600 Hours of Edward

I am headed. That knowledge makes it easier to start the slog that begins at the front door near the food court and extends deep into the place. I am not here for pizza or for greasy Asian noodles. I make a left turn at the Starbucks kiosk and walk a diagonal line to the far wall, and then I walk toward Dillard’s at the south end of the mall. I’m dodging baby carriages and listless teens who ought to be in school and slow-moving old people who come here to walk.
    Dillard’s looms like a beacon, an outpost of affordable, fashionable wear for men and women and even a big-and-tall section—the kind of place that will have something for my six-foot-four, 280-pound frame. I am almost there.
    I’m just steps away when a middle-age woman in a pink T-shirt (“Beauty Queen”) and too-tight gray sweats plows intome, spilling her supersize Orange Julius down the front of my pants.
    “Jesus H. Christ on a Popsicle stick!” My father says that a lot. I am surprised to hear it come out of my mouth.
    – • –
    I race-walk into Dillard’s, trying to look like someone who didn’t have an accident in his pants. Judging from the stares I’m getting, I am failing. I duck into the big-and-tall department, which thankfully is just inside the door.
    “Can I help…?” The sales person’s smile disappears.
    “Someone ran into me with an Orange Julius.”
    “Oh no.”
    “I’m here for some dress clothes, but I need jeans now.” I rattle off my size to her, and she fetches a couple of possibilities, and then she leads me to a changing room.
    After a few minutes of writhing out of my soaked jeans and into the two she has offered me, I make my pick: a pair of dark-blue Joseph Abboud jeans. Tag price: $65. My father will not be happy.
    I emerge from the changing room and tell the woman that I’ll wear the Abbouds out the door. She clips the scan tag, then smiles and says, “What else can I help you with today?”
    – • –
    My final haul looks like this: three button-down dress shirts (lavender, white with thick blue stripes, and white with thin brown-and-blue stripes). They are fine items of clothing, fitted Gold Label shirts from Roundtree and Yorke, and I found them at a closeout price. These $75 shirts are being sold for $17.50 (75 percent off).
    I also have two pairs of trousers, blue and chino, also Roundtree and Yorke, and also on closeout, $20 apiece (again, 75 percent off).
    I also have the most wonderful belt I have ever seen, one that reverses and thus is black or brown, whatever I need. Its cost: $35.
    I also have a pair of brown, size twelve, Rockport lace-up dress shoes. Cost: $65.
    I also have a blue suit with tiny little tan pinstripes. The name on the tag is George Foreman—“The same guy who does the grill!” the friendly saleswoman tells me. It looks good on me. Cost: $300.
    Grand total: $492.50.
    Holy shit!
    – • –
    As I’m making a left turn from the mall parking lot onto Twenty-Fourth Street W.—with the blessing of a left-turn arrow on the traffic light, I might add—the front of my 1997 Toyota Camry is clipped by a car making a right turn out of the strip mall directly across the street. The rain, now coming down in waves, is pelting my windshield so hard that I don’t see the other driver, and by the time I bring the Camry to a stop, set the hazard lights, and climb out of the Camry, the car that hit me is long gone.
    “Cocksucker,” I yell after the car, which I can’t see.
    My new Joseph Abboud jeans are soaked.
    – • –
    I wait until I get home to inspect the damage. It’s not bad: a small paint swap on the front right fender (my assailant’s car was white),some scratching, a dent perceptible only if you run your hand along the fender, which I do.
    But there is a principle involved. I had the right of way. The light favored me. What was that idiot in the white car doing? And why did he or she not stop? That’s breaking the law.
    Also, I will have to talk to my father about this and find out what he wants to do about repairing the Camry. I am not looking forward to that.
    – • –
    At 4:03 p.m., I hear a knock at the door. I look through the peephole and see Donna Middleton under an umbrella.
    I open the door.
    “Hello, Edward.”
    “Hello.”
    “Listen, I hate to sound pushy, but I’m getting soaked out here. Can I come in?”
    “Um. OK.”
    I step back and open the door for Donna Middleton as she closes her umbrella.
    “Leave that on the porch,” I