Edward Adrift

worked nights). I’d start with the first episode and end with the ninety-eighth, and then begin again. That came to an end on April 19, 2009, when the first of my seven
Dragnet
tapes was severed in the guts of my VCR during the eleventh episode of the series, called “The Shooting.” Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon were just about toput the pinch on two hoods who gunned down a fellow policeman when my TV screen went snowy and the VCR started making an awful noise, and that was the end of the tape. My friend Donna Middleton (now Donna Hays), before she moved away, showed me that I could still watch the episodes on the computer, but I tried and it wasn’t the same. I threw out my
Dragnet
tapes, even the good ones.

    I’ve been dreading today since November 15, the day I made an appointment to go see Dr. Rex Helton, my primary care physician at the St. Vincent Healthcare clinic on Broadwater Avenue. When I had my physical a year earlier, on November 15, 2010, Dr. Rex Helton told me that I needed to lose some weight and that my glucose levels were beginning to alarm him. He told me that I should get more exercise and eat better. The spaghetti that I eat nine times a week had to be reduced, he said. He also said that a quart of ice cream a week was not good for me and that I should try some sugar-free gelatin or some fruit.
    For a while I did well at heeding Dr. Rex Helton’s advice. I bought a scale and weighed myself daily—which made for an exciting new entry in my logbook—and took walks and tried to eat more lean meat and vegetables without going so far outside my comfort zone that I became “a granola-eating fucknut,” as Scott Shamwell called me one day when he saw me with a salad at work. By February 1 of this year, I had dropped my weight from 283.8 pounds to 266.3. But February 1 is also the day that Dr. Buckley told me she would be retiring, and (while I hate to admit this, I have to acknowledge that it’s true) I didn’t do a very good job with my new routine after that. I haven’t stepped on the scalesince March 8, and I would be afraid to do so now. There are three quarts of ice cream in my freezer right now. The numbers can’t be good. That’s informed conjecture, which I’ll concede isn’t as good as a fact.

    I leave my house on Clark Avenue promptly at 11:15 a.m. for my 11:45 appointment with Dr. Helton. Broadwater Avenue is the next big thoroughfare to the south of my house, which is nice because it means I can get to the clinic by making nothing but right turns in my car. Right turns, statistically, are less risky than left turns, so whenever possible, I plot a course that includes them. I don’t want you to think I’m a freak or something, though. I do make left turns; they’re unavoidable sometimes. But I prefer right turns.
    As I turn right on Broadwater, the R.E.M. song “Losing My Religion” comes on the radio, and I’m reminded anew of the shitburger year. R.E.M. is my favorite band—or, I should say, they were. They are no longer together. On September 21, R.E.M. said it was disbanding. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t, but yet, if I turn on my computer and do a web-engine search for R.E.M., this will be confirmed: the band is no more. I don’t understand it. Earlier in the year, they released a new album, and it was one of my favorites. Michael Stipe, the lead singer, said something about knowing when it’s time to leave the party, which is a euphemism. I can’t begrudge Michael Stipe doing what he wants to do, but I wish I had some way to convince him to keep the party going.
    At the clinic, I simply tell the receptionist my name and sign off on my list of medications. The only medication I take is eighty milligrams of fluoxetine daily. Dr. Buckley gave me that medicine twelve years ago, as part of my treatment for Asperger’s syndromeand its associated obsessive-compulsive tendencies, which were ruining everything. I’m forty-two years old, and taking fluoxetine is now just part of my life, like breathing or recording the daily temperature readings.
    Once I’ve cleared the paperwork, I set about my usual business. I go from table to table and arrange the magazines by title and edition number. I have to do this every time I am here. The other patients do not take good care with such things, and while that is frustrating, I’ve learned that there is no way to stop it. I do what I can to offset the damage they’re causing.
    Here’s something