Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift

From the logbook of Edward Stanton:

Time I woke up today: 4:21 a.m. and then again at 10:36 a.m., a time I hadn’t awoken a single time this year. After putting on a T-shirt and some sweatpants, I went to the lobby for the continental breakfast, but the woman who owns this motel said, “Sorry, breakfast’s over. You have to wake up earlier. You can get something at the Kwik Korner if you want.” Well, crud. (I’m trying not to curse so much.)

High temperature for Wednesday, December 14, 2011, Day 348: 42 in Billings (according to the Denver newspaper, which I find crumpled in the motel lobby). Ten degrees warmer than the high the day before.

Low temperature for Wednesday, December 14, 2011: 20. Same as the low the two previous days.

Precipitation for Wednesday, December 14, 2011: 0.01 inches

Precipitation for 2011: 19.41 inches

New entries:

Exercise for Wednesday, December 14, 2011: Kyle and I had a nice, brisk walk around the shopping center after the debacle with the Denver Broncos fans. Now that we’re no longer driving hundreds of miles a day, I expect to get better exercise.

Miles driven Wednesday, December 14, 2011: 521.1

Total miles driven: 1,724.9

Gas usage Wednesday, December 14, 2011: Filled up in Fort Collins, Colorado: 12.488 gallons at $3.0399 per gallon, for a total of $37.96. I then drove the 230.3 remaining miles to Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, so I will need a fill-up again if I do any significant driving while I am here.

What Kyle owes me for the music he purchased: nothing. He says he won’t pay. If I were to press him for the money, he would owe me $231.

Addendum: Kyle has said four words to me so far today: “The TV here sucks.” I am inclined to agree with him. Kyle has been able to tune in the over-the-air channels from Denver, and that’s it. There is not even basic cable or satellite dish service here. I think I will go talk to the owner of this place.

She was surprised to see us come in last night. She came to the front desk in a robe and said, “I’m sorry for my appearance. Didn’t expect anyone to come in. You’ll be alone here tonight.” She didn’t make small talk, either, which I appreciated. She had me fill out a card with my information, and she took an imprint of my credit card, and she succinctly told us that continental breakfast would be served from 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. and that checkout was noon. When I told her we’d be staying two nights, she said, “Noon Saturday, then.”

My plans for today:

1. Look around Cheyenne Wells and see if it’s familiar to me. I will do this on foot so I get some good exercise.

2. Drive out into the countryside and see if I can find any of the oil wells that my father’s crew worked on.

3. Try to get Kyle to talk to me, or at least listen while I tell him that we are making a fresh start.

I really want to keep going with my list, because I hate to end on an odd number, but Dr. Buckley is in my head. Say what you need to say and be done. I’m done. I throw the pen across the room and leave.

The woman who owns the motel is unimpressed with my complaint about the poor TV service.

“Do you know how many lodging nights I have a year?” she asks. I hope this is a rhetorical question, because I have no idea where I would get that kind of information. “Last year, it was 2,042. That means that on an average day, fewer than six rooms of this sixteen-room motel are occupied. Further, most of my guests stay one night, not the two that you’re staying. It’s only because the place is bought and paid for that I can afford to keep it running. Licenses for multiple cable or satellite dish receivers are expensive. People can do just fine with the over-the-air channels. People should watch less TV anyway.”

She says this with such finality, and with such precision, that I am simultaneously eager to drop the subject and to ask her another question, because I’m fascinated with the way she speaks. She has blue eyes that seem to radiate intensity. I know that’s just an optical illusion; eyes do not technically radiate anything. Eyes take in light that is reflected off an object. This light passes through the cornea, which refracts (I love the word “refracts”) the rays that pass through the pupil, the round black hole in the middle of an eye. The colored part around the pupil is called the iris, and it opens and closes to regulate how much light passes into the eye. The lens of the eye then further refracts the rays and sends them to the retina, in the back of eye. The retina is full of things called rods and cones, which detect such things as colors and details. The cones and rods convert the light into electrical impulses, which are sent to the brain, producing an image. That’s how eyes work. Everybody knows this.

What I’m saying is that her eyes make her look extra-alert, and that appeals to me. I cannot explain why.

Also, her dirty-blonde hair is pulled up into the kind of ponytail that Donna Middleton (now Hays) often wears.

“How long have you owned this motel?” I ask.

“Groundbreaking was April eighteenth, nineteen sixty-seven. First room was rented on May first, nineteen sixty-eight.”

“You owned it then?” I am flummoxed and again impressed with the precision. This woman cannot be much older than I am. “You would have been a little girl.”

“I wasn’t born yet, as a matter of fact. My mom and dad owned it. They’re in the ground now, so it’s mine.”

I like the euphemism “in the ground.” I may start describing my father this way. She and I have this in common, that our fathers are dead.

I start to ask another question but she cuts me off. “Can’t talk. Lots to do. Enjoy your stay.”

She walks past me, down the hallway into the main part of the motel, and disappears behind a closed door.

I guess I will talk to her later.

Kyle is still not speaking to me. That’s his choice. I speak to him. This is my choice.

“Kyle, your debt is cleared. You don’t owe me anything. I will not keep track of your bad deeds or your good deeds. You do what you think is right, and Saturday I will take you to Wyoming, and you can meet your parents and be free of me.”

Kyle does not say anything. He keeps playing that bird game on my bitchin’ iPhone.

“Also,” I say, “the lady who owns this motel says this TV is the best she can do.”

Kyle stops playing the game on the phone and tosses it onto my bed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, Kyle, she says that it’s expensive to put in cable television and—”

“No, douche, that’s—” He stops talking, and he frowns like he has an ache somewhere. “I’m sorry. Really, Edward, I’m sorry. What I mean is, why aren’t you keeping track of what I do anymore?”

I feel stung by what Kyle just said. He claims to be sorry, but he keeps calling me names. I want to give him what’s called the benefit of the doubt, but how can I do that when there’s so much doubt? I consider not answering him and letting him feel what it’s like to get the silent treatment, but then I remember that the whole point of this conversation was to start fresh with him. Dueling silent treatments would not help the situation.

“You need to stop calling me names,” I say.

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I said you need to stop. Sorry won’t work.”

Dr. Buckley’s words are again coming out of my mouth, and this continually astounds me. She used to say this very thing to me when I first started going to her office, when my condition was out of control and I said a lot of mean things to her. I think that’s why I am so sensitive to such things now. I think that someday Kyle will look back on how he’s acting now and be sorry for the things he has said to people. That’s called regret, and regret hurts for a long time.