Bo's Café

by John Lynch

  So, why can’t someone who does things well just be recognized as better? Can’t Tiger Woods admit he’s the best golfer in the world? Would that be too superior? I have to go into therapy because everyone else has issues and I’m supposed to be sensitive to the fact that they’re weaker? Why should I have to pretend I’m a failure like everyone else?

  The speed of my argument with myself is matching my increasing speed on the machine. Forty minutes later, I’m still angry and now tired as well. I get off and make my way up to my room.

  I find myself sitting on the floor leaning against the front of the bed, pulling off wet socks while positioning a towel between the bed and my head. I am still angry. I eventually get up to look on the counter, hoping to see a new batch of oranges. I think I finished off the last one yesterday. But there’s nothing. Someone even took the bowl away.

  Great. I’ve got to work in a new housekeeping team… . I gotta get out of here. I’m obsessing over oranges.

  I walk over to my “workstation” and sit down in the ergonomic work chair the hotel is touting these days. I stare out the window at the parking garage that has been my view for the last month. Off in the distance there is the annoying beeping of construction equipment moving back and forth. I have convinced myself I somehow deserve this view.

  “Thirty-three days. I’ve been living in a hotel room for thirty-three days.” I am surprised I said those last words out loud. “And who am I talking to? You? Then listen to me. I’m sick of this. I feel like I’m performing for You too, and You’re either not paying attention or You’re siding with Carlos and Hank. And I’m done with it.

  “You know what I think about when I lie here in bed and can’t sleep? Of course You do. I’ve been looking over the last decade and asking: Has there been any proof that You’ve helped in anything I’ve accomplished? Anything I couldn’t have done without Your help? Is there any evidence that You’ve caused my success, my promotions, my advancement? I haven’t asked for Your help, and You haven’t given it. But in the one area I’ve asked, my relationship with my wife, You haven’t done squat. You’ve left me out, alone, in a hotel, playing the fool. I know I’m gonna pay for this; I know You hold all the cards. But I gotta say, either this whole God thing has been made up in our heads, or You’re not quite as powerful as You’ve been advertised.”

  I get up and walk out of the room and down to my car, to drive to a restaurant so I can, once again, eat alone.

  Good-bye to the Mint-Strawberry Water

  (Saturday Morning, April 18)

  Well, today I say good-bye to the people calling me “sir,” to the view of the parking garage and the oil painting of fruit in room 643. Others will watch me check out today. Thirty-seven days. I think only Howard Hughes beats that total. No more mint-and-strawberry-infused water for me. Today I am going home.

  Lindsey called just minutes ago. She was crying, asking me if I’d like to come home. I know not everything is solved. I know we will hit glitches. I know I can often be a lot of work. But it is time. We are husband and wife and we are a family. I have to run down to San Diego today to preview some software at a convention, but tonight I’ll sleep in my own bed.

  I want to call Andy and thank him for all he’s done. But I’ve ignored his last half dozen e-mails. I don’t want to deal with that right now. He’ll figure it out. I’ll call him sometime soon. But this whole strange season just ended five minutes ago. I’m going home.

  It’s after eleven when I pull up again into our driveway. I turn off the car and remember the last evening I sat out here like this. A lot has changed. I don’t think we’ll ever repeat that night. I feel so much better than I did four nights ago, when I was angry at the world. I was getting so worn down by it all.

  The lights are out in the house. I still don’t have a key. She even changed the code to the garage opener. So I leave my car out in the driveway and use the front door, which she said she’d leave unlocked. As I step into the house I see a flickering light coming from the family room. I walk in to find Jennifer, asleep on the couch, in the dark, with the TV on.

  I quietly call out, “Hey, kid.”

  “Hey, Dad,” she mumbles as she sits up. “I think I fell asleep.”

  I sit down next to her. “So what were you watching?”

  “I’m not sure. Some reality show rerun or something.”

  “You’re up pretty late.”

