600 Hours of Edward

also plays soft music in her waiting room. I prefer rock music—my favorites are R.E.M. and Matthew Sweet—but I think that if Dr. Buckley played Matthew Sweet, some of her patients would not like it. Matthew Sweet has a song called “Sick of Myself,” and I am pretty sure that is exactly the wrong song name for a therapist’s waiting room.
    I try to arrive at least ten minutes early for my 10:00 a.m. appointment, although I can never be sure exactly what time I will get here. Things like stoplights and the uncertainty of wherein the parking lot I will find a place for my car affect it. I once asked Dr. Buckley if I could have my own parking space, but she assured me that was not possible.
    I arrive early for two reasons: First, as I said, the lighting and wood paneling and the soft music help set me at ease. Second, Dr. Buckley’s other, less-organized patients are always getting the magazines out of order. I sometimes need the full ten minutes to organize the magazines by title and date. I would do it after our appointment, when I have more time, but Dr. Buckley prefers that her patients not linger.
    Today, however, the magazines are not badly out of sorts, and so I have three minutes to just sit and listen to the music.
    – • –
    When Dr. Buckley emerges from her office to summon me in, I look down at my digital watch, and the time is 9:59:28. I tell Dr. Buckley that it is not quite time for my appointment, and so we stare at each other for thirty-two seconds.
    – • –
    There is a rhythm to my talks with Dr. Buckley. She asks many of the same questions every week, but it’s not by rote. She is interested in my answers. Dr. Buckley has never been less than professional, and she is a very logical person.
    “How has your week been, Edward?”
    “Very good, I think. My data is complete, and before I came here today, I bought some paint for the garage.”
    “It’s a little late in the year for that, isn’t it?”
    “The ten-day forecast looks good.”
    “You’re trusting forecasts now?”
    “No, but you’ve told me that I should have a little faith, right?”
    “Very good. Have you been taking your medication?”
    “Every day. Eighty milligrams every day.”
    “Any problems with the Prozac?”
    “I prefer the term fluoxetine.”
    “Any problems?”
    “No.”
    “Excellent. Are you still writing letters?”
    “I wrote one to my father last night.”
    “But you didn’t send it, right?”
    “No.”
    “What was your complaint to your father?”
    “I don’t think he’s even considered radiant floor heating. Do you realize how much money he could save?”
    “Radiant floors are nice. Do you know why this is so important to you?”
    “It’s not that it’s important. I’m frustrated that he hasn’t thought of it. It doesn’t speak well of him.”
    “Do you think, perhaps, that it might be too much to expect that your father has thought of radiant floors just because you have?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe. He makes me mad.”
    “We can talk about that some more.”
    – • –
    Tuesday is also the day that I go to the grocery store. It just makes good sense. Dr. Buckley’s office is at Lewis Avenue and Sixteenth Street W., which means that I can go north on Sixteenth to Grand Avenue, take a right turn, and be at the Albertsons store threeblocks later. After shopping, I can take a right turn on Grand, then another right turn on Sixth Street W., then another right turn on Clark Avenue, where I live.
    I like right turns much better than I like left turns.
    At Albertsons, I buy the same things every week: three packages of spaghetti, three pounds of ground beef (the kind with only 4 percent fat), three bottles of Newman’s Own roasted garlic spaghetti sauce, a twelve-pack of Diet Dr Pepper, a big box of corn flakes, a half gallon of milk, a quart of Dreyer’s vanilla ice cream, five assorted frozen Banquet dinners, and one DiGiorno pizza (usually spicy chicken).
    I can get three meals out of each box of spaghetti; spaghetti is my favorite food. I mix the spaghetti with a package of ground beef and one of the bottles of spaghetti sauce. That’s nine meals total. The five Banquet dinners bring the total to fourteen meals. I can get seven bowls of cereal from the corn flakes, so that’s twenty-one meals, or three a day for the seven days of the week. The ice cream and the DiGiorno pizza are treats.
    Ever since the Albertsons on Grand put in self-checkout stands, I have been a