Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift

On the other hand, I’m troubled by the fact that Dr. Bryan Thomsen, whom I’ve been seeing now that Dr. Buckley has retired, has missed the 10:00 a.m. mark seven times in our thirty-two one-on-one meetings. I’ve held my tongue because I haven’t wanted to wreck things with him, but if his sloppiness continues, it will have to be addressed. By skipping an appointment, I will avoid that potentially uncomfortable conversation for now.

“Are you sure about this, Edward?”

This is something I do not like about Dr. Bryan Thomsen. What kind of question is that? Of course I’m sure. That’s why I called him and told him he wouldn’t be seeing me Tuesday.

It’s not like Dr. Buckley never questioned me about my choices. Believe me, she did. But her questions would always have a degree of specificity (I love the word “specificity”) that Dr. Bryan Thomsen’s lack. She would say something like, “Have you thought about ‘blank,’” with the blank being some consequence of my decision that I would have to account for before committing myself to a course of action. But Dr. Bryan Thomsen just asks me a lame question with no specificity whatsoever.

“I’m sure. I’m driving to Boise, Idaho.”

“When will you be back?”

“Before December twentieth, because I have to go Texas.”

“Will you promise to schedule an appointment as soon as you can after you get back? I don’t want to lose momentum on the good work we’ve been doing.”

“I promise.”

“Do you have my numbers? If you need to call me from the road, you can.”

“I have your numbers.”

“OK, Edward. I’ll talk to you when you get back.”

“OK.”

I hang up, and as I do, I realize something: December 20 is a Tuesday. Even if I weren’t going to Boise, my streak of every-Tuesday counseling sessions would have ended this month. How did I not notice that before?

It seems like everything I can rely on is slipping away from me.

If not for the fact that I have to do it, I would not choose to be at Rimrock Mall today.

First, the parking lot is so full that I have to park way in the back, almost to Twenty-Fourth Street West, the busiest street on the west end of town. Here’s how bad it was: I had to make six left turns in the parking lot as I drove up and down the lanes before I finally found a spot for my Cadillac DTS. Those were six highly dangerous traffic maneuvers. I should feel fortunate that I emerged from them without crashing, but it’s hard to feel fortunate when my heart is pounding.

It’s also hard to feel fortunate when I have to pee and the entrance to the store is so far away.

I make my way through the parking lot at a light jog—fast enough to get me into the mall before I wet my pants, but slow enough that the agitation does not aggravate my impulse to pee. This is a difficult balance to strike.

When I emerge from the men’s room—stopping in the food court to pull up my zipper—I see what I am up against. This mall is teeming (I love the word “teeming”) with people, and though looks can be deceiving, I must say that not many of them look merry and bright. I’m intimidated.

I stick close to the wall as I walk toward the center of the mall to ensure that I touch as few people as possible. When I was here a few years ago, some woman plowed directly into me with her giant Orange Julius, and that is a scene I wish to avoid today. When I reach the intersection of all the mall paths, I stop and jam my back against the wall as I look for the cell phone kiosk. At last I see it. It’s manned by a pretty young woman wearing a Santa hat. She looks friendly. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. Both of those things—the woman’s apparent friendliness, the notion that this won’t be bad—are conjecture, and conjecture is not good enough. I need facts, and there is only one way to get them.

The woman in the Santa hat sees me coming.

“Happy holidays, sir,” she says. “How can I help you?”

“I need a cellular telephone for my trip to Idaho.”

She gestures at the array of phones adorning the kiosk.

“Well, we can certainly help with that. Did you have a particular model in mind? We have Blackberries, iPhones, Androids…”

“Just a phone that calls other phones.”

She smiles.

“You’re funny, sir. Let’s look at this Droid Razr. It’s has one gig of LP DDR2 RAM, a four-point-three-inch display, it runs on the 4G LTE network—”

“Does it call people?”

“Yes, of course it does. It also has some bitchin’ apps.”

“What?”

Her face flushes.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said ‘bitchin’”

She flummoxes me.

“I don’t care,” I say. “If it’s bitchin’, you should be honest about that.”

“Oh, good. What kind of data plan do you need?”

“What’s a data plan?”

“You know, web browsing and stuff.”

“I have cable Internet at home.”

“Right, but for your phone, I mean.”

“This phone has that?”

“Of course. And it has a camera so you can send pictures to people, and text-messaging capability.”

“Text messaging?”

“Absolutely!”

“Is there any other kind?” I ask.

“Any other kind of what?”

“Messaging.”

“Not on this phone.”

“OK. I like to send messages.”

“OK, so you’ll want to go unlimited with that.”

“Yes, I don’t want to be limited.”

“You know what?” she says. “The Razr is good. But I think I have the right phone for you, sir. You want the best.”

“Yes.”

She brings out what she calls the Apple iPhone. It has everything I would ever want to do, she says. I can talk on it, I can use it to surf the Internet, I can send and receive messages, I can listen to music, I can take pictures. She says it’s the best phone there is.

She also tells me that it’s $399 and that the full data plan—“You’ll want that,” she says—will run me about $150 a month. Both of those numbers seem steep to me, but I remember that (a) I’m fucking loaded and (b) I wouldn’t want to disappoint this woman who keeps telling me how smart I am for zeroing in on the iPhone.

I give her my credit card.

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.

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).