  “Yeah. I’m just waiting for a shirt to dry. Then I’m off to bed.”

  We’re both quiet for a few moments.

  “Glad you’re home, Dad,” she says, staring at the television.

  “Thanks.”

  I want to touch her hand, but I don’t. Jennifer doesn’t show or allow a lot of affection.

  “Mom’s been asleep for a while.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I get up to leave the room, Jennifer’s voice stops me.

  “Hey, Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know that I could hear your fight with Mom that night, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. The time just never seems right.”

  “That’s all right,” she says. “Mom and I talked.”

  “Good.” I stand there waiting for more.

  “So, I just wanted to say that we should all be nice to each other now, you know?”

  “Yeah. We all want that, kid. I think it’s going to be better now.”

  “Yeah.”

  My daughter is staring at the television. But I know she’s not watching it. She’s like her dad. She has a hard time letting anyone see what’s going on inside. So she acts like she doesn’t care. But I know the things she’s saying right now are hard for her. I don’t think she’s ever tried to say these things to me before. How scary is this for her? She’s only eleven and feels like she has to help teach her parents how to get along.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be nice to Mom. She really loves you a lot.”

  “I know. I’m trying to learn to not be such a jerk.”

  “You’re not a jerk, Dad.”

  “Thanks, Jenny.”

  She turns off the television. I start to leave the room. From the dark I hear her voice.

  “Don’t get divorced, okay?”

  Through the darkness, I answer back, “Don’t worry, honey. Nobody’s going to get divorced. Now get to bed, kid.”

  As she leaves the room and begins to climb the stairs, I follow her out and whisper to her, “You know I love you a lot, right?”

  “Yeah. I love you too, Dad.”

  Just Alan

  (Wednesday Morning, May 6)

  It’s been a couple of weeks since I moved back home. And I’d have to say it’s been going well. It does feel like we’re being pretty careful around one another. All three of us are just finding our way back to each other. We’re trying to do more stuff together, as a family. Last night, I got home around five and we packed a picnic dinner and rode bikes to the beach. We put a blanket on the sand, and the three of us watched the sun go down as we ate chicken. Pretty cool. I missed this.

  It’s five forty-five, Friday morning. I’m blindly negotiating my way down the stairs, hoping Lindsey made coffee. I hear an unfamiliar voice coming from the kitchen. As I get closer I realize that Lindsey is listening to our answering machine. I stop on the last step of the stairs.

  “Lindsey, I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed our talk yesterday. I’m looking forward to continuing it today.”

  I stand in the dark, not sure what I’ve just heard. By the time I walk into the kitchen, my wife is leaning on the counter at the answering machine, replaying the message. She is unaware I am in the room.

  “Lindsey, I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed our talk yesterday. I’m looking forward to continuing it today.”

  I wait until the message is over. She is staring at the machine.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “What? Oh, just so
meone.” She’s clearly startled.

  “Who?”

  She doesn’t look me in the eye. “Just Alan. He’s the counselor I was telling you about before. Remember?”

  That sick feeling in my stomach returns, the way it did a few weeks ago when Lindsey mentioned him.

  “Lindsey, why is he calling you?”

  She heaves that sigh she makes when she thinks I’m getting out of control. I’m not.

  “I was looking for some perspective from him a while back, remember? Then he asked me for help with his daughter. That’s all.”

  “A married man doesn’t call a married woman to tell her he hopes to see her again.”

  “That’s not what he—Steven, please. It’s nothing.”

  My voice goes up. “No, Lindsey. It’s not.”

  “It is nothing. He’s just a friend. Okay? He’s just someone I talk to, along with half a dozen others at the gym. You talk to people.”

  I shake my head. “Why are you getting defensive?”

  “Please stop this. You’re doing it again. You’ve got that rigid face again. Please, just stop and listen.”

  I’m right on this. She’s trying to spin out of this. I know there’s something more. Just say it.

