Kyle is already out the door of the restroom. I follow him, tossing my bottle of urine into the trash as I go. I call for him, but he doesn’t look back. He just flips me the bird, which is a euphemism for holding up one’s middle finger. He’s at $231 now.
I jog to try to catch up to him. The whole thing flummoxes me. We were doing so well, and now we’re not. Kyle is sitting in the passenger seat of the Cadillac DTS, and his face is pressed against the window, as if I’m holding him prisoner.
I climb into the driver’s seat and start the car. Kyle doesn’t face me and doesn’t acknowledge me.
Darkness is coming. We have two hours to go on our drive. Michael Stipe is singing about going all the way to Reno. I look to the west, where Reno is. That’s where John Charles Fremont and Charles Preuss went, or close enough. Charles Preuss didn’t like it out there. I don’t like it out here. I wonder why I came, but I can’t stop now.
I put the car into drive and head back to the interstate.
I feel alone. I used to like that. It’s the worst feeling ever now.
TECHNICALLY THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 2011
I’m glad we’re here for only two nights. This bed is too hard. I cannot blame that for why I am awake at 4:21 a.m., however. My father visited me in my dream again, and now I am flummoxed, because we were not in Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, although I am physically in Cheyenne Wells right at this moment. We were in our old house in Billings, the one I lived in with my parents before I was kicked out after the “Garth Brooks incident.”
It’s hard to remember now that I’m in the conscious world rather than the dream world, but I think I was the same age as in the Cheyenne Wells dreams. I’m going to assume that I was, although assumptions are dangerous things. That, at least, would make the dreams track.
In the dream, I’m nine years old and my father and I are in the front yard, and he is chasing me. I run and laugh and try to elude my father, until finally his big hand clutches the back of my shirt and pulls me in. He wraps me in a bear hug and we tumble to the ground, and I am not scared. I am laughing and having fun, and my father rolls me onto my back and lies gently across my chest, binding up my legs with his right arm so I cannot move.
“One… two… three,” he says, and then he gets to his feet and makes noises like a crowd is cheering for him and says, “And the new champion, Ted ‘The Bear’ Stanton!” He holds his arms aloft and dances back and forth on his toes like Muhammad Ali and makes more cheering noises.
That’s when I get up and I run at him, full force. He says “Oof” as I hit him, and he tumbles to the ground in an exaggerated fall. I lie down across him, the same way he did to me, and I try to bind up his legs, but he’s too big for me. He thrashes and he could surely throw me off, but he doesn’t. I count off “One…two…three,” and I jump up with my arms in the air.
The last I remember of the dream is my father picking me up, even though I was a big nine-year-old, and carrying me around the yard. “The champ,” he says. “Meet the champ, Teddy Stanton!” I cup my hands and hold up my arms for an adoring, imaginary crowd.
And now, here in Cheyenne Wells, I’m lying in a bed that isn’t mine and I can feel tears on my cheeks. I sniffle, and then I hold my breath, until I hear Kyle snoring in the bed next to mine. I wipe my cheeks and try not to cry anymore, but it’s no use. I’m not in control of this, and that is a helpless feeling.
I don’t know what it all means. I cannot even remember if what I saw in the dream happened in my real life. I don’t think it did. I’d like to think I would remember a great day like that. I do know that my father found it much easier to be my friend when I was nine years old than he did later, when I wasn’t so young anymore and as he grew more exasperated (I love the word “exasperated”) with my condition. While he was still alive, I would often wish that we could go back to those younger days, and I certainly do now that he’s gone, but it’s impossible to do that unless you’re in the dream world. We didn’t get a chance to work it out when he was alive, and ever since he died three years, one month, and fifteen days ago, I’ve been trying to work it out with my memories. It would be nice to think that his appearances in my dream are an effort on his part to work it out with me, but that requires way too much wishful thinking for my fact-loving brain to handle.
And yet, if I allow myself that wishful thinking, I wonder now whether my father has been guiding me not to a place but to a conclusion. I will try to explain this. Kyle was nine years old when I met him. I’m nine years old in the dreams about my father I’ve been having. When Kyle was nine years old, relating to him was easy for me. He was a friendly young man who made having fun seem easy, who wanted to be my friend when I didn’t really have any friends. When I was nine years old, my father found relating to me to be easy. I didn’t challenge him the way I did in later years, as I began to learn things and feel things that put me at odds with him (and, it’s important to note, as my condition deteriorated before I got the help I needed).
