(Late Morning, Thursday, May 21)
He should be at our house any minute. I’m more anxious right now than when Andy showed up at my office. We’re about to sail into uncharted waters. What if Lindsey doesn’t like him right away? I sure didn’t. What if she’s put off by the crowd at Bo’s? What if she doesn’t get their humor? What if they don’t get her?
Lindsey shyly walks down the stairs. She is wearing a pair of sunglasses with oversize frames.
I smile up at her. “Where did you find those?”
“Chanel. They’re retro. They’re actually pretty stylish.”
“Well, thanks. They should make Andy very happy.”
Then comes the sound of a horn.
We open the door to see Andy standing behind the Electra’s fully opened passenger door. He is wearing baggy shorts, flip-flops, sunglasses, the ever-present L.A. Dodgers hat, and one of the three or four Hawaiian shirts I’ve ever seen him in since I met him. The dark blue one with the hula girls. Geez.
Lindsey has been unusually quiet all morning, so I take charge. “Andy, this is my wife, Lindsey. I’ve told her all about you. Or, as much as I thought she could bear.”
Andy totally ignores me, smiles at Lindsey, and reaches for her hand. “I’m really glad to meet you, lovely lady,” he says, with just the slightest bow.
“May I say,” he adds, referring to her sundress, “yellow is definitely your color.”
I give him a look. Don’t push it, old-timer.
Lindsey breaks into a beautiful smile at Andy’s greeting. She looks great, even in those ridiculous glasses.
And then, suddenly, she throws her arms around Andy and gives him a very tender hug.
Have you ever had one of those moments that freezes time and seems to last for minutes? This is one of those. My mind flashes to that night at Fenton’s when Andy promised me his car could take us to the places I needed to go. And now, here in my front yard, my wife, full of gratitude and hope, is hugging this unlikely driver who has brought me to those places.
“Now, those… those are sunglasses. See, Steven? Didn’t I tell you? It’s not just a thing from my generation. Classy young, hip women get it.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him… .
As he ushers us both into the backseat he mumbles under his breath, but loud enough for us both to hear, “It never ceases to amaze me how one can have such great taste and the other so little. The guy must be a great kisser. That’s all I can say.”
Then we’re off. He was right. Lindsey loves the car. And she appears completely delighted and comfortable with Andy. It’s a beautiful, clear day, and she’s beaming as he brings the car up to speed on the Coast Highway from Manhattan Beach toward Bo’s.
I look over at my wife. Her beautiful dark brown hair is blowing behind her. Her eyes are closed, drinking in the cool, morning wind. She scrunches closer to me and puts her arm in mine.
For the first time in a very long time, I am actually in the moment, fully enjoying it, fully a part of it. For so long I was watching my life from a distance, critiquing everyone and everything in it. Standing outside its enjoyment. Today it’s as if that whole way of coping has blown out the top of Andy’s convertible.
Before too long I sit up and realize we’re driving down Washington Boulevard—that ribbon of asphalt forming well back into Los Angeles proper and eventually dwindling to a single congested lane, dividing Venice from Marina del Rey. It ends in a cul-de-sac a few steps from the boardwalk and from Bo’s.
The anxiousness returns.
How will my hygienically sensitive wife respond when Hank and Carlos take food from her plate? Will Bo swear at her?
Bo greets us as we walk through the louvered front doors of Pacific Bayou.
“So the suit found a date, huh? What the deal is with dat?”
“Bo,” Andy intervenes. “This is Steven’s wife, Lindsey.”
She brightens. “Steven has told me about you, Mr. Bo.”
“Mr. Bo?” He thinks for a moment, tilting his head. “Hmm. I like dat. I’m likin’ dat a lot!”
He yells into the restaurant, to the staff at the front desk, several yards away: “You hearin’ that in there? This beautiful woman, she calls me Mr. Bo! Time da rest of you be showin’ that kind of respect! Startin’ today, it’s Mr. Bo around here.
“Mr. Bo.” He rears back and laughs out loud. “I does like the sound of dat.”
He spins back around to my wife.
“You eatin’ free today, pretty lady. Suit, he’ll be payin’ double, but you, you’re eatin’ free!”
We’re ushered through the restaurant and up and outside onto the deck. I’ve missed just hanging out here. Hank and Carlos are sitting at the same table in the middle of the deck, like they haven’t gotten up since the very first time I visited. I think Hank’s even wearing the same shirt.
