I really can’t believe I’m saying this, because it’s such a stupid, self-evident phrase; every day is a new day no matter what, and it’s silly to point it out.
Kyle sits on the edge of his bed quietly. I think this is the first time on this whole trip that he is actually listening to me. Not that thinking matters very much. It’s the facts that count.
“Why did we come here?” Kyle asks. “This town is so small and boring.”
I cannot argue with Kyle, even if I wanted to. When we drove into Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, last night, even though it was dark, I recognized this motel and the grain elevators in town, and that was it. It’s funny—and not ha-ha funny—how something can appear to be so precise and vivid when you dream about it and then be so foreign and unrecognizable in the conscious world, when the cones and rods in your eyes are sending electrical impulses to your brain and showing you what things really look like.
The simplest answer to Kyle’s question, the one Occam’s razor would lead us to, is that I don’t have a good reason for why we came here. But I don’t tell Kyle that. I choose a different answer, one that is just as true.
“My father, before he became a politician in Billings, used to work for an oil company, and he was the boss of some crews that worked around here on the oil pumps. Those crews did some pretty neat things. Would you like to see the oil fields?”
“Sure,” Kyle says.
We both stand up and grab our jackets and head for the door. Once we’re in the hallway, the motel owner comes walking past us.
“Storm is coming,” she says, her intense blue eyes looking straight at me. And then she is gone into the room two doors down and across the hallway from us.
She flummoxes me.
“That was weird,” Kyle says.
It certainly was. I’m definitely going to talk to her later.
Kyle and I stand on the side of a dirt road, and I point out across a fallow (I love the word “fallow”) field to an oil pump in the distance. The head of it slowly bobs up and down, like a bird pulling a worm out of the ground.
“That’s an oil pump,” I say.
“I know that.”
Kyle thinks he’s so smart.
“Do you know what cathodic protection is?” I ask.
“No.”
“Do you want me to tell you?”
“Yeah.”
I try to explain this simply, which means I leave out the most interesting parts, like electrochemical potential and cathodic disbonding.
“These oil pumps will corrode over time unless something is done to combat it. That’s what my father’s crew would do. They would attach a power source to the pump with cables that they buried underground, and these cables would also go to something called an anode, which would get corroded instead of the pump, so the pump could keep doing its business. Does that make sense?”
“Not really.”
“You’ll learn about it later in school.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“Nothing is special about it. It’s just something my father did. The men who worked for him were very tough; you had to be, working with cathodic protection. Sometimes, the men would have to splice the cables together, which involved something called epoxy—a kind of glue. They would have these bags of liquid that were divided into two parts, and they would have to squeeze the bag repeatedly to heat up the liquid, then pull apart the divider to mix it, then cut open the bag of liquid, and pour it into a mold. My father said that epoxy, if it got on your skin, would be almost impossible to remove. He told me once when I was a little boy, ‘Edward, I’m thirty-six years old, but my hands are eighty-four.’ I don’t think he meant that literally, because that would be impossible.”
Kyle kneels down and picks up a small rock from the roadway. He throws it sidearm, and it thumps against a fence post.
“Good throw,” I say.
“Can we go over there and look at the pump?” Kyle asks.
“Oh, no.”
“Why not?”
“That would be trespassing.”
My father warned me never to trespass. There was nothing he hated in the world more than disrespect of private-property rights. If you got him talking about those or the shenanigans of Democrats, he would get very angry. However, if you got him talking about tax cuts or Ronald Reagan, he would get very happy. To be honest, none of those subjects interests me very much.
Kyle spreads his arms wide and says, “Dude, there’s nobody for miles. Let’s go take a look.”
“Kyle, no.”
Kyle is not listening to me. He shimmies (I love the word “shimmies”) under the barbed-wire fence while I say “No, no, no, no, no,” and he takes off running across the field, his feet kicking up dust as he goes.
I am too large to shimmy under the fence. I grab a fencepost with my right hand and put my left foot on the bottom strand of barbed wire. The strand goes all the way to the ground as I put my weight on it. I look for Kyle, and he’s now just a dot on the horizon, yards and yards away from me.
Slowly, I straddle the barbed wire, bringing my right leg over to the other side. I am in a precarious (I love the word “precarious”) position now. My balls are hanging directly over the barbed wire. As I find the ground with my right foot, I start bringing my left foot over, and that’s when it happens. I let go of the top strand of barbed wire too fast, and it springs upward, gouging me in my left hamstring. It tears my pants and cuts into my leg, and I fall down on the other side of the fence.
I pick myself up and dust off, and as I limp toward the oil pump, I see that Kyle has climbed up the back of it.
“Kyle, get down!” I scream. He can’t hear me or doesn’t want to hear me. The wind is blowing, and it’s as if my words get scattered away from where I’m aiming them.
“Kyle, get off that right now!” I scream again, and this time I know he hears me, because I’m close enough to see his face.
He waves at me. “I’m a cowboy, Edward, and I’m riding the biggest horse there is!”
“Get down!”
“Make me!”
