes would develop in the wheels.
“This one has an adjustable seat, so you can ride it even as you get bigger. It has shocks, so it doesn’t hurt when you hit holes on the street—”
“It’s even got a cup holder!” Kyle says.
“That’s for your Diet Dr Pepper. Do you want to try it out?”
“Heck yeah!” He’s jumping up and down.
I show him how the levers work—how if he pulls the left one back and pushes the right one forward, the axle will swivel in a way that causes his vehicle to turn left. If he reverses that and pulls the right lever back and pushes the left forward, the machine will make a right turn.
“If you lean into the turn a little bit, it will help, but you’re not going to flip it. It’s very well balanced. Just ride carefully and watch out for cars, OK?”
“OK.”
And then Kyle hesitates. “Do you need me to help paint the garage first?”
“No. I have it. You just give me a little shout when you pass by, OK?”
“You got it.”
“Hey, Kyle?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you going to call it?”
Kyle crinkles his nose as he thinks for a second, then he lights up again. “The Blue Blaster!”
And he’s off.
For the next hour and a half, as I’m putting the finishing touches on the garage, Kyle is riding laps around the block, sticking to the sidewalk. Every few minutes, I hear “Hi, Edward” as he goes shooting by, a happy boy on his Blue Blaster.
– • –
At 4:36, Donna crosses the street and intercepts Kyle as he’s making his thirty-seventh pass around the block. (I have been counting.)
“Whoa, mister. What’s this thing you have here?”
“It’s the Blue Blaster, Mom.”
Donna looks up from the three-wheeled vehicle at me. “Is this yours, Edward? It’s really cool.”
“No, it’s mine,” Kyle says. “Edward made it for me.”
“Really?” Donna does not look as happy as Kyle.
“Look at this,” Kyle says, and he goes through the explanation of how the levers work and how the seat is adjustable and the cup holder and the rest. As he chatters away, Donna keeps glancing up at me on the ladder.
“OK, Kyle, it’s really cool. Take it home now.”
Kyle starts to complain, but Donna cuts him off with a stare.
“See you later, Edward. Thanks again,” he says, and then he plops back into the Blue Blaster’s seat and pilots it to his house.
“I need to talk to you, Edward,” Donna says.
“OK.” I dread what’s coming.
“What you did for Kyle is a very nice thing.”
I nod.
“And it’s too much. How much did you spend on all of that?”
“It wasn’t so much.” This is a lie, and I think she knows it.
“I would like to pay you for it.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“I would feel better about this if I did.”
“I would feel worse. I did it because I wanted to do it.”
“Kyle does not need to see you as the guy across the street who gives him things.”
“I don’t give him things. I gave him this thing.”
“I would feel better if I paid you.”
“Maybe you can just do something nice for me sometime.”
She bristles. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t mean anything.”
“You’re not going to use Kyle to get at me.” She seems really mad now.
“Get at you?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re flummoxing me.”
“I’m just saying.”
“It’s not even a gift. Your son has helped me paint the garage twice. He told me he wants a bicycle. I made him something better than a bicycle. That’s it. I don’t want to get at you, whatever that means.” I’m shaking.
A bit of softness returns to Donna’s face, and I find myself noticing that the eye that seemed so puffy and purple early Sunday morning looks a little better today. Not so puffy anyway.
“I’m sorry. I’m on edge. I’m just trying to figure things out.”
Now I’m the one who is bristling. “You asked me if I was a friend to you.”
“I did.”
“I said I was.”
“You did.”
“OK, then. I have to go now.”
As I walk away from Donna Middleton, I hear her start to say something else, but then she cuts it off, deciding not to. I don’t turn around. I open the door, go into the house, and slam the door behind me.
– • –
Dinner—spaghetti—tastes artificial. I’m sure of it now: I’m in a rut.
I fling my half-finished plate into the sink, where it shatters.
– • –
At Montana Personal Connect, I’m greeted with this:
Inbox (0).
The world is stupid.
– • –
Tonight’s episode of
Dragnet
is the final one of the color series, which ran from 1967 to 1970. It originally aired on April 16, 1970, and it’s called “DHQ: The Victims.” It’s one of my favorites.
I have always thought it fitting that the series finished on this note, as “DHQ: The Victims” runs the gamut of duties for Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon. They investigate all sorts of crimes, including two homicides, an armed robbery, and a purse snatching. Days like that must be very difficult when you’re a police officer, not only because people are dead or hurting, but also because there is all sorts of paperwork to do. Sergeant Joe Friday always seems to get his man, but some days, he must feel like the criminals are winning.
