Craig Lancaster - 600 Hours of Edward

Still, it takes me a while to wash the garage, mix the paint (I’m going to try Behr’s parsley sprig first), and get my various brushes lined up in the order that I’m going to use them. I also have a ladder for those hard-to-reach areas.

By 11:00 a.m., I am painting, working in the same direction that the sun is moving.

I am happy.

“I like that color.”

I’m on the ladder when I hear the voice, and I’m so startled that I nearly hit my head on the eave. I set my brush on the shelf on the ladder. My heart is beating fast. I steady myself and back down the ladder, and then I turn around.

It’s the boy I have seen across the street.

“What?”

“I said, I like that color.”

“It’s Behr parsley sprig.”

“What does that mean?”

“Behr is the company that made the paint. Parsley sprig is the color.”

“What’s parsley sprig?”

“Do you know that green stuff they put on your plate at a restaurant?”

“Yeah. You’re not supposed to eat it.”

“That’s a parsley sprig.”

“Oh.”

The boy has his hands in his pocket and he fidgets. This makes me fidgety, too. I don’t like it.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“Go away, then.”

“Well, maybe…”

“What?”

“Can I help you paint?”

I am agog. (I love the word “agog.”)

There is an eight- or nine-year-old boy painting the garage. Holy shit!

I do not curse often, but I am partial to the phrase “Holy shit!” Many years ago, I saw the movie Animal House , which is very funny. In one scene, Bluto and D-Day and Flounder from Delta House take a horse into the dean’s office—I am not sure why; the scene flummoxed me—and Flounder shoots a gun in the air, and the horse has a heart attack and dies. The other two guys come in and say “Holy shit!” a lot. It is a very funny movie.

I am giggling now, thinking of this.

“There’s an eight- or nine-year-old boy painting the garage.”

“Holy shit!”

“He’s eight or nine, and he is painting the garage.”

“Holy shit!”

“The garage is being painted by an eight- or nine-year-old boy.”

“Holy shit!”

I am pretty funny sometimes.

The boy does not paint the garage exactly as I would prefer, and I would say something to him if not for the fact that he never stops talking as he paints.

“What’s your name?” he asks me.

“Edward. What’s yours?”

“Kyle. Did you know that your house will be brown, but your garage will be green?”

“Yes. I will paint the house next year.”

“Why next year?”

“That’s the way I do things.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-nine. How old are you?”

“I’m nine. I was born in 1999.”

“That’s the year Kevin Spacey won the best actor Oscar for American Beauty .”

“What’s that?”

“A movie.”

“I like movies.”

“So do I.”

“Are you going to pay me for painting your garage?”

I am taken aback. It’s not quite the same thing as being agog.

“Did we have a deal?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not going to pay you.”

“I am saving up my money for a bicycle. That’s why I was wondering. I have fifty-three dollars, but that’s not enough for the bike I want. My mom said that I might get one for my birthday, but she’s not sure.”

“If you expected money, you should have negotiated a deal with me before you started painting. That’s the fair thing to do.”

“It’s OK. I like painting.”

“When is your birthday?” I ask him.

“February ninth.”

“That’s when you’ll be ten?”

“Yes.”

“You’re nine years and two hundred and forty-nine days old.”

“Cool! How did you do that?”

“I’m good with data.”

His painting is haphazard. Sometimes his strokes are up and down, and sometimes they are side to side. Little dots of paint are missing the garage and landing in the driveway. And I am surprised that I don’t seem to care.

I will have to talk to Dr. Buckley about this.

The garage painting is finished by 4:30 p.m. It looks pretty good, especially considering that a nine-year-old boy did some of it. I offer to shake hands with Kyle, but he insists on a high five, something I’ve never done. I’ve seen the Dallas Cowboys do it, and it looks like great fun. I hold up my right hand, and Kyle slaps it hard. It sort of hurts. It’s not that much fun.

“See ya, Edward,” Kyle says, and he’s dashing across the street to his house, his blond hair flying behind him, his arms flailing.

At 8:07 p.m., after I’ve had my spaghetti, I hear a knock on the door. I am flummoxed. Visitors are rare at this house. I have not had a visitor since July 21.

I open the door, and standing on the stoop is the woman I saw mowing her yard yesterday morning, the woman I presume to be Kyle’s mother.

“Hello? Mister… I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name. You’re Edward, right?”

“Edward Stanton. Yes.”

“I’m Donna, Kyle’s mom. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Not until now, no.”

“Kyle told me he helped you paint your garage. I hope he wasn’t any trouble.”

“No.”

“I just thought, if he’s going to be hanging around over here, I should know who you are. I hope you’re not offended.”

“No. But he just helped paint the garage.”

“Of course. I don’t want to be rude. You just can’t be too careful, you know? I’m sure you understand.”

“I didn’t let him go up on the ladder.”

“OK.”

She’s now just looking at me. I stare back at her.

“Is there anything else?” I ask her.

“No, I guess not. Thanks for letting Kyle help you out, Edward.”

“All right, then.”

I close the door. I can tell from the sound outside that Donna stands there for a few seconds before walking across the street to her house.

I’m as flummoxed as I’ve ever been, I think, although I don’t keep data on that. I may need a new word.

Tonight’s Dragnet is the twenty-first episode of the fourth and final season, “Forgery: The Ranger,” and it is one of my favorites. It originally aired on March 12, 1970.

A character named Barney Regal, played by Stacy Harris, who died many years before I started writing to Dragnet actors, tries to pass himself off as a forest ranger. In talking to various groups about forestry, he ends up stealing credit cards and other valuables. Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon slowly work him over at the office downtown, methodically poking holes in his story until he confesses that he’s not Ranger Barney Regal at all but a common criminal named Clifford Ray Owens.

I would not want to be a criminal being worked over by Friday and Gannon. They would surely make me admit my crimes. They are very logical men.

I have a couple of candidates for tonight’s letter of complaint. The unhelpful paint man at Home Depot has avoided my wrath so far, and he is deserving of complaint. But I have to concede that the Behr parsley sprig looks pretty good on that garage. He will get a complaint—he deserves one—but it can wait.

Donna:

I did not appreciate your uninvited knock on my door this evening. Had you granted me the courtesy of some warning of your visit, I would have been better prepared to answer your questions and more comfortable in talking with you.