I am flummoxed. I’m not going to climb on the back of the pump to chase him; that is just asking for trouble and maybe even tragedy. I can’t call his mother, because I left the bitchin’ iPhone way back at the car. I can’t get anyone to help me, because no one else is here.
I’m feeling helpless. I run several steps toward the oil pump and then I stop, because I have no idea what I’ll do once I’m there.
“Get down,” I yell again.
“No.”
I pace back and forth and I run my hands through my hair and I get more and more frustrated. I want to scream.
“Kyle Middleton, you little fucking shitball, you get down off that right now! You’re pretty high and far out, aren’t you? Well, fuck you and the horse you’re riding on.”
Holy shit!
Kyle’s face appears to lose all color. He climbs down off the back of the oil pump and walks over to me. He doesn’t say anything. I’m breathing hard. I try to speak.
“I—”
“Wow, Edward.”
“I—”
“‘Little fucking shitball’?”
“I—”
“Wow.”
“I—I don’t know where that came from. I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be sorry. That was cool.”
“No, it wasn’t. Also, Kyle, you shouldn’t say ‘fucking’ or ‘shitball.’ I know I did just now, again, but it’s not nice to say things like that.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry again, Kyle.”
“I’m sorry, too. What happened to your pants?” He points at the hole on the backside of my legs.
“That dumb fence,” I say.
“It tore your pants up pretty good.”
“I know, Kyle. It hurts, too. I’m lucky I didn’t snag my balls.”
We’re making our way to the Cadillac DTS slowly, because I’m limping. I look to the
sky now and I can see what the motel owner—why do I not know her name?—warned us about. It’s not the bright blue it was this morning; instead, it’s that gray color that forebodes (I love the word “forebodes”) a storm. I think about R.E.M. and the song that was playing as we drove out of Cheyenne Wells, the one where Michael Stipe sings about a sky that looks like a Man Ray painting.
I also think about the awful thing I said to Kyle and where it must have come from. Actually, I know where it came from. When I called him a “little fucking shitball,” that came from Scott Shamwell the pressman. He usually said that about Elliott Overbay, the copy desk chief, but never when Elliott Overbay could hear him. When I said “you’re pretty high and far out,” I was quoting Sergeant Joe Friday from the first episode of Dragnet 1967, which originally aired on January 12, 1967. It’s one of my favorites.
The last part, when I said “fuck you and the horse you’re riding on” to Kyle, is easy. That’s my father. Those are his words. I am flabbergasted (I love the word “flabbergasted”) that they ended up on my tongue. Not literally, of course. That’s a figure of speech.
Two things are clear. First, when it comes to yelling at people, I am derivative (I love the word “derivative”). Second, I have no business telling Kyle what he should or shouldn’t say. I can’t control my own mouth.
Kyle again shimmies under the fence, and then he steps on the middle strand and lifts the top one so I can dip my head and sneak through.
We get in the car, and I turn it on. Michael Stipe is singing about the flowers of Guatemala and how they cover everything. I make a U-turn on the dirt road and head back to the two-lane highway that will lead us to town, and that’s when the first fat snowflake hits the windshield.
By the time we get back to the motel, it’s an onslaught (I love the word “onslaught”) of snow. The flakes are fat and wet, and they cling to the windshield almost as fast as I can use the wipers to get rid of them. The streets of Cheyenne Wells fill quickly with snow, and the Cadillac DTS fishtails as we pull into the parking lot.
Inside, the motel owner is waiting for us.
“I was watching for you,” she says. “I told you a storm was coming.”
I rub the top of my head with my hand, feeling the snow melt in my hair, and Kyle stomps on the entryway rug to get the snow off his shoes.
“It came on with no warning,” I say.
“No,” she says, “I warned you. I told you ‘storm’s coming.’ I couldn’t have been more clear than I was.”
Again, her eyes are playing games with me. Every time she speaks they sparkle, or seem to. I know this is a trick of the light. And her mouth crinkles like she’s holding something back—it flummoxes me that I can’t tell if it’s a grin or disdain for how stupid I was, getting caught in the storm like that.
“I don’t believe I got your name,” I say to her. Kyle tugs at my jacket and asks for the room key because “this is boring.” I hand it to him, and he skips down the hallway.
“I don’t believe I offered it to you,” she says. “My name is Sheila Renfro.”
She extends her right hand to me, and I take it in my right hand. Her fingers feel rough and chalky. She shakes my hand firmly, up and down three times, and then she lets go.
“I think I stayed in this motel when I was a little boy, with my father.”
“It’s the only motel in town. If you stayed in Cheyenne Wells, you stayed here.”
“It was nineteen seventy-eight. I was nine years old.”
“When in nineteen seventy-eight?”
“June.”
“What day in June?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I was either two years old or three years old. I was born June fifteenth, nineteen seventy-five, so it depends on when you were here.”
“When I was here, the motel was run by a big, fat guy who had white hair.”
“That was my father. He wasn’t fat. He was pleasantly plump. He’s in the ground now.”
“He and his wife had a little girl.”
“That was me.”
