Edward Adrift

Idaho.
    Anticipated amount/cost of fill-up in Butte: 9.925 gallons at $3.23/gallon, for $32.06. Gas prices are highly volatile, however, and this estimate is based on online reports of the average cost of gas in Butte, Montana, today. I have no way of knowing what the prices will be the day after tomorrow.
    Anticipated amount/cost of fill-up in American Falls: 12.078 gallons at $3.18/gallon, for $38.41. See my note above about the volatility of gas prices.
    Anticipated amount of remaining gas upon arrival at Donna and Victor’s house: 8.666 gallons, or enough for 156.9 miles of city driving at 18.1 miles per gallon. That’s way more than I should need, I would think. The facts will reveal themselves in due time.
    Planned accommodations in Butte: I have reservations at the Best Western Plus Butte Plaza Inn on Harrison Avenue. It has a four-and-a-half-star rating on the basis of five reviews on Google. Pros: Easy access from the interstate, a Perkins restaurant adjoining (I love the word “adjoining”). Con: $110 a night. But fuck it. I’m loaded.
    Snacks procured: Dr. Rex Helton would no doubt prefer that I eat carrots and celery, but I cannot do that. Aside from the fact that I don’t like celery, there is the issue of freshness to be considered. I am driving 691.5 miles. Therefore, I have unsalted sunflower seeds and a case of bottled water.
    Music: Everything R.E.M. has ever released, piped in through my bitchin’ iPhone.
    Other details: A few things I need to keep in mind:
    Remember the medicine and take it every day.
Remember to take a walk every day and to keep a log for Dr. Rex Helton. I haven’t started this yet, and I need to.
Keep the car at 65 miles per hour at all times on the interstate. Others may drive faster. At 65, I will get excellent fuel efficiency at a legal speed, thus better ensuring that my fuel usage estimates have a high degree of accuracy.
Be on the lookout for interesting things on the drive. Stop and take pictures with the bitchin’ iPhone camera. Enjoy the trip.
Be safe.
Stop making this list.
OK, stop now.
Now.
Shit.
I can’t end on 9, so I will end here.
Thank goodness.
Shit!
I
Guess
I’ll
End
It
At
Number
20.

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 2011
    From the logbook of Edward Stanton:
    Time I woke up today: 6:17 a.m. The first time all year I’ve been awake at this time.
    High temperature for Friday, December 9, 2011, Day 343: 33
    Low temperature for Friday, December 9, 2011: 21
    Precipitation for Friday, December 9, 2011: 0.00 inches
    Precipitation for 2011: 19.40 inches
    Addendum: I will be on the road for a few days, so I will have to rely on out-of-town newspapers for the official Billings weather data. That should not be a problem, although I am worried about whether those newspapers use the same source of information that the Billings Herald-Gleaner does. I will have to accept their numbers, I guess, and reconcile them against the Herald-Gleaner when I get home. It’s not an ideal situation.
    Because I wish to travel light, I am not carrying my full accompaniment of weather data notations, so I say this in the admittedly sketchy vein of personal recollection: this is the prettiest December I’ve ever seen. I notice this in particular at 8:03 a.m., twelve minutes after I departed, as I’m merging onto Interstate 90 westbound, staring at a clear sky and the Crazy Mountains in the distance.
    I’ve eaten my oatmeal and consumed my fluoxetine, lisinopril, potassium chloride, metformin, actos, and furosemide. I’ve packed a large duffel bag with all the clothes I will need for at least a week. Donna and I did not agree on a date when I would return home. It’s unlike me to be so informal about things, and yet somehow, today, that does not bother me. Which bothers me.
    I set the Cadillac DTS on cruise control at exactly 65 miles per hour, and I take a swig of water from the bottle in the cup holder beside me. I’ve always heard singers pay tribute to the open road—it seems that you cannot be a singer for long without singing about being on the road, as if that’s required by the international singers’ union or something—and for the first time, I think I understand what they mean. I’m not sure why I waited until I was forty-two years old to do this.
    Michael Stipe, incidentally, is not singing about the open road. He’s singing about a crush with eyeliner through my bitchin’ iPhone, which is plugged into my Cadillac’s speakers. Michael Stipe is pretty inscrutable (I