Craig Lancaster - 600 Hours of Edward

“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.

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.