“That was you?”
She narrows her blue eyes at me. “Yes, silly. I just told you.”
“So we’ve met before?”
“I guess we have.”
“Do you remember me?”
“No, silly. I was just a little girl. Plus, you only have to remember a couple of people. Do you think I can remember everyone who has ever come to this motel? Sure, I could look at the register and see who’s been here, but that doesn’t mean I would remember them.”
I’m really foundering (I love the word “foundering,” but I hate to do it). I keep saying dumb things, and she keeps pointing out that they’re dumb. And yet, I do not want to stop talking to Sheila Renfro. She fascinates me.
I decide to change the subject.
“Why do your hands feel so weird?”
She rubs her palms on the hips of her blue jeans twice. “They’re not weird. I’m working. I’m doing drywall in room number eight.”
“Papered or fiberglass?”
“Papered.”
“Bathroom or living quarters?”
“Living quarters.”
“I’m pretty handy with drywall. Do you need help?”
“Are you offering or do you expect to be paid?”
“I don’t need to get paid. I’m fucking loaded.”
“Don’t curse around me. I would like your help, yes.”
I excuse myself so I can go tell Kyle what I’m doing, and I tell Sheila Renfro that I will meet her in room number eight in a few minutes. She offers me another handshake. I happily accept, and this time, her hand doesn’t feel weird at all.
As I’m walking down the hallway to the room I share with Kyle, room number four, I feel a little light-headed and funny in my stomach, like birds are flying around in it, which is of course impossible.
TECHNICALLY FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16, 2011
I cannot stop thinking about Sheila Renfro. At 9:47 p.m., Kyle and I left her cottage, which is attached to this motel, and came back to our room. We watched the 10:00 p.m. news out of Denver, although I must concede that I wasn’t really paying attention because I kept thinking about Sheila Renfro. At 10:32, I shut off the light and listened as Kyle quickly fell asleep. That was three hours and nine minutes ago—it’s 1:41 a.m. now—and I haven’t closed my eyes even once, except when I blink. Kyle is snoring in the bed next to mine. He’s lucky.
I’ve been lying here and thinking about Sheila Renfro. What an interesting lady. And a very no-nonsense woman, too.
The drywall work went well. As I told Sheila Renfro, I’m very handy with drywall. She needed help replacing a seven-foot-by-nine-foot section of the south wall in room number eight. By the time I got involved, she already had the old wall torn out, so I didn’t get to see the original damage. Sheila Renfro said it was pretty bad, that the room had been “lived in hard” over the years. The final indignation occurred a week ago, when a young man and his girlfriend were staying in the room and got into a serious fight.
“I had a funny feeling about them when they checked in, but it was late and it was cold, so I ignored that feeling. An hour later, it’s an awful racket in there. Yelling and hitting and the sound of things crashing. I called the cops. It was too late. I had a funny feeling about them when they checked in. I shouldn’t have let them have the room.”
Sheila Renfro was clearly holding onto regret about what happened, so I tried to be helpful as I nailed a section of drywall into place.
“Yes,” I said, “but feelings are hard to quantify. What if they had been a nice couple and you had denied them a room based on a feeling? That wouldn’t have been fair.”
“They weren’t a nice couple. They destroyed my room.”
“I know. I’m just saying what if. You can’t trust a feeling.”
“I trust my feelings. I know what’s what.”
Sheila Renfro seemed to be getting annoyed with me, so I stopped talking ab
out it. This is something I learned from Dr. Buckley, that it’s not important to win every argument. The first time she told me that, I thought she was kidding, but she was serious. It took me a long time to see the wisdom in her contention, but as usual, she turned out to be correct. Her general principle is to fight hard for the things worth fighting for, like your family or your inalienable (I love the word “inalienable”) rights. With a difference of opinion, why do damage to your relationship with someone by continuing to argue when there’s no possibility of a resolution? I’m not saying that I always get this right. For example, I got it quite wrong when I was arguing with Kyle about Tim Tebow. But Dr. Buckley’s words are never far from my mind, and in this case, with Sheila Renfro, I stopped the argument before it did damage. (I still don’t know how anyone can trust feelings above facts, though.)
“How old is your son?” Sheila Renfro asked me.
I thought it was funny—interesting funny, not ha-ha funny—that she thought Kyle was my son, although I suppose I’m old enough to be his father.
“He’s my nephew,” I said, which was a fabrication and one I didn’t feel good about. On the other hand, I could see where being too truthful about this might lead to more questions and suspicion, and I didn’t need that. “We’re on an adventure.”
“In Cheyenne Wells?”
“Well, like I told you, I’ve been here before.”
“Shouldn’t he be in school?”
“He’s home-schooled.” Fabricating is getting easier for me.
“Do you have any children?” I ask her.
“Have you seen any around here?”
“No.”
“Well, there you go. No children for me, at least not yet. I’m still young enough, though.”
“Yes.” It seems right to agree with her, although at thirty-six years old, her biological clock is ticking. That, too, is a figure of speech. There is no clock inside us. That’s absurd.
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