“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.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 21
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.
I scan the end tables filled with magazines, which are predictably scattered every which way by patients who are not courteous enough to put things back the way they found them. I would be lying if I said I didn’t care—and I don’t lie, except for that one time to Donna Middleton about the cost of the Blue Blaster—but I also find myself unwilling to sort through them. If I had concentration today, it would be focused squarely on my impending discussion with Dr. Buckley, but focus is beyond my reach. I sit and I stare straight ahead and I wait.
After a few moments, I look down to see where the thump-thump-thump sound is coming from, and it is coming from me, as my heel fires up and down like a piston, making a metronome sound on Dr. Buckley’s carpeted floor.
At 9:57, Dr. Buckley guides a client out through the waiting room—she (the client) looks to be a fifty-something woman, lumpy and matronly, and she has been crying. My eyes dart away, out of an unwillingness to make eye contact with a stranger and out of deference to her pain. Soon, she is gone.
I look up and Dr. Buckley is giving me a “let’s go” look.
I look at my watch.
9:57:08…9:57:09…9:57:10…
I stand up. I may need the extra two-plus minutes.
“How was your week, Edward?” Dr. Buckley asks.
“You won’t believe it.”
I’ve started where I never start, and Dr. Buckley sits up, attentive. “Try me.”
“I have been having dreams that I remember vividly, and that never happens.”
“Go on.”
“I have started online dating.”
“You have?”
“Yes, through Montana Personal Connect. I may be having a date soon.”
“Well, that is something new.”
“Yes. And I’ve become friends with a nine-year-old boy and his mother. At least, I think we’re friends. I’m sure the boy and I are friends. With the mother, it’s harder to say.”
“Anything else?”
“I had another fight with my father.”
“Well, Edward, that’s not anything new, is it?”
“No, I guess it isn’t.”
“OK,” she says. “Let’s take these things one at a time. Let’s start with the boy and his mother.”
I tell Dr. Buckley everything: how Kyle came over and helped me paint the garage twice, the dream about losing my grip on him, the misunderstanding at the Billings Clinic emergency room, Mike’s assault of Donna later that night, the chat on the doorstep early in the morning, the Blue Blaster, and Donna’s tepid (I love the word “tepid”) response to it.