Maybe the memories of my father are telling me this: I won’t have the same relationship with Kyle that I once had. He’s growing up, he’s struggling in his own way as he does, and it’s unfair for me to expect him to be the kid I once knew. Maybe I have to accept that this is who he is now and be friends with him on those terms—or, if neither of us can handle it, not be friends anymore.
That’s a lot of maybes, which means my information is not at all precise. A lack of precision bothers me. Having only theories bothers me. Not knowing where to look for answers bothers me, too.
I will close my eyes now. I will try to get some rest. Tomorrow, I will start fresh where Kyle is concerned (and I will hope he finally talks to me again, as he didn’t from Deer Trail to here). He owes me no money. He can call his mother or not call his mother. He can walk with me or not walk with me. The choices are his. I cannot make him do anything.
I hope we can find our way back to being friends. I will even try to believe in him. Hope and belief have flaws, because you can attach all of your aspirations to them only to find out later that you were wrong.
I prefer facts. Right now, facts are hard to come by.
OFFICIALLY THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 2011
From the logbook of Edward Stanton:
Time I woke up today: 4:21 a.m. and then again at 10:36 a.m., a time I hadn’t awoken a single time this year. After putting on a T-shirt and some sweatpants, I went to the lobby for the continental breakfast, but the woman who owns this motel said, “Sorry, breakfast’s over. You have to wake up earlier. You can get something at the Kwik Korner if you want.” Well, crud. (I’m trying not to curse so much.)
High temperature for Wednesday, December 14, 2011, Day 348: 42 in Billings (according to the Denver newspaper, which I find crumpled in the motel lobby). Ten degrees warmer than the high the day before.
Low temperature for Wednesday, December 14, 2011: 20. Same as the low the two previous days.
Precipitation for Wednesday, December 14, 2011: 0.01 inches
Precipitation for 2011: 19.41 inches
New entries:
Exercise for Wednesday, December 14, 2011: Kyle and I had a nice, brisk walk around the shopping center after the debacle with the Denver Broncos fans. Now that we’re no longer driving hundreds of miles a day, I expect to get better exercise.
Miles driven Wednesday, December 14, 2011: 521.1
Total miles driven: 1,724.9
Gas usage Wednesday, December 14, 2011: Filled up in Fort Collins, Colorado: 12.488 gallons at $3.0399 per gallon, for a total of $37.96. I then drove the 230.3 remaining miles to Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, so I will need a fill-up again if I do any significant driving while I am here.
What Kyle owes me for the music he purchased: nothing. He says he won’t pay. If I were to press him for the money, he would owe me $231.
Addendum: Kyle has said four words to me so far today: “The TV here sucks.” I am inclined to agree with him. Kyle has been able to tune in the over-the-air chann
els from Denver, and that’s it. There is not even basic cable or satellite dish service here. I think I will go talk to the owner of this place.
She was surprised to see us come in last night. She came to the front desk in a robe and said, “I’m sorry for my appearance. Didn’t expect anyone to come in. You’ll be alone here tonight.” She didn’t make small talk, either, which I appreciated. She had me fill out a card with my information, and she took an imprint of my credit card, and she succinctly told us that continental breakfast would be served from 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. and that checkout was noon. When I told her we’d be staying two nights, she said, “Noon Saturday, then.”
My plans for today:
1. Look around Cheyenne Wells and see if it’s familiar to me. I will do this on foot so I get some good exercise.
2. Drive out into the countryside and see if I can find any of the oil wells that my father’s crew worked on.
3. Try to get Kyle to talk to me, or at least listen while I tell him that we are making a fresh start.
I really want to keep going with my list, because I hate to end on an odd number, but Dr. Buckley is in my head. Say what you need to say and be done. I’m done. I throw the pen across the room and leave.
— • —
The woman who owns the motel is unimpressed with my complaint about the poor TV service.
“Do you know how many lodging nights I have a year?” she asks. I hope this is a rhetorical question, because I have no idea where I would get that kind of information. “Last year, it was 2,042. That means that on an average day, fewer than six rooms of this sixteen-room motel are occupied. Further, most of my guests stay one night, not the two that you’re staying. It’s only because the place is bought and paid for that I can afford to keep it running. Licenses for multiple cable or satellite dish receivers are expensive. People can do just fine with the over-the-air channels. People should watch less TV anyway.”