  “I’ll listen,” I bark, “when you start making sense.”

  She steadies herself, like she’s resigned to have to fight this one out. I can see she’s as frustrated as I am.

  “Well, then try this: Steven, I’m not sure if it’s dawned on you yet, but I’m a social person. I’ve got a whole bunch of things inside me to talk about, almost all the time. You’re usually so preoccupied that I don’t get a chance to say many of them. Ask your daughter. She talks to me all the time. And you wonder why you can’t get her to say boo to you about her day at school. She knows you’re not available and has learned to not bother.”

  Lindsey walks over to the kitchen sink. “Women just need to talk more. And some men get that. That’s all this is—just a male friend who doesn’t mind talking. What about that is defensiveness?”

  “Lindsey, do you realize that every time I say something you don’t like, you pull the ‘Steven-is-preoccupied’ card? Every time.”

  She spins around from the sink. “Do you realize that every time I pull the ‘Steven-is-preoccupied’ card, it’s because you are?”

  “That’s so stupidly unfair. It’s not true and it’s unfair.”

  “Steven, I’m wanting you to take a deep breath. If you want to have a conversation, we can have a conversation. But this is not a conversation. This is the freaked-out guy about to lose it. Now, you’re going to get angry in a minute and say a bunch of things you’ll wish you hadn’t. And then I’m going to walk out that door and drive somewhere. Then I’m going to call you on my cell phone to tell you that this is not working and that I cannot keep doing this. And you’re going to be very sorry, and it’s going to be very strange for a long time. Or we can stop right now, and I’ll hand you a cup of coffee and you can wake up and remember to stop being a control freak and we can just go on.”

  “You know what? You can bag the righteous indignation speech, Lindsey. You’re hiding something!” I say, almost yelling. “You give a lecture and then I’m supposed to just be quiet because I get angry, while you go live your double life.”

  “You are so out of control, again.”

  “Then go! I’m sick of this.”

  “Shut up, Steven. You’re gonna wake her up.”

  “You shut up! I’ve done everything right. And you’ve been seeing some shrink guy while I’m living in a hotel.”

  “Get out of this house, Steven. I’m not leaving, you are.”

  “I’m not doing that again. This is my house. You can go live with your boyfriend!”

  She screams as loud as I’ve ever heard anyone scream: “Get out! Get out! Get OUT!”

  She runs over to the phone.

  I yell, “What are you doing? Who are you calling?”

  “The police. I’m calling the police! Get out of this house now!”

  She’s screaming and crying at the same time. I hear Jennifer’s door open.

  “Mom? What’s going on?”

  And I run out of the house.

  Within seconds I’m in my car, headed north. I don’t know where to go. I find myself driving up into the hills overlooking the ocean. I park my car in the same area Andy first brought me. A thousand screaming explosions are crashing around my head. I’m still shaking.

  I did it again. I lost it. What have I done? Should I call her? What if she was right? What if that was all it was with this guy?

  I sit there, limp, knowing I’ve been here so many times before. And every time, I promise I’ll guard myself from allowing it to happen again. The pitiful part is that I actually believe I will. Still breathing hard, staring out across the valley where my whole world is free-falling into chaos, I’m struck with the thought that this all may not get better. That I don’t have the ability to fix myself and that Lindsey and Jennifer will continue to suffer for it. Why does she stay? Maybe this time she won’t.

  What do I do?

  God, what is wrong with me? My marriage is falling apart. I freaked out again. I keep scaring this woman who used to be all I could think about. Please help me. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m so afraid I’ll always be like this. Help me. My head drops into my hands. Do You hear me? Help me. Please. Help me.

  After a few minutes, I lift my head and stare. What comes next? I’ve been through this drill with her so many times.

