Edward Adrift

the things I will need for this task: safety goggles, a chisel, a sledgehammer, a whisk broom, a hammer, a stiff paintbrush, boards to build forms, nails, and a plastic drop cloth (and it occurs to me now that “drop cloth” is a silly term for something made of plastic—it’s not cloth at all). It takes me three trips, but I manage to hustle all of that upstairs, out the back door, and into the trunk of my Cadillac. In the garage, I get a garden hose, a wheelbarrow (which I strap to the roof of the car), a shovel, a bag of ready-mix concrete (I am glad I always keep one on hand), and the bonding agent.
    I count everything off one more time, just to make sure I have it, and then I remember: It’s nighttime. I’ll need light, too. I run inside and grab one. And that’s when I’m reminded of my fourth thought. I’m terribly hungry, not having eaten all day. I grab a package of cheese-and-peanut-butter crackers out of the pantry as I pass back through the kitchen. These are not on my new diet. I hope Dr. Rex Helton doesn’t find out.

    It is 11:38 p.m. and, after brushing away the accumulating snow—a potential trouble spot on this job—I have begun hammering together the wooden forms for the concrete steps when Elliott Overbay, the fat man who runs the copy desk at the
Herald-Gleaner
, comes outside.
    “What are you doing?” he asks me. He must be stupid.
    “I’m repairing these steps. You need to move. You’re standing in my light.”
    “Why?”
    He’s really stupid.
    “As you can see, they’re crumbling. You could see that if you ever looked, Elliott Overbay.”
    “I mean, why are you doing it now? Are you supposed to be here?”
    I decide to answer him with a rhetorical question.
    “Why not?”
    “What does that mean?”
    “What do you think it means?”
    Elliott Overbay is really stupid, and as much as I am enjoying this, it is interfering with my work.
    “You need to go away now,” I say. “I’m busy.”
    Elliott Overbay shakes his head and walks away. I really don’t like him. I never worked directly with him, but every time I was in the newsroom at night, he was really loud and obnoxious about all the grammatical mistakes he was fixing. I’m glad to see him leave.

    At 11:46, I hear the door open and I look up. Now it’s Scott Shamwell walking toward me. I wonder what he’s doing out here. At11:46, he should be hard at work on the press, getting it ready for the local run of newspapers.
    “Edward, what the fucking fuck, man?”
    “What?”
    “I heard they shitcanned you. What are you doing here?”
    “Fixing these steps.”
    “It’s snowing.”
    “They’re still damaged.”
    “You can’t be here, bro.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because you don’t work here anymore, man.”
    “That will change.”
    Scott Shamwell arches an eyebrow, and just for a moment he looks like John Belushi in the excellent movie
Animal House
, which always makes me laugh.
    “How do you figure?” he asks.
    “I wrote to Mr. Withers and asked for my job back.”
    “What did he say?”
    “I haven’t sent the letter yet.”
    Scott Shamwell comes closer, until he’s less than a foot away from me. His eyes look sad. He reaches out a big freckly arm and sets his hand on my shoulder.
    “Ed, buddy, I really hope that works. But unless you get the job back, you can’t be here, man.”
    I drop a board.
    “Why?”
    “It’s just not the way things are done. If you got hurt—”
    “I’m not going to get hurt,” I say.
    “I’m just saying, if you do, it will be a bad scene, man. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
    “I guess not,” I say.
    “All right, man. Let me help you put this stuff back in the car.”
    We gather up my things and dump them in the trunk. Scott tells me to leave the wheelbarrow, that he’ll bring it by my house in a few hours with his truck so it doesn’t scratch the roof of my Cadillac.
    I’m about to leave when Scott Shamwell, who has on a short-sleeve pressman’s shirt and is holding himself in the cold, whistles and motions for me to roll down the window. I hit the button, and the glass recedes into the door.
    “Eddie, call me after Christmas, and we’ll go out and do some radical shit.”
    “OK,” I tell him.
    He turns and goes back into the building at a jog. I head for home, with a right turn on North Twenty-Seventh, a right on Third Avenue, a right on Division, and lefts on Lewis and Fifth Street West before another right onto Clark Avenue, which leads me