Pulling out a chair for Lindsey, Andy, acting like a maître d’, says, “Sit right here, young lady. I called ahead and told them you two were coming. Bo wanted us all at the special table today.”
Bo politely hands Lindsey a menu and then barks at the rest of us. “Okay, here the deal is: We’re outta most everything on the menu. You got boiled carp and scary mussels left over from last Sunday. You get you one check, not all separate. That way maybe at least one of you be a decent tipper. Not a bunch of pocket change. Have you a nice day, an’ don’t make a mess!”
He turns to Lindsey and says under his breath, “You like shrimps?”
“Uhm… yes,” she says.
“You lucky today, pretty lady,” he says, snatching the menu back from her. “I take care of you.”
As Bo turns to badger more of the deck crowd, I take a deep breath and say, “Lindsey, this is Carlos and this is Hank.”
Stating the obvious, I add, “I—I’ve told you a lot about them.”
Carlos and Hank jump up like a couple of seventh graders about to pull a prank.
Hank blurts out, “Hi, we’re the Wasabi brothers. Everything you’ve heard about us is true.”
Carlos steps directly in front of Hank and takes Lindsey’s hand. “Please, let Carlos Badillo shelter you from my remedial friend. He’s not so well. And don’t feed him nothing. You won’t be able to get him off your lap. Welcome to Bo’s, Lindsey. We’re all really happy you’re here.”
Hank steps back next to Carlos. He says proudly, “We were a little rough on your husband a couple of times back. We weren’t sure we’d ever see him back here.” He forces an expression that almost rises to a smile.
Bo barges in with Cynthia on his arm, beaming as if he’s just won a prize at the fair. Depositing her in a chair next to Hank, Bo leans in to Lindsey and says under his breath, “Dis lady you gotta know. She’s the one keeps all these crawfish in line. They don’t be skippin’ out with a bad tip with her around. More customers like this lady, and maybe someday you gonna see Bo shut down this crab shack, move down the Trinidad way, and spend all day drinkin’ rum and playin’ Sudoku.”
He laughs as if he’s the funniest thing he’s met all day. The deck crowd joins in.
Just behind them Keith, Cynthia’s husband, walks in wearing a commercial pilot’s uniform.
“Hey, everybody, look!” Carlos says, bowing deeply. “The flyboy returns from the Orient! With spices and… what… abacuses? Hey, man! Welcome home.”
Everyone stands to greet him. Keith looks like what you’d hope the pilot on your flight would look like. Tall, professional, solid, and stable-appearing. His greetings are warm but precise. Standing next to Hank, I imagine a picture of them in the dictionary next to the word contrast.
Hank lights up. “You bring back any of those bags of honey-roasted peanuts?”
“Sorry, Hank. All they’ve got now is what they call ‘pretzel medley.’ ”
Hank shakes his head.
“When did the pretzel get to medley status?” Carlos questions. “You gotta earn your way to medley status, man. Fruit medley—now that’s a medley. Remember? You had your pears in there, man, grapes and peaches and maraschino cherries and who knows what else? The whole thing swimming around in, like, mango juice or something. That’s a medley. What, you add some bland dough sticks to pretzels, and suddenly some marketing suit calls it a medley? I don’t think so.”
Andy looks off in the distance, wistful. “I’m so old I can remember when they gave you real silverware with the meals. In coach!”
“You got meals? When did that stop?” Hank bellows.
Keith sits down next to Cynthia. “About the same time they started making plastic pilot’s wings for us to hand out to the kids.”
I offer my hand to Keith.
“Hello. I’m Steven and this is my wife, Lindsey.”
“I’m pleased to meet you both,” Keith says as he shakes my hand. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long for this introduction. I’m in the air three out of four Thursdays. So I miss out on a lot of deck action.”
Keith hugs Cynthia tightly. “I’ve really missed you, my wife. How’s the book coming? Are we going to be rich?”
“I’d keep your day job.” They hug each other again.
Soon we are all sitting at the table. The banter is flowing freely, but Lindsey seems, to me, unusually subdued and quiet. Well, of course. These guys are a lot to handle the first time. She’ll settle in and really enjoy this.
Cynthia makes an attempt to draw Lindsey into conversation a couple of times, but for some reason my wife—usually pretty social—isn’t entering in.
What’s going on? Is she willfully trying to not like this? Maybe because I think this is a great place and because these are my friends, she’s going to go silent and pretend to not enjoy herself? Is that what’s happening here?
“Lindsey,” I whisper. “Is everything all right?”