  One of us gets into a car and drives in no particular direction—usually her. Then I feel lousy all day. Then sometime this evening or tomorrow morning, I’ll sit down in front of Lindsey and apologize. It’s like clockwork. I’ll own everything, even though I don’t believe it. I’m just wanting things back to… whatever they were before. I’ll ask her to forgive me. I’ll send flowers. I’ll write notes. What a putz! I’m like an actor in a soap opera trying to schmooze my way back to normalcy.

  The saddest part is that Lindsey has also learned to play the game. She’s found her role in this madness. So far, she’s loved me enough to keep forgiving me. She tries to forget and pretend it’ll get better.

  So why does it feel different now?

  I’m onto myself, that’s why. Have I ever thought that before? I no longer trust my own remorse. All these years, I’ve apologized for my crappy behavior. But I was never sorry, not really. I gave myself so much arrogant license to hurt her and anyone else. Because I was bigger and stronger. And they were weaker.

  Oh, God. I’ve been lying to myself. How do I get out of this? I just want to start all over, throw away everything. Please help me. I don’t know if I can do this. Please help me start over.

  Eventually, I get up and drive back down the hill, past east Culver City, past Venice, then past Marina del Rey, all the way back to our home in Manhattan Beach. I turn onto our street, but Lindsey’s car is gone. I call her cell phone… then again. No answer.

  I don’t leave a message.

  “I’m a Mess, Andy.”

  (Friday Morning, May 8)

  Sitting in my driveway, I become overwhelmed by the realization of what I’ve risked. I look in the rearview mirror. My hair is an oily mess, my mouth feels like chalk, and I need a shave. The Wall Street Journal should get a look at me now.

  I am suddenly struck with this thought: I have no one to talk to about this… except Andy. I’m not sure what he’ll do with it, but I have to call him.

  I quickly remember I’ve erased his messages and don’t have his number in my phone. My mind is spinning. I run inside the house, change out of my pajamas into some clothes I find lying on the floor, and jump back into the car. I drive to Bo’s, which is not yet open. But Bo is out front signing for a delivery. He’s ready to banter with me but does a double take when he sees my condition.

  “Who you be needin’ cher?”

  I tell him I’m looking for Andy.

  Bo gives
me the address for a dock in Marina del Rey. It’s the same marina where my CEO’s boat is moored. I’m ashamed to think of how many times I’ve been in and out of that marina and never even noticed the man who has become so important to me.

  It’s about a mile and a half away. I start walking fast, sensing an urgency to solve something before any more damage is done. I’ve walked more than halfway before it dawns on me that I drove my car to Bo’s.

  I continue walking anyway.

  It’s 9:00 a.m. by the time I reach the marina. I run down the walkway to where the boats are docked. Andy is nowhere in sight. I yell his name a couple of times. Nothing. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I collapse onto a bench. The sun is glaring intensely off the water. I feel like I’m hungover.

  I have no idea how much time has passed when I hear a voice.

  “Are you here for your boat, sir?”

  I answer back without looking up, “No, thanks. I’m just sitting.”

  “Well, look, fella, we don’t allow loitering here.”

  I look up to see Andy. He’s grinning at me.

  I smile weakly.

  “Gotcha… ,” he says.

  He’s in his usual Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, flip-flops, and sunglasses. He’s holding two steaming paper cups of coffee.

  “Bo called and told me you might be stopping by. Hey, you look terrible. What, is it Hobo Day down at the office?”

  I look down at what I’m wearing. In my hurry back at the house, I’d pulled on the clothes I wore to paint the bathroom the day before. I’ve been walking through the Marina del Rey yachting community in slippers, blue jeans, and a cutoff sweatshirt spattered in purple and aqua… . Nice.

  I gratefully reach for the cup of coffee. “Andy, how many times have you checked out the boat for our group?”

  “Oh, a few times or so. Cool yacht.”

  “You knew who I was back then?”

  No response. He sits down on the bench next to me. Just having something warm in my hands feels good… feels real. Like life is actually happening.

  “I’m a mess, Andy.”