600 Hours of Edward

this year (because it’s a leap year). If I couldn’t remember that, I would have to have my head examined, which I don’t want to do.
    I can ensure that my data is complete when I get back home.
    – • –
    It is dark and cold this early in the morning. The late-fall sky is a deep gray, like a gun barrel, and I would guess that it won’t get much above freezing today. I would guess, but I don’t like to. Guesses are conjecture. I prefer facts.
    Inside the Albertsons on Thirteenth Street W. and Grand Avenue, though, it’s light and airy, and I enjoy walking the aisles, picking up the groceries I need.
    I have decided to try again with different kinds of food. I realize that changing my grocery list didn’t have anything to do with what happened to my father; it was a coincidence. I still would like to see if I can learn how to cook a steak, and so I buy a package of two New York strip steaks, in case my first attempt goes poorly.
    I also get corn flakes, as per usual (I love the phrase “as per usual”), and the makings of spaghetti, which remains my favorite food even though I said I felt like I was in a rut. A lot has changed since I said that.
    I do try some of the Lean Cuisine meals, but I think it’s OK to get a few Banquet dinners as well, because I like Banquet dinners.I make similar decisions on ice cream and pizza. I get the Dreyer’s vanilla and the DiGiorno pepperoni because I like them. It’s OK to get the things you like. It doesn’t mean that you’re slavish to convention.
    I think Dr. Buckley would agree with me on that.
    – • –
    “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here this early.” The woman at the checkout stand is talking to me.
    “What?”
    “You’re early. Don’t you usually come in later in the day?”
    “Yes. On Tuesdays. I didn’t this week, though.”
    “Forgot?”
    “No. I chose not to.”
    “Yeah, going to the store can be a real pain sometimes.” She continues sweeping my items across the electronic price reader.
    “My father died. It sort of jumbled up my schedule.”
    She looks crestfallen. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
    “It’s OK.”
    “Well,” she says, holding up the Dreyer’s, “ice cream makes excellent comfort food.”
    “Yes.”
    She finishes ringing up my items.
    “OK, that will be fifty-four dollars and seventy-eight cents,” she says.
    I swipe my card through the electronic reader, hit the credit option, and wait for the receipt to come up. When it does, I sign my name.
    “Thanks so much. It was good to see you,” the woman at the checkout stand says. “Take care.”
    I tell her good-bye.
    As I’m walking back to the Cadillac, I think it’s interesting that I’ve never before had a conversation at the grocery store. That was fun.
    – • –
    For what it’s worth—and that’s not much, until I get the actual facts tomorrow—the weather forecast in the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
agrees with me: It’s going to be a cold one today, with a high of thirty-six and a low of twenty-two. It’s all just conjecture at this point, and I prefer the facts. Here are two: Yesterday’s high temperature was forty-eight, and the low was thirty-four. I record these things in my notebook, and my data is complete. I then finish off the last few bites of my corn flakes and chase my fluoxetine with orange juice, and my breakfast is complete, too.
    Mr. Withers didn’t say how I should dress for our meeting today, so I am going to err on the side of formality and wear my George Foreman suit and shirt with blue stripes. I wore the same thing on my date with Joy-Annette, which momentarily gives me pause. But I have known Mr. Withers for a long time, and I have no anxiety that he will wig out on me like Joy-Annette did. I think it will be OK. That I’m wearing the same outfit is just coincidence. It doesn’t mean anything.
    I head for the shower. I must keep moving so I am clean and dressed and at the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
by 10:00 a.m. sharp.
    – • –
    The woman at the front desk has a kind, cheerful face. “Can I help you?”
    “Mr. Withers, please.”
    “Is he expecting you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Your name?”
    “Edward Stanton.”
    She picks up the phone and punches in a number. “There’s an Edward Stanton here to see you. Yes, OK.” She hangs up.
    “He’ll be right down.”
    I glance around the foyer of the
Herald-Gleaner.
The woman I’ve been talking to is behind a big glass wall, and through it, I can see dozens of cubicles,