“Watch this, Kyle,” I say.
I show him how the small entertainment center holding my TV and stereo system, against the south wall of the living room, has lots of tiny compartments and how I’ve filled them with movies and compact discs and other things. I show him the coffee table, with still more compartments, where I have stored pens and paper clips and rubber bands and batteries and other things I need.
I take him into the computer room and show him the stackable storage containers, full of seasonal clothing and household items.
“Wow. I guess you do have some stuff. Do you have a PlayStation Two?”
“No.”
“Do you have a Wii?”
“No.”
“How do you have fun?”
Before today, that’s a question that would have flummoxed me.
– • –
After dinner, Kyle is in the computer room, playing the only game I have on my computer: blackjack. I had spent a few minutes explaining how it worked, how he didn’t want to exceed twentyone with his cards. I showed him how he could split two cards of the same number and double his bet.
“But only do it with aces and eights,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because with anything else, you’re only building two bad hands. If you split two tens or two face cards, you’ve broken up a hand that will win most of the time. Same thing with two nines. With two sevens, often the best you can do is get two ties, and that’s only if you draw tens on each one. And so on. Do you understand?”
“Not really.”
“Just play. You’ll figure it out.”
Back in the living room, Donna tells me something. “Mike’s going to be in court next week—Monday.”
“Are you going to be there?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be OK?”
“I don’t know. But I will be there, for every court appearance and for the trial.”
“Does Kyle know what happened?”
“Most of it. I couldn’t hide the bruises, you know. I haven’t told him about the choking.” There is not much bruising to hide now. If I didn’t know it had happened, I might not be able to see the damage at all.
“Maybe that’s for the best.”
“I think so,” she says. “Part of the reason I’m going to court is for Kyle. The main thing is that I want Mike to know that he’s not going to get the better of me. But it’s also a reminder to me that I’ve done poorly in choosing who I let near my son. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Donna’s eyes have a faraway look, as if she’s seeing beyond my little living room on Clark Avenue. I sit quietly with her.
– • –
I had asked Donna and Kyle if they would like to stay and watch
Dragnet
, but Donna declined, as it’s a school night for Kyle. Maybe some other time, she said.
Tonight’s episode is called “The Kidnapping.” It originally aired on January 26, 1967, and it is one of my favorites.
In the episode, a woman who owns a line of boutiques has been taken captive at her home. One of her store managers, in town for an audit, is sent by the abductor to a bank to get the $75,000 in ransom. Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon are called in by the bank president, and once they determine that the store manager’s story is on the level, they get her the $75,000 and enlist her help in catching the bad guy. She agrees to help, even though she admits that she doesn’t really like her boss. The
abduction ends when Sergeant Joe Friday wrestles the bad man to the ground on a freeway on-ramp. The store manager—played by Peggy Webber, who appeared in eight
Dragnet
episodes—is freed from the trunk of the car.
There are two lessons in this episode: First, Sergeant Joe Friday always gets his man. Second, don’t mess with a determined woman.
– • –
Dear Father,
I had a memory today that made me both happy and sad. Do you remember our trip to Midland, Texas, in the new International Paystar 5000? Even though I now know that you were enduring a difficult time, I remember how happy you seemed to be, traveling with me and spending Thanksgiving with Grandpa Sid and Grandma Mabel and watching the Dallas Cowboys. Thinking of that made me happy.
We never have that kind of fun now. Thinking of that made me sad.
I hope we can have fun again sometime. I found out today that I still know how. Maybe you still know how, too.
Your son,
Edward
It’s an odd and embarrassing thought that stirs me from sleep:
What if Joy wants to have sex with me tonight? This is not an eventuality I have planned for, and it seems so preposterous (I love the word “preposterous”) that I am inclined to just lie back down and return to sleep.
And yet, I cannot. So I watch time peel off my digital clock in the darkness as I ponder this.
5:57…5:58…5:59…
I keep coming back to what Dr. Buckley said: “I hope that’s not on the agenda for your first date.” No, it’s not. We don’t have an agenda. We are meeting at the new wine bar downtown, the one on Broadway. Everything after that is uncertain—including, and especially, the question of whether we are having sex.
6:00…6:01…6:02…
I must make a confession: I have never had sex, at least not with another human being. I am thirty-nine years old, and so, yes, I have discovered self-satisfaction. There’s no need to be excessively descriptive or gross about it. I read Dear Abby every morning in the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
, and I remember her saying something years ago about self-satisfaction: Half of men do it, and the other half lie when they say they don’t do it. That’s what
Dear Abby said, and that’s good enough for me. Dear Abby is a very logical woman.
6:03…6:04…6:05…
Since I’ve never had sex, you can probably understand why I am wigging out about it. (I love the slang phrase “wigging out.”) Setting aside the obvious questions—How does one arrive at the decision to have sex on a first date? Does one just say, “This is a delicious salad. I look forward to telling you more about it later, when we’re having sex”?—I am uncomfortable with the idea. It seems like an irresponsible thing to do.
6:06…6:07…6:08…
Let’s say for argument’s sake that we were to have sex. This is a hypothetical situation. Where does it happen? Do we drive all the way back to Broadview and have sex at her house? We cannot have sex at this house; that simply is not a possibility. Among other potential problems, my father would be apoplectic if he found out. If Joy and I drive all the way back to Broadview, how do we have sex and leave enough time for me to get back to Billings to see tonight’s episode of
Dragnet
? I don’t see how it would be possible. I couldn’t have sex with that kind of time pressure. I’m not sure I can have sex at all, seeing as how I never have had it. I’m simply saying that, even if the physical act of love were possible, I would not be able to concentrate on it knowing that I might miss
Dragnet
.