“It’s great. Really. I’m fine.” That’s all she gives me.
Something’s wrong. I can feel it. I’ve been here before. I know this feeling. Still…
Cynthia smiles and places her hand on my arm but addresses Lindsey. “These guys are pretty random. I don’t even try to keep up. I just let them babble.”
Cynthia must feel it too. She can see what Lindsey’s doing. They all can.
“What do you mean, babble?” Carlos objects. “My man Hank and I, we don’t babble.”
“Right.” Cynthia rolls her eyes. She now places her hand on Lindsey’s arm. “Just before you got here, they spent several minutes debating whether the boulders on the hills outside Temecula are actually giant petrified vegetables. I rest my case.”
“That’s important talk,” Carlos defends. “This is how science got started. Guys like us.”
A shrimp cocktail is placed in front of my wife. Lindsey looks at it and says, “Why is it on a plate? I thought you were joking about that.”
I can’t believe she’s saying this.
“Come on, Lindsey,” I plead. “It’s cool. It’s different. Just taste it.”
There is an awkward silence at the table.
“Just try it,” I say louder, fully embarrassed.
I only said what everyone else was thinking. Geez, it’s like nothing has changed. You try to do something a little more fun and unusual, and unless it comes from her, she can’t get with it.
“I wasn’t complaining, Steven.” She takes a bite. “It’s good. I thought you were kidding about it being on a plate, that’s all. Then they bring it on a plate and… I didn’t mean anything by it. I’ve just never seen shrimp cocktail on a plate.”
Carlos pats her on the back. “It’s great, huh? I love how they put all those purple onions around the shrimp. Keeps my people in jobs. Now that you’ve tasted it, you’re gonna keep coming back. I know it.”
Oh, come on. Now she’s got Carlos trying to make her feel better because she’s got such an insensitive husband. Yeah, I’m such a bad guy. And by the way, Carlos, that’s the same line you used on me the first time I was here. Come up with a new one sometime, huh?
“So, Lindsey,” Andy says suddenly. “Tell us about you. How long have you been putting up with this bozo?”
Lindsey looks at me and then quickly down when our eyes meet. “We met when I was a senior in high school.”
“Oh,” Carlos helps. “So you two go back a ways. That’s great.”
He’s trying to help make things work, but my wife is giving absolutely nothing. She barely looks up.
Andy’s staring out at the ocean. He seems slightly embarrassed. Maybe he’s thinking this wasn’t such a good idea. This is just what I feared. She doesn’t get what goes on here.
A conversation full of easygoing banter has quickly become stilted and forced simply because my wife can’t relax and enjoy something a little different from her regular day-to-day.
A server sets a crab salad in front of Cynthia.
Andy steps in. “I’m really glad you two were able to join us today.”
I can tell he’s trying to smooth things over. Lindsey’s strangeness has got me completely off balance. I should just take her aside in private and tell her I’m frustrated, but that seems even more awkward.
“These are good people, Lindsey. They’ve become friends of mine.”
Nothing more than a clumsy nod.
It amazes me how my wife can get everybody rushing to her defense simply by playing the frightened, unhappy child. I’ve seen it so often, but never as clearly and blatantly as right now. All I wanted was for her to meet these people I’ve come to know and enjoy, and the very fact that I enjoy them is her signal to derail the day.
“Lindsey, why don’t you at least say something?” I ask. “People are talking to you, and you’re giving them nothing.”
“She seems to be eating shrimp,” Hank says, giving me a furrowed brow.
No, Hank, she’s trying to wreck the day for me.
I sigh and look down at my hands. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d enjoy this place.”
She looks up at me with a hurt expression, trying to telegraph to the whole table what a bad person I am.
“What do you want, Steven? I am enjoying this place.”
I can feel several pairs of eyes burning into me. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Lindsey.”
“What? What are you talking about? Steven, stop it. You’re doing it again.”
Her voice is loud and piercing.
Great! Now you’re mad. And you’re going to let everyone see it. Now I’ve done something so terrible, and you’re angry and so you’re justified, right? You win. You put on a show, stack the deck. Yep, looks like you got what you wanted.
“Steven, I don’t think—” Cynthia starts, but I cut her off.
“What are you getting bent out of shape about, Lindsey? How hard is it for you to just enjoy yourself, enjoy this place? You’re acting like it’s this huge burden.”
“A huge… ?” She glares at me, and then her eyes turn to the others at the table.
No you don’t. Don’t go after their sympathy. Stand up for yourself if you’re so innocent. This is between you and me.
