Edward Adrift

needed to hear it.
    I go to the door and lean into it.
    “Who’s there?” I shout.
    “Dr. Asskicker and his band of merry men.”
    That can be only one person. I open the door, and sure enough, Scott Shamwell is standing on my front porch wearing a T-shirt that says “You’re Welcome to Join Me at My Intervention.”
    “Ed!” he says. “What the hell is up, dude?”
    “Scott Shamwell, what are you doing here?”
    “I told you, man. I said after Christmas we’d get together and do some radical shit. Well, it’s after Christmas, hoss.”
    “But you told me to call you,” I say.
    “Come on, man. I knew you wouldn’t. Now check this out.”
    Scott Shamwell stands aside and sweeps his arm toward the street, like one of the pretty women on
The Price Is Right
showing off a prize. Parked in front of my house is a black motorcycle with a sidecar.
    “Come on, dude,” Scott Shamwell says. “You can be my sidekick. Let’s go get stupid.”

    Getting stupid is not what I do.
    Scott Shamwell stretches his arms out as he holds the steering wheel of my Cadillac DTS, locking his elbows.
    “A frickin’ Cadillac,” he says. “God, I hope none of my friends see me in this thing.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “I broke my ribs. I can’t sit in a sidecar. Plus, motorcycles are dangerous.”
    “I know, but—”
    “At least I’m letting you drive,” I say. “I’ll still be your sidekick. That sounds like fun.”
    “I know, man, but a Cadillac! It’s so square.”
    “My father always said it’s the greatest negotiating tool ever.”
    “I don’t want to negotiate, dude. I want to get beer and girls.”

    We find a place in Stillwater County, on an outcropping that overlooks the Yellowstone River, and we eat chicken wings and drink root beer on the hood of my Cadillac DTS.
    “So the guy just hauled off and punched you for nothin’?” Scott Shamwell asks.
    “Yes. You can still see a little bit of the bruise under my eye.”
    Scott Shamwell peers in and crinkles his nose.
    “I think it’s gone.”
    I walk around to the side-view mirror and take a look. Scott Shamwell just didn’t look closely enough. The bruise is still there. I guess it helps to know where it was in the first place.
    “I wish I’d have been there,” he says. “I would have stomped a mud hole in that dude’s ass.”
    He flexes his freckly arms and gives each bicep a kiss. He’s pretty funny sometimes.

    When I tell Scott Shamwell about Sheila Renfro, he becomes excitable. He says, “Oh, yeah, Big Ed,” and then he gallops around the car twice, pretending that he’s slapping a horse on the hindquarters.
    Finally, he stops and says, “Did you screw her, dude?”
    He moves his hips forward and backward.
    “Did you get it on?”
    “No.”
    I say this abruptly. I’m annoyed with Scott Shamwell.
    “Dude,” he says, and he slaps me on the shoulder. “You got to bone it like you own it.”
    I’m more than annoyed. I’m angry.
    “You shut up,” I say. “She’s my friend. You don’t say mean things about her.”
    Scott Shamwell looks shocked. Then Scott Shamwell looks ashamed. More than that, he looks hurt.
    “She’s important to you,” he says.
    “Yes.”
    “Well, Ed, that’s—I’m sorry. Really. I’m sorry.”
    He gathers up our trash and bags it up.
    “Do you want to go home?” he asks.
    “No,” I say. “Let’s get stupid.”

    We’re on a side road in Carbon County, a long way from the highway, and Scott Shamwell has decided that he wants to see how fast the Cadillac can go. He finds a straightaway and brings the car to a stop.
    “Ready?” he asks.
    “I wish you wouldn’t.”
    “Well, dude, wish in one hand, shit in the other.”
    He stomps down hard on the accelerator, the back end of the Cadillac drops just a bit, and we’re off.
    “Nice takeoff,” Scott Shamwell says, and then he lets out a whoop. “WEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOO!”
    He looks over at me. I wish he would look at the road.
    “Yell, Ed!”
    “Woo,” I say.
    “Really yell, dude! WEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
    “WEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I say.
    Scott Shamwell lets off the accelerator.
    “Hundred and fifteen,” he says. “Pretty bitchin’.”

    It’s 6:17 p.m. and dark when we get back to my house. Scott Shamwell says he loves my Cadillac and wants to find one of his own and “soup it up.”
    He shuts off the ignition but still holds on to the steering wheel. He is staring at my garage.
    “Edward,” he says, “I need to tell