(Thursday Morning, March 12)
Next time I check, my watch reads 3:00 a.m. I’ve spent the last few hours staring at the ceiling, rehearsing everything Lindsey and I said, replaying the scene of my wife and daughter walking out the door. I’m spent. I cleaned up the mess. Now I can’t go to sleep, but I can’t think clearly either. Lindsey never called from her mom’s. I can’t call her this late, so I have to wait a few hours to make sense of anything.
Everything’s too quiet here in the dark. My head is buzzing. And for the last hour all I’ve been able to hear is Andy’s voice from earlier in the evening: “You could go back to what you’ve been doing… . But you’ll be back… . And until you let someone shine a light into your room, nothing’s gonna change. Life’s gonna get more painful, more confusing and darker.”
Last night at Fenton’s seems like a month ago now. Was Andy legit? Does the guy know my dad or is he just some spooky old stalker guy?
I grab my wallet to find his card.
Let’s just see what Google has to say about you, Mr. Andy Monroe.
I sit down at the computer and type in “Andy Monroe.” There’s a songwriter named Andy Monroe. He dominates most of the first few pages. I’m pretty sure that’s not him. There’s also a playwright… an expedition diver… and a bull rider.
On page eight I find an article. “Langston Group: Andy Monroe Leaves Position as Financial Head.” It’s from 2003 and describes an apparently hugely successful forty-eight-year-old stepping away from his position at the request of the corporation for reasons of “personal indiscretion.”
Well, well, well. Is that you, Andy boy?
He had said something that night about once being on the fast track. Tracks don’t get much faster than the Langston Group. Those guys had dominated the South Coast financial scene since I was a boy. So maybe our flip-flop-wearing friend was somebody at one time, until “personal indiscretion” got the better of him.
Still, how does a guy like this know my dad?
I think about calling him, but quickly realize I’d rather not have him asking questions. Best not to mention it.
Instead, I nose around some more and start picking up repeat articles with the occasional grainy photo of a younger-looking Andy Monroe. Various entries detail Andy’s exploits in the financial world, but everything just sort of stops with that “indiscretion” back in 2003. It’s as if the Andy Monroe of the financial world ceased to exist after that. And I can’t find a thing that ties him to Culver City or my dad.
I decide to pull down some boxes of family pictures from the garage. If this guy’s for real, there has to be some evidence of it somewhere in my life. Besides, I got nothing else to do. Where am I going?
I make a pot of coffee, and within minutes I’m sitting at the kitchen table with pictures spread out in front of me. I almost forget what I’m looking for. It’s been so long since I’ve seen pictures of my childhood. I’m actually almost enjoying myself. But there’s nothing of Andy. Forty-five minutes later I begin refilling shoeboxes with pictures.
That’s when I notice it—a picture of my dad and me on a fishing trip. I can’t be more than eight years old. Dad used to take me on those half-day chartered fishing trips off San Pedro. We’d go with his buddies—three or four guys who show up in a lot of our pictures. We really didn’t know their families that well. They were just normal guys who grew up together in the neighborhood and never left. They all did guy stuff together: bowling, fishing, sitting around playing cards at Petrazello’s. There was a heavyset bearded guy; Stan, I think. He was a machinist or something like that. I just remember his big, beefy hands always had grease in the cracks. There was Mr. Ketchum. He was a salesman of something or other. He and his wife did a lot of stuff with my parents. I really couldn’t remember much about the others.
In the picture, I’m holding a fish that is several feet long. My dad has his arm around me. He’s smiling. And behind us are the boys: Stan; Mr. Ketchum, a real tall guy wearing a straight-billed ball cap with a marlin on it. And him—Andy. He’s younger and thinner, but it’s clearly him.
He’s smiling that same obnoxious grin, saying, That’s right, kid. It’s me, Andy. You thought I was making it all up didn’t you? You know, I actually helped you bring in this little trophy fish, my friend. I’m in several others too.
I sit there stunned. This guy’s a part of my family history, and I have no memory of him. I laugh out loud. I almost decked a friend of our family.
I decide to e-mail him.
Andy,
So, my wife and I, last night, we sort of got into an argument. Bottom line, I think maybe I could probably use a drive around to air some things out. Sorry again for how I reacted.
Steven Kerner
Within an hour, at 5:20 a.m., I get his reply.
Steven,
She’s a lot of Detroit magic, she is. Couldn’t shake thinking about her, could you?
Before you agree, there are a few things you should know:
1. I smoke cigars. Really good cigars. Never inside, but when I’m out in the Electra, I smoke. I’m not proud of it. But there it is.
2. Sometimes I play music while I’m driving. Sometimes I play it really loud. So, there’s that.
3. We don’t talk about the Los Angeles Rams’ move to St. Louis. It’s still a sore subject.
What do you say we meet at Fenton’s next Tuesday, around 7:00 p.m.?
Andy
That’s it? Did this guy not get my e-mail? Next Tuesday? That’s five days from now! And he makes no mention of anything I said. He’s kidding, right?… No wonder my dad stopped hanging around with him.