6:09…6:10…6:11…
So what? A hotel room? That still brings up the
Dragnet
problem. A nice hotel, like the Crowne Plaza, might be willing to put a videocassette player in the room, but then I would have to make sure to bring my
Dragnet
tape along, not knowing whether I would actually need it.
I think that would be awkward.
Joy: “Hi, Edward. Why do you have your
Dragnet
tape?”
Me: “Hi, Joy. I thought we might have sex, so I wanted to be ready. I can’t miss
Dragnet
.”
Also, the Crowne Plaza is not the sort of place that would rent us a room for the sole purpose of having sex. The sort of place that would rent us a room for sex—and I don’t know how to find such a place—might not have a videocassette player to lend me. It would probably just want us to have sex and leave.
6:12…6:13…6:14…
It’s settled. We’re not having sex, even if Joy wants to. Even if I want to. There is just no way it can happen. I will have to apply the lessons I’ve learned from Dr. Buckley about saying no to this situation. I can say no to sex with Joy while still treating her with dignity and grace.
I should practice this.
“Sex? I’m ever so sorry, Joy, but it’s just not possible tonight. I do hope you understand.”
“Under normal circumstances, Joy, I would love to have sex with you, but it’s simply not a good night tonight.”
“I am appreciative of the offer, but I cannot. Perhaps I could take a rain check.”
Yes, any of those will work.
If she’s aggressive and grabs my wiener, though, I may have to come up with another plan. I have seen that sort of thing happen on late-night cable television, and I think it’s prudent that I be ready for it.
– • –
Here is something I did not know until today: Almost twenty minutes of thinking about nothing other than sex ruins you for sleep. I grab my pen and notebook and groggily record 5:57 a.m. in the space I have made for today, and my data is complete.
– • –
While I am eating corn flakes and waiting to hear the thump of the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
on the doorstep, I plot a plan for tonight—one that, as I have decided, does not include sex.
I want to try to be romantic, but I have been reading some online-dating advice columns, and if there is a single piece of counsel that comes through consistently about first dates, it is this: Do not make grand gestures. A first date is about building a little bit of trust and rapport and walking away from it wanting to have a second date. Some of the columns I have read say no flowers on a first date. Others say that a single red rose is a nice touch. I would like to give Joy a single red rose.
I have also decided, on my own, to burn a CD for Joy of some of my favorite songs, especially by R.E.M. and Matthew Sweet. I am not putting overt (I love the word “overt”) love songs on the CD. I do not want to come on too strong with Joy. I will tell her that the CD is just some of the music I like and that I hope she likes it, too. I will not be trying to send any kind of message with the CD.
Finally, I will go to get my hair cut today. I have new clothes for my online date. A fresh haircut will complete the look.
It’s a good plan, I think.
At 6:33, the newspaper lands on the doorstep. I rinse out my bowl in the sink, cross the living room, open the door, and pick up the paper. The forecast is calling for a high of forty-seven, which
should be enough to melt away this snow if it comes true—but I won’t know until tomorrow, as forecasts are notoriously off base.
Inside, I write down the figures from yesterday, and my data is complete.
– • –
Mixing a CD for Joy is more difficult than I had imagined. The R.E.M. songs go pretty well, and I end up choosing ten from across their catalog of albums:
I skip the albums
Monster
,
Up
,
Reveal
, and
Around the Sun
because, although I like some songs on each of those albums, they are not as good as the others. That’s my opinion. It’s not fact, although a lot of people agree with me.
Finding ten Matthew Sweet songs is a harder chore. Don’t get me wrong, I can find ten that I like, but I can’t necessarily find ones that I think someone else would like. Matthew Sweet can be a real downer.
I end up choosing six:
It’s a fine collection of songs. I think if Joy for some reason decides that she doesn’t want it, my disappointment will be soothed by the fact that I will get to keep it.
– • –
At 10:00 a.m., I walk in the door at the Great Clips haircutters on Grand Avenue. There is no line. Most of the rest of Billings is at work.
I have had this stylist before. Her name is Heather, and she is very pretty, with big blue eyes and long, blonde, straight hair. One thing about her, though, is that her attitude varies wildly. She recognizes me and smiles and invites me back to the chair.
“The usual?” she asks.
“Yes.”
This is an easy job for Heather. My hair does not need styling. It needs to be cut, and she quickly does it.
“What’re you up to today?” she asks.
“I have an online date.”
“Cool.”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t had a date in for-ev-er,” she says, drawing out the syllables, and then she starts telling me about what a disaster her
last date was and how she swore off men but can’t stay away for long and that she wishes me luck and just be a gentleman and it will all work out just fine.
Heather is fun to listen to when she feels good, like she does today.
– • –
On the way back home, I stop at the Albertsons on Grand and Thirteenth Street W. and buy a single red rose from the floral department. The nice lady who works there wraps it loosely in a cellophane cone and pops a small container of water onto the stem to keep it looking fresh.
I am nearly ready for my 7:00 p.m. date.
It is 10:57 a.m.
– • –
While it’s true that I am feeling a bit overeager—an odd sensation for me—it’s also true that I do have some other chores.
For one thing, I have to eat lunch. I will not have much, in case Joy wants to eat tonight at the wine bar downtown. It’s not just a wine bar. I have been reading up on it, and apparently, the place—it is called Bin 119—has very good food, too, including something called lobster mac ’n’ cheese. I don’t know if that sounds good or not. I don’t have seafood very often—only at my monthly dinner with my parents, and not at every one of those. I’ve had lots of mac ’n’ cheese; it was one of my favorites when I was a child, with the box of noodles and the powdered cheese that would turn gooey when mixed with butter and milk. I do not think that kind of mac ’n’ cheese
would taste good with lobster. But that’s just my opinion. It’s not necessarily a fact.