Edward Adrift

So in that regard, nothing changes. Now, you had a second question?”
    “Yes. What does the position pay?”
    “It pays thirteen dollars an hour to start. I know that’s less than you were making at the
Herald-Gleaner
, but on the plus side, your health benefits will be entirely paid for, you’ll get three weeks of paid vacation to start, which I believe is better than you were getting at the newspaper, and we also do a 401(k) match. It’s a good package, and I think we both know that in your financial condition, this paycheck isn’t going to make much of a difference.”
    I think Jay L. Lamb just said, in a nice way, that I’m fucking loaded.
    “I accept the position,” I say. “When do I start?”
    “Let’s say January second, the Monday after the new year. It’s going to be a ghost town around here between now and then. Be here at eight a.m. and we’ll get you started. Welcome aboard, Edward.”
    We shake on it. This astounds me.

    I’m home by 2:42 p.m. While I’m grilling chicken for lunch, I watch the next
Dragnet
episode on my bitchin’ iPhone, since I may be late at my mother’s tonight. I wouldn’t want to miss
Dragnet
so early in my return to it.
    “Administrative Vice: DR-29” is the seventeenth episode of the third season of the
Dragnet
color episodes, which ran from 1967 to 1970. This episode originally aired on February 6, 1969, and it’s one of my favorites.
    One of the things I appreciate about
Dragnet
is its authenticity. Unlike television shows today that are monuments to falsehood,
Dragnet
shows you how police work actually takes place. In addition, Sergeant Joe Friday (played by Jack Webb) often provides a history lesson on Los Angeles in the intro. I will not hold my breath waiting for
Jersey Shore
to do something similar.

    My mother’s condo is in a place called the Stapleton Building downtown. When it was built in 1904, it was the tallest and most glorious building in Billings, Montana. It held the city’s finest department store, Hart-Albin; offices; and even a men’s overnight club. For much of my life, however, it was empty and dilapidated (I love the word “dilapidated”), until some local developers turned it into something new, with the condo units and restaurants and shops. My mother moved here after my father died, and now she splits her time between here and Texas—with an increasingly larger share of the time being spent away from here.
    My mother rings me in from the lobby, and I ride the elevator to the third floor, where her condo is. She has a view of the downtown streets. It’s a very nice place, although I still prefer my bungalow on Clark Avenue.
    My mother opens the door and sweeps me into her condo.
    Jay L. Lamb is standing in the living room.
    “Hello, Edward,” he says.
    “Hello, Mr. Lamb.”
    My mother, having closed the door, has walked up behind me and wrapped an arm around me.
    “Jay was just telling me about your new job. I’m so glad this worked out.”
    I wrench myself out of my mother’s arm.
    “My ribs still hurt,” I say, and she quickly apologizes.
    “Why don’t you two chat?” she says. “I’ll finish with the dip.”
    Jay sits down and invites me to take a spot on the couch opposite him. Instead, I follow my mother into the kitchen.
    “Do you need something to drink?” she asks.
    “No, Mother. Why is Jay L. Lamb here?”
    “I invited him.”
    “Why?”
    “He’s our friend, and he just did something very nice for you.”
    “And I appreciate that. I thought you and I were going to talk.”
    “We are.”
    “With Jay L. Lamb here? I have some things I need to say to you.”
    “Go right ahead.”
    My mother is being obtuse. I leave her and go back into the living room. Jay L. Lamb is stirring his drink. I go to the window and look down on Broadway, with my back to Jay L. Lamb and my mother so they don’t see how flummoxed I am.
    “What’s new, Edward?” Jay asks me.
    “Since you saw me four hours ago? Not much.”
    My mother comes into the room carrying a tray of crackers. I can see her reflection in the glass.
    “Edward, are you ready to talk? We have some time before the roast comes out of the oven.”
    “No.”
    “Could you come sit down, dear? We’d like to chat.”
    I turn from the window and walk to the couch across from Jay L. Lamb and my mother, who are sitting together. I sit on the far end, as far from them as I can. I’m not hungry. I thought I was, but I’m not.
    “Edward,” Jay L. Lamb