Craig Lancaster - 600 Hours of Edward

I have driven in a circle, but I also have taken all right turns.

Lewis rides down through the tree-lined neighborhoods of central Billings, crosses Division Street and becomes Fourth Avenue N. downtown. At the corner of Fourth and Broadway, I can see the big Billings Herald-Gleaner building, where people are inside compiling the things I’ll need tomorrow, including my weather data and Dear Abby.

I turn right on Broadway, cross over Third and Second Avenues, and pull into a diagonal parking spot across from the wine bar.

As I shut off the ignition, the digital clock in my Toyota Camry flips over to 7:00 p.m.

Bin 119 is impressive, and busy.

Joy does not seem to be here yet.

I find an open table at the far end of the place, and I sit down facing the door, so I can see her when she comes in.

It’s a very nice table—very modern, with leather-bound seats. I like it. The soft lighting and dark-wood decor remind me of Dr. Buckley’s office, and I like that, too.

I look at my watch. It’s 7:03.

I may have to prepare myself for the possibility that Joy is not as punctual as I am. If I work hard at it, I’m sure I can do this. Dr. Buckley says that all people have things they are good at and not so good at and that if I like someone, I should appreciate his or her good points and forgive the bad. This makes sense to me. Dr. Buckley is a very logical woman.

At 7:05, a server comes by and asks if I would like a menu or to order a drink. I tell her that I’m expecting someone and will wait, thank you.

Five minutes isn’t too late, right? That can be the difference between a well-set clock and a haphazardly set one. While I don’t understand why anyone would want a clock that doesn’t tell exactly the correct time, I know that some people don’t give such things a lot of thought. Maybe Joy is one of those people.

I read somewhere that giving someone fifteen minutes of leeway on an appointment is the polite thing to do, and so I resolve that I will give Joy until 7:15 before I start to become annoyed at her.

On the other hand, I remember that when Jimmy Johnson was the coach of the Dallas Cowboys, he considered a player late to a team meeting if that player wasn’t in the room five minutes early, and he would dock the player’s pay. Jimmy Johnson would not tolerate someone’s being fifteen minutes late, and he won two Super Bowls. Clearly, there is politeness, and then there is what works.

At 7:11, the server asks again if I want something to drink. I decline. Also, I am annoyed. I can’t help it.

At 7:13, I see Joy at the door. She looks just like her picture—striking. She’s tall, too, maybe close to six feet tall. I like that. She is wearing a white dress with big brown-and-blue swirlies—paisleys, I think they are called—that comes down to about the middle of her calves. She looks very nice.

I start to raise my hand to flag her down, but she sees me first and smiles.

She’s walking back here toward the table.

Holy shit!

“Edward, I’m so happy to meet you,” she says, offering a handshake as she sits down.

I accept and try to remember to shake firmly.

“Have you been waiting long?”

I look down at my watch: 7:13:57…7:13:58…7:13:59…

“Fourteen minutes. We were supposed to meet at seven, correct?”

“Yes. I am so sorry. I left Broadview early so I could get here in plenty of time, and then there was a big wreck on Highway 3—a really bad one—and that slowed me down, and then when I got down here, I had a really hard time finding a place to park. It’s busy here on a Friday night.”

“I parked right across the street.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Edward, I’m glad I’m here now.” She looks me over. “I like your suit.”

“Yes.”

I reach down on the bench seat beside me and pick up the rose, which I’ve been hiding. I set it on the table across from Joy. “This is for you,” I say.

She picks it up. “Thank you so much. It’s beautiful. You’re so sweet.”

The server comes by again to drop off menus and take our drink order. Joy orders a Gewurztraminer, which appears to be some sort of wine. I order a glass of water. I’ve never had wine, and I don’t drink alcohol. Or, at least, I haven’t.

“You’re not having wine?”

“No.”

“I love Gewurztraminer. I like sweeter wines—Rieslings and chardonnays. Not so much red wines. Are you sure you don’t want to try it?”

“I’ll try it, I guess.” When the server walks by, I ask her to bring me a glass of Gewurztraminer. Even if I don’t end up liking the wine, I sure like the word.

“We didn’t really talk about eating, but this menu looks yummy,” Joy says. “Would you like to have something to eat?”

“Yes.”

When the server comes back with the Gewurztraminers and the water, she asks us if we would like something to eat. Joy orders the lobster mac ’n’ cheese. I order a Caesar salad with grilled chicken.

“A salad?” Joy says. “You’re going to make me look like a pig for ordering a big, hot meal.”

“I’m interested to see your mac ’n’ cheese. I can’t decide if it sounds good.”

“I’ve heard that it’s fantastic. Would you like a bite when it comes?”

“No. I couldn’t do that.”

Over dinner, Joy asks me a few questions but mostly talks about herself. She is surprised when she asks what I do for a living and I say “nothing.” I then tell her that I’m living on my investments, which is a little white lie. I’m living on my father’s investments.

She launches into a story about growing up on a farm outside Broadview and how her parents were mean to her and her and brothers and how eventually she ended up living in town with her aunt and uncle, who were very nice people and—

The Gewurztraminer makes me belch. It’s not loud, but it interrupts her story.

“I burped,” I say.

“Yes, well,” Joy says, looking momentarily annoyed, and then she’s off and talking again. I like listening to her. Her story doesn’t have a lot of structure—she jumps around a lot in time and place and goes on little side stories called tangents—but she is so demonstrative in telling the story that I just shovel salad into my mouth and listen.

“Edward, I’m sorry, I’m dominating the conversation,” she says. “I’d like to hear what you think of all this.”

“I think it’s nice that your aunt and uncle took care of you.”

“No, I mean about this,” she says, waving her right hand in a parabola over the table.

“It’s good food.”

“No, about us, about being here,” she says. “Were you nervous? I was.”

I think about her question for a few seconds before answering.

“I guess I was a little nervous. I woke up really early this morning, at five fifty-seven. I usually wake up at one of four times—seven thirty-seven, seven thirty-eight, seven thirty-nine, or seven forty—but today I woke up at five fifty-seven thinking about tonight.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“I was wondering if we were going to have sex.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but I wondered what would happen if we did.”

Joy looks cross. “We are not having sex.”

“I know. That’s what I decided, too.”

“Well, I’m glad.”

“I just don’t see how it could happen. I would miss Dragnet .”

“That’s not the only reason it’s not going to happen. And listen, I read up on Dragnet . Why do you keep talking about a forty-year-old TV show?”

“I always watch Dragnet , every night at ten.”

I look down at my watch. It’s 8:04.