600 Hours of Edward

repeatedly tells anyone with whom he is talking. The facts lead Sergeant Joe Friday to the truth, and that allows him to put the bad guys away and make Los Angeles a little bit safer. There are not many TV shows like that anymore. The ones today are full of moral equivalencies, and there seems to be little celebration of the truth. I do like shows like
Law and Order
, which is made by Dick Wolf, who is a big fan of Jack Webb. But even shows like that end up mired in the ambiguity that Sergeant Joe Friday disdained.
    Also, some of today’s shows have a totally unrealistic view of the world. On that show everybody seems to love,
24
, Jack Bauer can get from one side of Los Angeles to the other in five minutes. This is simply not possible. I went to Los Angeles on a vacation two years ago—my father was apoplectic when he saw the cost. (I love the word “apoplectic.”) I can tell you from experience that you cannot get from Hollywood and Vine to the Sunset Strip in five minutes, and those places are very close together, in Los Angeles terms. Jack Bauer is fooling his audience, but he doesn’t fool me.
    – • –
    My letter of complaint tonight requires yet another new green office folder. This letter is overdue.
    Unhelpful paint man at Home Depot:
    As I have had other things attracting my attention, I have been slow to register my complaint about your poor performance on October 14, when I purchased paint in your store. I would be remiss, however, if I did not cover this ground with you.
    I have now applied two colors to the garage, and because of your inability to help me zero in on a single color, I will still have to apply another. This wastes my valuable time and could conceivably cause me to run up against the erratic October weather for which Billings is known.
    Still, I also must acknowledge my own role in this failure. I could not control my impulse to buy three colors of paint, and that is not your fault. I had merely hoped that you could help me negotiate the many choices at your store. I will continue to work on my problem. Perhaps you could work on yours.
    Respectfully,
    Edward Stanton

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 18
    I am standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down. I don’t know if I’ve been here before. There is a rimrock that surrounds Billings; it is the signature geographic formation of the area. I know it well. I see it every day. I don’t know if this is it, as I can’t see the whole rock or a town below. I see my feet and the brown, dusty, weather-beaten sandstone below them, and below that only the murky darkness.
    Then I feel myself fall down. Only, it’s not me.
    It’s him. Kyle. I can see his face as he falls away, and I know his little body is going to crash to the rocks that I assume are below, although I don’t like to assume. I can feel the black terror inside of me.
    And suddenly, a hand reaches out and catches Kyle’s wrist. It’s my hand, and I feel the snap of my shoulder as his fall is arrested.
    “Help me, Edward!” he says.
    “I have you,” I say through my teeth, straining to keep my grip on his wrist. I’m lying flat on my stomach, my chin hanging over the edge of the cliff, my feet scratching at the rock behind me as I try to find purchase.
    “I’m slipping!”
    “I have you!”
    And then I don’t have him. Gravity pulls him from my grip and hurtles him to certain death, and…
    – • –
    I am awake.
    And I am up.
    And I am out of here.
    I don’t know what time it is.
    My data is not complete.
    – • –
    Once I am sitting in the driver’s seat of my 1997 Toyota Camry, I notice three things. First, it’s 7:40 a.m. Second, the Behr mochachino looks horrid on the garage in front of me. Third, I am wearing my 1999 R.E.M.
Up
tour T-shirt and blue-and-red pajama bottoms. I sleep in these. I am wearing no shoes.
    I don’t care.
    – • –
    From the house that my father bought, the route to Billings Clinic is easy: right turn on Clark Avenue to Sixth Avenue W., left turn on Sixth to Lewis Avenue, right turn on Lewis to Broadway, left turn on Broadway to Billings Clinic. I can be there in five minutes. My stomach is churning, and not from the left turns.
    – • –
    At Billings Clinic, I find a parking spot in the lot behind the emergency department. Before I step out of the car, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and lick my right palm, then paw at my head. My hair is puffed up and bent every which way from sleep. I look crazy. I feel crazy.