I had made arrangements to have him checked out to my supervision. I showed up early at the site where Robaire Noel was halfway through whitewashing one of his graffiti creations. According to Officer Jason Kurtzer, he was stoically performing the task but was not happy about it.
He looked at me sullenly and was surprised to learn I was there to take him to lunch.
“Why?” he said.
“Yours is not to reason why.”
I nodded to Kurtzer who helped Robaire out of his orange jumpsuit and into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. He then helped him into my Wrangler.
“Where are you taking me?” There was a measure of alarm in his voice.
“Surprise.”
I wanted him to regard me as something other than an oppressor. I hoped we might fare better in a more neutral environment where we could shed our respective roles and find equal footing. It was worth a shot.
We lapsed into silence as I headed for the beach road. It was a typical California day, the low clouds had burned off leaving in their stead blue skies and sunshine. We tracked a trail of wild geese in flight heading north. The traffic was sparse, and in short order, we arrived at Jackson’s Crab Shack, a renowned surfer and biker seaside joint that offers freshly caught fare at reasonable prices.
I parked in the lot and sidestepped a plethora of oversized, leather-bound, abundantly bearded riders who had gathered to enjoy the view, the food, and to conduct careful assessments of each other’s cycles.
We found a table on the far side of the patio, away from the biker hubbub. We both ordered shrimp platters with sides of coleslaw and fries. I put myself at risk of breaking the law by purchasing two pints of locally brewed craft lager.
“Okay,” he said once we settled in. “Why are you doing this?”
Before answering, I leaned back in my chair and gazed at the churning ocean and dark-sand beach. Several surfers were braving the waves, most of them successfully. I turned back to Robaire.
“I learned something when we last spoke. It’s been on my mind ever since.”
“And that was?”
“Your point of view. I found some form of validity in it. And although I disagree with you, I wanted you to know that I respect your point of view, even though it’s unlawful. The vandalism you espouse is a crime here in Freedom. There’s no way around that. But that’s not what I had in mind when I invited you to lunch.”
A harried waitress brought the shrimp platters and beer, placed them in front of us and raced off. We set about peeling and chomping on the chubby shrimp and the greasy fries, all the while swilling our handcrafted brews.
“So you take me seriously. Okay. So what? What good does that do me?”
“That’s up to you to decide. Kurtzer says you’re almost through with cleaning your various messes.”
“My work, you mean. So?”
“When it’s done, and you’ve paid your debt to society, what’s next for you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where do you see yourself, say, in ten years?”
“What?”
“Your life. Where do you imagine you’ll be?”
He appeared to be taken aback by the question. As if he’d never considered it before. “I haven’t a clue.”
“You’re what now, twenty?”
“Twenty-two.”
“And for all intents and purposes, you’re a wastrel with a record.”
He took that thought in and seemed weighed down by it. As he fought to come to grips with my statement, I finished my shrimp and dabbed my mouth clean with handi-wipes.
“You’re a child of privilege but instead of taking advantage of it, you’ve elected to squander it. You’re not getting any younger, and although you might not be able to see far enough into the future to understand what might be in store for you, I can. And I think you should listen to what I have to say.”
“You sound like my father.”
“I believe I can arrange for you to be pardoned here and dealt with fairly in Los Angeles. But were I to do that, I’d want something in exchange.”
“There’s always a catch.”
“Rehab.”
“What rehab?”
“There’s a place we’ve researched that can provide you a fresh start. Help you clean the slate. Show you that your approach to your art is misguided and teach you the parameters of art world respectability. Assist you in how to re-discover yourself.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because somewhere inside you, you know how bleak a future you have in store for you. That maybe you’ve misjudged things. And just maybe, innately, you understand that with a second chance, you might still be able to carve out a decent life for yourself.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Of course, it will take some doing on your part. Psychoanalysis will be a part of your rehab and you’ll need to be receptive to it, in order to alter your neurotic patterns.”
A glimmer of hope momentarily lit up his face as he considered the possibility of a different pathway. When he looked at me there was a warmth in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.
“And you’re proposing this because?”
“I don’t know, Robaire. Maybe I see some of the younger me in you. You may be misguided, but you’re not venal. So I thought it might be worth your while to consider things in a way you hadn’t before.”
I finished my beer, picked up my plate, which was filled with shrimp shells and uneaten fries, and dropped it into the garbage bin. I motioned for Robaire to do the same.
Once back in the Wrangler, he said, “How would I go about doing this?”
“You might start by discussing it with your father.”
“He doesn’t much care for me.”
“Try him. You never know. Fathers and sons are a singular dynamic. You and I, we have autocratic fathers in common. But now mine isn’t well and together we’re struggling to overcome our difficult past. And truth be known, although it’s no cakewalk, we’re both faring better for the effort.”
I withdrew for several moments, realizing I hadn’t really acknowledged that before. It occurred to me that we were doing better, my father and me. Which, ironically, pleased me immeasurably. I smiled. “Who knows, Robaire? Maybe you and your father could entertain some kind of therapy together. Might help open you both to a deeper communication.”
He looked at me and shyly smiled. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll at least try it.”