Bo's Café (4 page)

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.

(Midmorning, Thursday, March 12)

By eight thirty Lindsey and I are on the phone with each other. She informs me that Jennifer needs to be in her home and that
I should be the one who finds a place to stay. This isn’t blowing over. I work until noon and then leave the office with an
excuse, spending the rest of the day locating a hotel between our home and my office in Santa Monica. I end up at a Marriott
in the business section of El Segundo. I drive back home to pick up some clothes. As I open the front door everything feels
very odd, as if my own home is no longer even sure I should be here. This whole thing feels so humiliating. What am I doing,
in the middle of a workday, packing toothpaste and business clothes to stay somewhere a few miles away? I change into jeans
and a sweater. Before I walk back out the front door I hesitate, wondering what I’m giving up once I give in to this.

It feels like almost everyone is aware of my situation. Our next-door neighbor, Melanie Patton, an overweight woman in a perpetual
hairnet, is out front watering bushes as I walk from the house carrying my hang-up bag. She’s never liked me. I think her
fashion sense brings property values down. She peeks over her sunglasses at me and turns away, like she’s thinking,
Finally
.

The guy at the Marriott front desk stares at my driver’s license. “Why, you can’t live five miles from here.” I give a weak
nod, saying nothing. He looks at my bag, back at me, and then back at my bag again. He gives an awkward smile, as if he suddenly
realizes he may have stumbled into a guy hiding from the law or something. Snatching up my license, a pen, and a room agreement,
he drops them onto the counter, all in one noisy and flustered motion. I mumble something about relatives in town and scrawl
out my name on the contract, all while moving away from the counter to the elevator.

I soon discover that a Marriott room at a resort destination and a Marriott room at a business park are two different animals.
Mine has a bed, a “workstation,” a smaller television, and a view of the top floor of a parking garage. It’ll do. I’m not
going to be here long. I open a can of nuts from the minibar, kick off my shoes, and flop back against the bed headboard,
soon staring at an oil painting of a bowl of fruit.
Very edgy, Mr. Marriott. Very edgy.

I’m not calling her. She’ll call me when she feels bad enough, realizing I’m taking the hit for all this. I grab the channel
changer and mindlessly surf cable stations, eventually lying in the dark, fighting this nagging thought that I should probably
get up, put on some shoes, and walk down the hall for a bucket of ice. But I’m too drained to do anything about it. I think
those were my last thoughts as I fell asleep to the sounds of the Food Channel, a half-eaten can of mixed nuts sitting on
my chest.

(Tuesday Evening, March 17)

Day six. I’m still sleeping at the Marriott. I’ve talked twice to Lindsey. All business and very cryptic. She did say, “I
just need some time, Steven. I’ll call you and we can talk about what comes next.” I’ve stopped by the house several times
when they’re gone, to pick up mail and more clothes. I’ve talked to Jennifer on the phone once. She seems to be acting like
I’m away on business, pretending nothing is very wrong or abnormal. She gets that from me, I think.

I’m discovering I hate eating dinner by myself. The worst part is, you run out of places to look. I need to take a book with
me. I used to make fun of those nerds who read in public. Now, I’m wondering what they’re reading. And everyone seems to be
staring and talking about you, like they’re warning their children, “Bobby, if you don’t pay attention in school, you could
end up like that man—all alone.”

I’ve chosen to tell no one about what has happened. Nobody needs to know, and I’m pretty sure this won’t last much longer.

He’s sitting in the Electra as I drive up. I park my Mercedes at the end of the lot. This is the kind of place where someone
would open his door into yours without thinking twice about it. I get out, hit the Lock button on the remote, and walk toward
his car. I pause at the passenger door of the Electra.

“Hop in. You’ll have to reach in and use the inside handle.”

He’s wearing another gaudy Hawaiian shirt and the same Dodger’s ball cap from the last time I saw him. I have the feeling
his wardrobe has definite limitations. He puts on his sunglasses and leans over the passenger seat to hand me a pair. “You’ll
need these.”

“These” are a clunky pair of black frames with equally black lenses. How anyone is supposed to see through these during the
day, let alone at night, is beyond me.

“No, thanks. I’m good,” I say, but he presses the glasses toward me with a look that says he won’t take no for an answer.
To move things along, I put them on.

As I look at Andy’s self-satisfied grin, I’m having second thoughts about this trip. I’m not a very good passenger. I drive;
I don’t ride. But, even this seems better than spending another evening sitting around in my Marriott cell, room number 643.

I so want to tell Andy that I’m onto him—that I know all about his business failings—if only so he’ll stop with the wizard
routine. But I decide to save my findings for later. I also decide he doesn’t need to know I’m living on the street, until
I see how this ride works out.

I open the passenger door with the inside handle and climb in. The car is huge. I feel like I’m sitting on an enormous, slippery,
plastic tuck-’n’roll couch. I slide to the back of the seat until my feet are almost no longer touching the floor mat. It
appears that back in the day, they manufactured cars for only giants to drive.

As I’m looking around for a seat belt, he notices and says, “It’s jammed into the seat somewhere. Good luck.”

So here we are… two men wearing sunglasses after sunset, strapped into seat belts with no shoulder harnesses, rumbling down
the boulevard in a vehicle designed before fuel economy was a gleam in a car designer’s eyes. For a while we’re just driving,
neither of us speaking a word. The combination of the wind in my face and the deep hum of the Electra 455 is almost trancelike.

