Craig Lancaster - 600 Hours of Edward

Sergeant Joe Friday is doing very well in night school, but he spots a classmate carrying marijuana, and because he is a cop and cops are never off duty, he arrests his classmate after school. This greatly angers the teacher, played by an actor named Leonard Stone, who also played Sam Beauregard in the movie Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory , which is one of my favorites. He’s the one who says, “Violet! You’re turning violet, Violet!” Sam Beauregard is also supposed to be from Miles City, Montana, which isn’t all that far from where I live.

Sergeant Joe Friday ends up getting kicked out of class on a vote of the classmates for breaking their trust. Sergeant Joe Friday stews about this, then comes back and asks the teacher for one more chance to talk to the class, with the agreement that if he doesn’t sway two-thirds of the class, he’s still out. The vote is in favor of Sergeant Joe Friday, but not by two-thirds, and he is prepared to leave until a lawyer wearing an eye patch tells the teacher that he has no right to deny Sergeant Joe Friday an education and that he will file charges to keep Sergeant Joe Friday in the class if the professor persists.

This episode, I think, is about standing up for what you believe in, no matter how unpopular. I need to be a lot more like Sergeant Joe Friday.

Sonya Starr:

I wish to express my extreme displeasure with your intractability on the issue of how to label the calls made on behalf of the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Your refusal to listen to my concerns and then your abrupt dismissal of me were not professional representations of your organization.

I think that people who stand up for what they believe in, no matter how unpopular, should be celebrated, not cast aside. I believe that my ideas about green highlighters and yellow highlighters could have served the Muscular Dystrophy Association well, if only they were given a proper and considerate airing.

It is my hope that should we have occasion to work together in the future, you will exhibit a higher standard of professionalism.

It’s hazy in here. The edges of my vision have a gauzy feel. An R.E.M. song I like, “Daysleeper,” calls it “headache gray.” Michael Stipe, R.E.M.’s lead singer, puts words together in odd yet pleasing ways.

Suddenly, she comes into view. I think I have seen her before, and yet I cannot put a name to her. She is looking at me in a way that sends a tingle through me. She licks her lips and moves closer to me.

She is naked.

I am naked.

She reaches down. Oh my goodness. This can’t possibly…

My eyes fly open. My breath is shallow and rapid. It’s 7:39 a.m. It is the twenty-third time this year that I have awoken at this time, although never before like this. I breathe deeply and purse my lips and expel the air in a single blast. I reach for my notebook and pen, flip to today’s page, and write down “7:39 a.m.,” and my data is complete.

Also, my balls ache.

When I log on to Montana Personal Connect, I see something I haven’t seen before:

Inbox (1).

I had not anticipated this. I try not to anticipate things at all, as that is just supposition about what will happen, and supposition is not fact. I prefer facts. And yet I know that anticipation is also human, and so am I, no matter how much I try to resist it.

I had not anticipated this. It seems silly to say, but I am not sure what to do.

I had not anticipated this. I guess I should click the inbox link. Yes, that’s the thing to do.

I had not anticipated this.

Click .

Edward:

I really liked your profile. So many people on here try to “sell” themselves. Its all so fake. But your profile is simple and to the point. I like that in a man.

And your funny too. Anyway I hope you will check out my profile and maybe write back.

Have a great day!

I am flabbergasted. (I like the word “flabbergasted.” It’s not quite an onomatopoeia, another word I like, but it’s close.)

It’s not a perfect letter. Joy does not seem to know the difference between “you’re” and “your,” or how to use an apostrophe or a comma, and she didn’t mention anything about tracking the weather.

It’s also the first response my profile has received. Beggars can’t be choosers, as the saying goes. My father says that a lot, but I don’t think it’s a philosophy to him. He just doesn’t like poor people. It’s not a philosophy to me, either. I prefer facts.

Joy’s profile picture is very pretty. It would be a stretch to say she’s beautiful. Beautiful is Angelina Jolie or Merry Anders, one of my favorite ensemble actors on Dragnet. Joy is not that. But she is very pretty.

She has short blonde hair and blue eyes that are very bright. She smiles very well, and she has dimples. She looks very sturdy, too, which isn’t always considered a beautiful trait, but I like it.

This is what her profile says:

The guy I am looking for is secure and wants a woman who is secure too. Ive been there done that with guys who are controlling or insecure and never again. I am a simple girl with simple tastes. Take me out to a movie and dinner once in a while and its all good. I prefer H/W proportionate but its the spark that counts. If you can make me laugh its all good. If your in a relationship or living in your parents house don’t bother. If your rich that’s even better. Ha ha. I have 2 kids who live with there dad. I would like to have more kids.

Joy is forty-one. If she wants to have more kids, she needs to hurry.

Her grammar is atrocious. I am worried about this desire for more kids. It is a lot to think about right now, since I haven’t even met Joy. I can’t think about kids yet. It’s too much pressure. Also, she lives in Broadview, a small town that is thirty-one miles away. A lot of reasons not to respond are piling up. I am thinking about hitting delete on her note and waiting for another response. It could be a long wait, though.

Dr. Buckley has encouraged me to challenge my tendency to not want to talk to or meet people. I wonder what she would think of this.

She might tell me that Joy was very nice to have responded to my profile and that I ought to be equally nice in return.

She would probably tell me to be more forgiving about the atrocious grammar.

Maybe I should write back.

Maybe I should paint the garage first and figure out what I want to say.

After eating a bowl of corn flakes and recording yesterday’s weather data—high of fifty-seven, low of thirty-four on the 291st day of the year (because it’s a leap year), and now my data is complete—I drag the Behr mochachino paint, the mixing pans, and the paintbrushes into the driveway. I have extra brushes for Kyle, in case he decides to show up after school.

I am feeling apprehensive about the painting. The ten-day forecast looked good, so I am reasonably confident that I can get the mocha chino applied and even the bronze green before Billings gets a blast of snow or rain. I don’t know this for a fact, of course. That’s the problem with forecasts. They are notoriously off base.

So it’s not the painting, per se, that makes me hesitant. I don’t quite know what it is. I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn’t dumb of me to buy three kinds of paint, all of which I will have to see on the garage before I am satisfied. I know this about myself, and I’m now regretful that I couldn’t have chosen just one color and been done with it. Even though I want to blame the unhelpful paint man, I cannot. It’s my fault for being so compulsive.