“Steven, do you remember you asked me to tell you when you’re doing it. Well, you’re doing it.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Please! Just stop it.” The last part she hisses through her teeth.
The next few moments are a blur. I snap back with something, and Andy is suddenly trying to calm me down like I’m an out-of-control kid.
No, Andy. That’s not right. That’s not what’s going on here!
And then I just blow. I say some really stupid, really mean things that all seem necessary in the moment. Suddenly Lindsey is on her feet, crying. She tries to get away, but discovers there is no exit in the direction she has run. Still crying, she’s forced to turn around and walk past us all before she can get off the deck and down the stairs.
I stand to go after her, but I feel Hank tugging my arm and blocking my path.
I hear Cynthia say, “Hey, Steven, I’ll go down and find her, okay? Why don’t you just hold on a second, dear.”
Everyone is trying to not stare at me. That’s when it hits. The avalanche of realization. The crystal clarity of knowing what you’ve done a split second after it’s irretrievably out there. I’ve hit the Send button, and the e-mail is gone. And I can’t unsend it. In a matter of seconds I can see the entire conversation, the entire scene from three or four angles that simply did not cross my mind until this moment. I’ve lost it again.
I look around the deck. Everyone is frozen in their places. I am suddenly hit with an overwhelming wave of shame and embarrassment. I am angry, at myself. Angry that I could let myself get this exposed. Angry and afraid that I broke my promise.
Hank is still standing next to me. A moment ago he was blocking my path. Now I realize he has an arm around my shoulder.
“You okay?” he says, looking directly at me with incredible care and concern. For the first time I realize Hank is my ally.
“I blew it,” is all I can say.
He gently turns me around and guides me back into my chair. Carlos is leaning in across the table. “You okay, man?” he asks quietly. “What’s going on?”
What is going on? I have no idea. I have no explanation for what just happened. How did I not see what was happening and get a grip on it?
Hank has moved to Lindsey’s chair. He picks up a shrimp from her abandoned plate and says, “Did you think you wouldn’t mess up again? Because you will, you know.”
“I do now.”
I start up out of the chair. Andy, who is sitting on the other side of me, puts his hand on my shoulder and gently but firmly pulls me back down.
“I’ve got to go after her,” I explain.
“I really want you to listen to me right now,” Andy says strongly, getting up to stand in front of me. “She’s had enough lunch for one day.”
Cynthia surfaces at the stairs. “Hon, um, I can take Lindsey home. I’d be really glad if you’d let me do that for you. She’s in my car right now.”
I just nod my head.
“It’s gonna be all right, Steven,” Cynthia calls out to me. “These things take some time, don’t they?” Then she is off down the stairs and out to her car, where my wife sits.
There is more quiet at the table.
“Well, looks like you’re driving me home, Mr. Badillo,” Keith says to Carlos.
Next thing I really remember, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Andy’s Electra, staring out over the ocean from our old spot up on the cliffs.
Here I am again… again. I’ve done it. She’ll never believe me again.
Andy is working on his cigar and listening to some of the saddest music I think I’ve ever heard. We’ve been sitting here for at least ten jets passing over.
I finally speak. “I gotta tell you, this is hard. I know you’re all here for me… for us… but it feels so horrible, like Lindsey and I are this loser couple that everyone feels sorry for. I’m not used to being pitied.”
Andy strikes a match and places it to the end of his cigar, painstakingly lighting it completely before blowing out his match. Only then, after his first full puff of smoke, does he say, “What you mean is, you’re not used to knowing that you’re being pitied.”
“Are you saying I’ve been pitied and haven’t seen it?”
Andy nods. “Probably. Not only on the deck. Even people at work, where you think the whole place is against you. There are many there who could be good friends. You can’t let that happen for fear that if you let them see your mess, they’d pity you. Tragedy is, they already do. You gain all the pity but none of the friendship. One thing for certain, they don’t see your facade as strength or health.”
“What am I going to do, Andy?”
“What are you going to do? Well, you could move… to the Baltic Sea. I don’t think anyone there pities you, yet.”
“I’m serious.”
He puffs again on his cigar. “Well, let’s take an inventory. What’s changed since our talk at the marina?”
“Apparently nothing.”
He makes the sound of a game-show buzzer. “Oh, I’m sorry. Wrong answer. But we do have some lovely parting gifts for you… .”