He yells above the engine, “Mind if I smoke?”

“Would it matter?”

“Probably not.”

“I guess I’m fine, then.”

With an obviously well-practiced skill, he pulls out an old Zippo lighter, and as the flame flickers in the wind, he lights
up a cigar he calls a Padron 1924 Anniversario.

Eventually we pull onto the 405 for a few minutes and then up into the hills overlooking Marina del Rey and Venice and the
Pacific Ocean. Andy parks the car on a bluff facing south. From there you can see most of the L.A. basin. After some time
looking over the city, he takes a long draw on his cigar and blows an impressive smoke ring into the still night air.

“Steven, if this was 1972 and I was sitting here with the top down in this gem with a pretty high school girl, well, let’s
just say that the guy in the Chevy Nova next to me would be driving back down the hill in embarrassment.”

“I wouldn’t know, Andy,” I say. “I wasn’t born yet. I don’t think my parents had even
met
in 1972.”

Andy clutches his heart. “Ouch.”

Looking over the city, it strikes me that I haven’t sat like this in a long time. Just sitting and looking at a great view
for no other reason than because it’s there. I begin to relax a little.

Eventually he breaks the silence.

“So, Steven, what do you see from up here?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I mean, what do you see when you look out over the city?”

“I see lights. Lots of lights.”

Andy rolls his eyes at me a little. “That’s it? Lots of lights?”

“Yeah. What are you getting at?”

“Tell me what you imagine is going on in some of those homes down there.”

I don’t like this. I don’t need this. I’m not up for wherever he thinks this is heading.

“Go ahead,” he presses. “Humor me. What’s going on down there tonight in L.A.?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Lots of stuff. Some good, some not so good.”

He takes a minute before speaking again. His tone seems to change; his volume is lower, his pace a little slower, as if he’s
saying something he thinks is important.

“Yeah, lots of
stuff
. Husbands and wives fighting. Angry kids fuming in their rooms, resenting their parents’ authority. Some of those lights
are cars with sad and lonely kids inside, driving around, acting tough, looking for something… anything.”

Andy closes his eyes and rubs them. “It starts young, doesn’t it? They get hurt. Maybe they get hurt real bad early on. And
if they’re not careful, they learn something that takes a lifetime to unlearn. They learn to cover up, to protect themselves.
They don’t even know they’re doing it at first. But later they can’t stop it even when they want to.

“All those people down there, walking and driving around, confused—angry, hurt, wounded, afraid, resentful—they all have some
things in common.”

He stops speaking, as if he wants me to ask. I begrudgingly reply, “What’s that?”

“Well,” he says, after doffing his cigar into an oversize ashtray, “they’ve learned to protect themselves. Now they’re adults
and they’re discovering this cruel secret:
they can’t protect themselves
. In fact, the last person who can protect them is them.”

I turn to look at him.

“They end up trusting only themselves,” he continues. “And all of these people have others around who could help them see…
if only they asked for help. But fear keeps them from asking. So everybody does an elaborate dance around each other. A guarded,
well-intended conspiracy of silence surrounds almost every conversation. What isn’t said is louder than what’s spoken. Friends
dance around friends for years, holding back truths that would set the other free. The memories of failed attempts, hurt feelings,
and estranged relationships block light from entering the room.”

Andy pauses before saying, “We’re an entire population of people with spinach in our teeth—and no one to tell us.”

He puts his hands behind his head, leaning back into the sofalike seat. “Every light down there represents a person. Every
light tells a story. A lot of them are stories of what happens when we try to self-protect.”

I need to change things up. I open the door and walk out several feet onto the bluff. It is so quiet I can hear my feet scuffing
at the dirt. I turn back toward the car. “What do you mean, ‘self-protect’?” I ask, knowing I risk another speech.

“Self-protection. You know, that guarded self-deception where we miss how we’re really coming off because we’re afraid to
let anyone tell us.”

“Give me an example.”

“Well, some forms are pretty inconsequential. Like talking too long before allowing the other to respond. Or talking too close.
Man
, that one, whew!” He shudders a little. “But there are much harsher and more damaging expressions of self-protection.”

Andy takes another long draw on his cigar, adjusting his rearview mirror.

“These are the people fully blind to the destruction they’re causing or allowing. Like a homemaker too embarrassed to tell
someone about the hidden pain in her marriage—that she’s contemplating running away to escape it. She’s convinced she has
to live alone in her pain.

“Or a high school student trapped by porn but too ashamed to let anybody know. So day after day, he wraps himself in increasing
darkness that will follow him into his marriage and contaminate the family he’ll one day raise.”

I’m slowly walking along the edge of the bluff, taking in the entire Southland as he speaks. Andy’s voice is like a narrator’s
sound track, and my eyes are the camera capturing what I imagine might be happening at this very moment in the homes below.

“Or maybe it’s a single guy, so desperate to be known but so afraid he’s gonna be rejected that he overwhelms anyone who gets
close. A salesman so full of arrogance that he hides his true self from those he longs to impress. A teacher, still scarred
by something once done to her. And now she wears a facade of bland, empty politeness—leaving her unable to really reach her
students.