600 Hours of Edward

see that they’ve been underserved here. Yellowstone County deserves better.”
    The “meat,” according to Stanton, is a series of decisions that have “stunted” economic growth in the county. Among them, he said, is the failed Promenade project that had been slated for the West End and would have brought approximately ninety retail stores in an outdoor, urban-style setting. Backers of the project pulled out last month, citing a contracting economy, but Stanton maintains that
Yellowstone County officials and the Big Sky EDA failed to come through with a promised package of tax incentives.
    Stanton said his criticism of the board is unrelated to the candidacy of a friend, Dave Akers, for the economic development agency’s director job. Akers, considered the front-runner for the job, was dropped from consideration after being arrested on suspicion of drunk driving two weeks ago.
    “The way Dave was dealt with is emblematic of how the board works,” Stanton said. “But it’s immaterial to what’s hurting development in this county.”
    Fellow commissioner Rolf Eklund was skeptical of Stanton’s claims.
    “Everybody knows what Ted’s problem is,” said Eklund, who frequently spars with Stanton in county meetings. “He’s never made much of an effort to hide his agenda.”
    To be sure, Stanton has long been a divisive—but also beloved—figure on the Yellowstone County political scene…
    Always needing a fight, my father seems to have found one. Perhaps that will put an end to the one he’s having with me, at least for a while. I can always hope. I prefer facts.
    – • –
    After lunch, I step into the bedroom and consider the clothes I bought yesterday.
    First, as I had determined, I need to try them all on and make sure everything is in order.
    This takes a while, among all the slipping out of my work clothes, shimmying into the new items, looking myself over inthe full-length mirror on my closet door, then shedding one set of new clothes for another.
    The fits are all good, and the clothes hang nicely on a body that I know has gone doughy, especially in my thirties. At one point, I step forward to the mirror and press my face up close. A face changes imperceptibly day to day, but on close examination, I can see what has happened through the years. The creases across the bridge of my wide, flat nose are starting to deepen. My eyes are crinkling at the corners. My hair, which has been thinning at the temples for years, has turned gray on the sides.
    I am beginning to look my age.
    – • –
    At 3:02 p.m., I hear the
rap-rap-rap
of knuckles against the front door. I’ve been in the computer room, reading up on Bobby Troup, one of Jack Webb’s ensemble players. (Did you know that he wrote the theme song for
Route 66
? I didn’t.)
    I take the five steps to the front door and fling it open. Standing there on the front porch are Kyle and his mother, bundled up and beckoning me outside. Behind them, on the sidewalk leading up to the front door, is the Blue Blaster.
    – • –
    Donna Middleton and I are sitting on the front lawn, on folding chairs I dragged out of the garage. With the snow shovel, I’ve built a mound of loose snow in the middle of the sidewalk. The house I live in is the second to last one in the 600 block of Clark Avenue, and Kyle and the Blue Blaster are on the sidewalk at the corner of Clark and Seventh Street W., where the 700 block begins.
    “Are you ready?” he shouts down to us.
    Donna starts pumping her right fist in a forward-and-back motion and chants, “Go! Go! Go! Go!”
    I pump my right fist in unison but do not chant.
    Kyle settles into the Blue Blaster’s seat, and then he starts pedaling furiously, his piston-like legs driving the glorified tricycle to a high speed. When he connects with the pile of snow, it’s like a frozen explosion, the powdery snow blowing out in all directions.
    “Awesome!” Kyle yells.
    “Do it again,” I say as I get up, grab the shovel, and start rebuilding the snow pile while Kyle wheels the Blue Blaster around and goes back to the corner.
    Soon, his mother and I are chanting and fist pumping as Kyle blasts through another mound.
    “I know what,” Kyle says. “I’m going to ride around the block, and you guys make snowballs and try to hit me as I go by.”
    Donna fixes her boy with a wicked grin. “You’re going down.”
    “No, you are,” Kyle yells, and he and the Blue Blaster light out of there.
    Donna and I drop to