“Andy, I mean it. I’m right back where I was last time. Actually, I’m worse off because now I’ve made the apology, made the promises, made the last-ditch statements about how I now realize the truth. And I still blew through all the barricades at the first opportunity. What can I say now that she’ll listen to? What? That I really, really mean it this time?”
“Hold on,” he says, his eyebrow creeping up. “Did you mean what you said the other day, or was that just a ploy? Because I thought for sure when you left me, that you were sincere.”
“I really thought I was,” I answer.
“Then you meant what you said? You told her the truth?”
“Yes.”
“So, if you told her the truth and it wasn’t a ploy, then why wouldn’t you just tell her the truth again?”
It’s at moments like these that I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that at some point Andy usually comes around to making sense.
I look over at him. “How many times can I tell her the truth and then prove to her it wasn’t really true?”
“Your sincerity and desire were true; your insights were true; your love was true. Behaving today like a raving lunatic didn’t change any of that.”
I nod. Okay, he’s starting to make sense.
“So I’m supposed to just go back and admit that I’m wrong again?”
“You got something else? Steven, listen to me. The truth is all you’ve got. You’re not going to come up with something else or something better. This is where we happen to be. And you aren’t going to miraculously transform from Attila the Hun to Mr. Rogers in a heartbeat, just because you told her you wanted to. The truth is—in case you haven’t noticed—you have a bit of a tendency to blow. And if you want to someday start to get past that tendency, there is really only one solution. You’ll have to keep admitting it and let God and some humans who love you begin to protect you. That truth’s all you got.”
“But how many times is she going to put up with me messing up?”
“Well,” he says, blowing out a huge plume of smoke, “I don’t know. I don’t know how far you’ve pushed this thing. I don’t know how much you’ve torn her down. She may already be done. But I don’t think so. If she believed what you said last week, and if she loves you as much as she appears to, then my answer is: probably as many times as it takes for you to stop acting this way. Hopefully you’ll get there before she cracks. Here’s my ace in the hole—for you and her: if you keep telling the truth, regardless of how embarrassing, it’ll have a profound effect on you. It’ll begin to free and heal you. And you’ll begin to actually behave like less of a Neanderthal. I’m thinking she’s bound to pick that up. So the gamble is whether she can hold out that long, whether she should hold out that long.”
“So, I’ve got to go back and tell her the whole thing again?”
“Tell her why you lost it. Tell her what you were thinking, your whole process.”
He inspects his cigar for a long time, spinning it in his fingers. “Do you know why you lost it?”
“I just… it really seemed, in the moment, like she was intentionally trying to not like Bo’s.”
Andy takes another long draw on his cigar. “Steven, are you ready to hear something hard again?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No, not really.”
“Then go ahead.”
“Steven, do you know that the rest of us were truly enjoying your wife? Do you know that none of us found her to be anything but a really delightful person? Do you know that if it came to a vote, most would probably trade your place at the table for her?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” he answers, with a no-nonsense stare.
“No.”
Andy adjusts his ball cap. “Any chance this was entirely about you again? About you wanting all of us to be so deeply impressed by her so we’d all think you were more impressive? Any chance?”
I can’t look him in the eye.
“Steven, I’m your fan—at the moment, perhaps your biggest fan. But this lunch never had a chance from the start. You were so full of unfair expectations of Lindsey. She never had the opportunity to be herself, only some image you’ve created her to be—an idealized person with just the right humor, intelligence, and debonair to impress your witty new friends. Such a person does not exist. Such a person is not nearly as impressive and delightful as the real Lindsey. It all gets created from that self-story of shame that says you, at all costs, must be admired, respected, in control. So you try to force everyone in your world into that mold. But people, not trapped in your self-story, they don’t fit so easily into those molds. They’re not even sure, from moment to moment, how you want them to perform.”
“Don’t hold back. Speak your mind,” I say, trying to smile.
“And when she doesn’t perform right, you judge her, thinking she’s trying to sabotage you. This makes you even angrier, more irrational and more stupid. The saddest part is that Lindsey is trying so hard to be whoever she thinks you want her to be. But she can’t figure out the rules. So she keeps disappointing you. And eventually, even those who love well have to leave the game. Because love has no home in such a game.”
Andy lets me take in his speech, peering into the rearview mirror, removing something from the corner of one eye. Squinting at his index finger to discover what he just removed, he says, “Any chance I’m right about what I just said?”
After a long time fiddling with the glove compartment button, I say, “I think I’d better get home. I need to talk to my wife. If she’ll let me.”
The Electra starts up and ambles down the hill toward my home.