So far this year, I have been through all ninety-eight color episodes of
Dragnet
three times. Tomorrow, I will start again at the beginning.
I never grow tired of Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon and the rest of the
Dragnet
ensemble. I can rely on them in a way that I cannot rely on anyone or anything else.
Donna:
I hesitated to refer to you familiarly with your first name, as after today’s interaction, I have no idea if we know each other or not. I ultimately decided to use it in the hope that we will eventually be able to refer to each other in a familiar way, as the friends you seem to want us to be.
Before that, however, I must address the unfortunate events that occurred just hours ago.
I do not understand you. I do not understand why you get mad at me when I do something nice for your son. I did not hit you in his presence, as Mike did. I did not yell at him. I did not yell at you.
I made him a super-duper pedaling machine. That is all I did. I don’t know why I have to feel bad about this.
I hope you will adjust your attitude toward me. I hope you do it soon.
I am, hopefully, your friend,
Edward
Let me make quick work of the perfunctory (I love the word “perfunctory”) items, as there is so little to cover and so much time.
Wait. Strike that. Reverse it.
OK, then.
Woke up: 7:38 a.m. That makes 224 days out of 295 this year (because it’s a leap year).
Yesterday’s high temperature: sixty-one.
Yesterday’s low temperature: thirty-seven.
Today’s forecasted high: fifty-one. We shall see. Forecasts are notoriously off base.
Today’s forecasted low: thirty-three. Again, we shall see.
Dreams: Not one that I can remember, for the first time in days.
My data: complete.
And, yes, I made a
Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
reference. I am pretty funny sometimes, as I keep telling you.
– • –
I arrive at Dr. Buckley’s office nineteen minutes and twenty-two seconds early. I am filled with anticipation to see her, which is an
odd sensation for me. It’s not that I don’t like coming to see Dr. Buckley; on the contrary, I sometimes feel as though without her I would not push through. But it has been a long time since I had this many things I wished to discuss with her. Perhaps I never have. I don’t keep track of that.
– • –
I scan the end tables filled with magazines, which are predictably scattered every which way by patients who are not courteous enough to put things back the way they found them. I would be lying if I said I didn’t care—and I don’t lie, except for that one time to Donna Middleton about the cost of the Blue Blaster—but I also find myself unwilling to sort through them. If I had concentration today, it would be focused squarely on my impending discussion with Dr. Buckley, but focus is beyond my reach. I sit and I stare straight ahead and I wait.
After a few moments, I look down to see where the
thump-thump-thump
sound is coming from, and it is coming from me, as my heel fires up and down like a piston, making a metronome sound on Dr. Buckley’s carpeted floor.
– • –
At 9:57, Dr. Buckley guides a client out through the waiting room—she (the client) looks to be a fifty-something woman, lumpy and matronly, and she has been crying. My eyes dart away, out of an unwillingness to make eye contact with a stranger and out of deference to her pain. Soon, she is gone.
I look up and Dr. Buckley is giving me a “let’s go” look.
I look at my watch.
9:57:08…9:57:09…9:57:10…
I stand up. I may need the extra two-plus minutes.
– • –
“How was your week, Edward?” Dr. Buckley asks.
“You won’t believe it.”
I’ve started where I never start, and Dr. Buckley sits up, attentive. “Try me.”
“I have been having dreams that I remember vividly, and that never happens.”
“Go on.”
“I have started online dating.”
“You have?”
“Yes, through Montana Personal Connect. I may be having a date soon.”
“Well, that is something new.”
“Yes. And I’ve become friends with a nine-year-old boy and his mother. At least, I think we’re friends. I’m sure the boy and I are friends. With the mother, it’s harder to say.”
“Anything else?”
“I had another fight with my father.”
“Well, Edward, that’s not anything new, is it?”
“No, I guess it isn’t.”
“OK,” she says. “Let’s take these things one at a time. Let’s start with the boy and his mother.”
– • –
I tell Dr. Buckley everything: how Kyle came over and helped me paint the garage twice, the dream about losing my grip on him,
the misunderstanding at the Billings Clinic emergency room, Mike’s assault of Donna later that night, the chat on the doorstep early in the morning, the Blue Blaster, and Donna’s tepid (I love the word “tepid”) response to it.