Edward Adrift

him this, and then I tell him why.
    “I remember Christmases by the best gift I got each year. For example, in 1975, I got a five-speed bicycle, and the year before, I got a G.I. Joe, and the year after I got Connect Four. So that’s how I remember what year it was. But the way I figured out there was no Santa Claus was I heard my father say ‘cocksucker’ late that night while he was trying to put my five-speed bicycle together in the living room after I had been sent to bed. I don’t think Santa Claus would say a word like ‘cocksucker,’ and even if he would, he wouldn’t sound like my father.”
    Kyle laughs and laughs at this story, and I laugh, too, because it is funny. As I think about it now, I realize that my father and Scott Shamwell, the pressman at the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
, are a lot alike in that both like to curse in loud and creative ways. Maybe that’s why I like Scott Shamwell so much—because he reminds me of my father in the best ways and doesn’t remind me of him at all in any ofthe bad ways. It’s a good theory. Theories are fine, but I prefer facts. The facts are that I like Scott Shamwell and I miss my father.
    Kyle taps me on the shoulder, and I look over at him.
    “That’s two more bucks to my account,” he says.
    “Why?”
    “You just said—” Again he stops himself. He’s better at this than I am. “You said
c
-sucker twice.”
    Well, shitballs, I think (but don’t say). I guess we’re down to $213.

    We’re at mile marker 228 near Sinclair, Wyoming, when we have our first chance to go head-to-head on peeing.
    “Edward, you better pull over,” Kyle says. “I have to go.”
    Once we’re parked he gets out of the Cadillac and runs to the bathroom, empty bottle in hand. I’m following with my own bottle but not running, because that only aggravates my urge to go.
    I’m at a urinal, trying to aim my tallywhacker at the small opening of the bottle and having a difficult time of it.
    “Dammit,” I say as I splash a little urine on my hands.
    “That’s another dollar!” Kyle yells from the adjacent stall.
    “Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Two hundred twelve.”
    Finally I get everything coordinated, and my bladder empties into the bottle, the stream of urine making a drumming sound against the plastic. A fat man on my left, who’s wearing a mesh baseball cap, looks at me, and I look back at him. He frowns.
    “It’s a contest,” I say.
    He shakes off his tallywhacker, zips up, and leaves without saying anything—or, more importantly, without washing his hands. That’s gross.

    Back at the car, I hold the bottles up for comparison. I have to give Kyle credit. The boy can pee prodigiously (I love the word “prodigiously”).
    “OK,” I say. “You beat me on that one. To be fair, though, you just had a lot of water, and I’ve been peeing a lot all day. Let’s see if you’re still beating me at the end of the day.”
    “No way,” he says. “That’s it, it’s over. I don’t owe you a dime. We didn’t say anything about doing this more than once.”
    Kyle is probably correct in his contention. Our agreement on the peeing contest was reached informally, and I never bothered to write down an extended deal. Still, I want to keep going. I don’t want him to beat me.
    “Are you afraid you can’t keep peeing better than I can?” I ask.
    “I’m not afraid of anything.”
    “You sound afraid,” I say. “You sound like a chicken.” I set the bottles down on the leather seat and put my thumbs in my armpits and flap my elbows. “Bock-bock-be-gock!”
    “You’re being immature,” he says.
    “Come on, chicken.” I flap my elbows some more, and finally Kyle laughs.
    “OK, dude, you’re going down,” he says.
    We high-five, and I feel as happy as I have in a long time. It’s as if the Kyle I remember from Billings, the one who was nowhere to be seen in Boise, is back with me. I hope he washed his hands.

    It is 2:47 p.m. when we park at a McDonald’s off the interstate in Denver. I implore (I love the word “implore”) Kyle to pick a different place, but he’s insistent that he wants McDonald’s, and I am reluctant to do anything that stops our good momentum.
    The shopping center holding the McDonald’s has many stores and good pathways for walking, and I tell Kyle that after we eat, we need to walk. He doesn’t appear keen on this, until I remind him that his debt will be down to $202 if he walks with me.
    At the restaurant, Kyle orders a