She says this with such finality, and with such precision, that I am simultaneously eager to drop the subject and to ask her another question, because I’m fascinated with the way she speaks. She has blue eyes that seem to radiate intensity. I know that’s just an optical illusion; eyes do not technically radiate anything. Eyes take in light that is reflected off an object. This light passes through the cornea, which refracts (I love the word “refracts”) the rays that pass through the pupil, the round black hole in the middle of an eye. The colored part around the pupil is called the iris, and it opens and closes to regulate how much light passes into the eye. The lens of the eye then further refracts the rays and sends them to the retina, in the back of eye. The retina is full of things called rods and cones, which detect such things as colors and details. The cones and rods convert the light into electrical impulses, which are sent to the brain, producing an image. That’s how eyes work. Everybody knows this.
What I’m saying is that her eyes make her look extra-alert, and that appeals to me. I cannot explain why.
Also, her dirty-blonde hair is pulled up into the kind of ponytail that Donna Middleton (now Hays) often wears.
“How long have you owned this motel?” I ask.
“Groundbreaking was April eighteenth, nineteen sixty-seven. First room was rented on May first, nineteen sixty-eight.”
“You owned it then?” I am flummoxed and again impressed with the precision. This woman cannot be much older than I am. “You would have been a little girl.”
“I wasn’t born yet, as a matter of fact. My mom and dad owned it. They’re in the ground now, so it’s mine.”
I like the euphemism “in the ground.” I may start describing my father this way. She and I have this in common, that our fathers are dead.
I start to ask another question but she cuts me off. “Can’t talk. Lots to do. Enjoy your stay.”
She walks past me, down the hallway into the main part of the motel, and disappears behind a closed door.
I guess I will talk to her later.
— • —
Kyle is still not speaking to me. That’s his choice. I speak to him. This is my choice.
“Kyle, your debt is cleared. You don’t owe me anything. I will not keep track of your bad deeds or your good deeds. You do what you think is right, and Saturday I will take you to Wyoming, and you can meet your parents and be free of me.”
Kyle does not say anything. He keeps playing that bird game on my bitchin’ iPhone.
“Also,” I say, “the lady who owns this motel says this TV is the best she can do.”
Kyle stops playing the game on the phone and tosses it onto my bed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, Kyle, she says that it’s expensive to put in cable television and—”
“No, douche, that’s—” He stops talking, and he frowns like he has an ache somewhere. “I’m sorry. Really, Edward, I’m sorry. What I mean is, why aren’t you keeping track of what I do anymore?”
I feel stung by what Kyle just said. He claims to be sorry, but he keeps calling me names. I want to give him what’s called the benefit of the doubt, but how can I do that when there’s so much doubt? I consider not answering him and letting him feel what it’s like to get the silent treatment, but then I remember that the whole point of this conversation was to start fresh with him. Dueling silent treatments would not help the situation.
“You need to stop calling me names,” I say.
“I said I was sorry.”
“And I said you need to stop. Sorry won’t work.”
Dr. Buckley’s words are again coming out of my mouth, and this continually astounds me. She used to say this very thing to me when I first started going to her office, when my condition was out of control and I said a lot of mean things to her. I think that’s why I am so sensitive to such things now. I think that someday Kyle will look back on how he’s acting now and be sorry for the things he has said to people. That’s called regret, and regret hurts for a long time.
He looks down. “OK, I’ll stop.”
“OK,” I say, and I sit down on my bed, keeping my distance but also trying to let him know that I will not hold a grudge. “I’ve decided to stop tracking your behavior because it’s none of my business. I think you’re a good young man, and I think no matter how hard things have been for you, you know what’s right and what’s wrong because your parents have raised you well.”
Kyle nods. I keep talking. It’s hard for me to believe these things are coming out of my mouth, because I don’t sound like me. I sound like Dr. Buckley. Again.
“We were friends when you lived in Billings, and in my head and in my heart we will always be friends. But I don’t know what kind of friends we’ll be. A lot of it—most of it—will be up to you. I’m not going to make it hard on you by tracking your behavior. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a new day.”
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.
“M
y 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.”
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