To reach the park, we had to climb several more hills, steeper than any I’d seen in San Francisco. She grew nervous driving up them. The GPS gave us a wrong direction and we drove an additional half hour because of the wrong turn. It was obvious she was frustrated—though she never lost her patience or raised her voice—and I kept quiet, giving directions but speaking softly. Finally, we found the park.
“Can I get something off my chest?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“I don’t know if I should bring this up or not. But I’ve been irritated this morning. I had to drive from Olivia’s to pick you up and then drive back into the city. It took over an hour. It upset me that you didn’t offer to drive, or at least meet me halfway. I’m sorry to complain. I know you came all this way to see me. It’s just that I had to drive home last night and it took longer than I expected. I didn’t get much sleep last night and had to make two trips today. I hoped you would offer.”
I couldn’t speak right away. I felt miserable. A million thoughts spun in my head. I needed to answer her soon but didn’t know how. The truth was it hadn’t occurred to me. I’d driven to Oakland the day before, parked my car three blocks from Aaron’s place and (without realizing it, I guess) thought, “I won’t have to drive again until I leave on Monday.” I’d seen enough of San Francisco traffic that had I thought about it, I would have been daunted at the idea of driving there. But I didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have offered.”
“It’s okay. I needed to tell you, though. I want to enjoy our last day together and didn’t want that hanging over me.”
With that said, the tension faded. We thought no more of steep hills, wrong turns, my lack of GPS skill or the fact I hadn’t driven my car into the city. We found a quiet knoll underneath a shaded tree and spread out the tin foil tarp. We took off our shoes, pinned the corners of the sleeping bag and lay down—holding hands, settling in for some time alone together.
Only two problems: mosquitoes and a wedding taking place directly behind us. We hadn’t noticed. There was a concrete wall separating the building’s facility and the lawn where we lay. We heard the bride and groom finishing their vows. Now, I didn’t want to pack up and leave. We’d driven an hour, almost an hour and a half, gotten lost and had our first disagreement. We were tired; she hadn’t slept. It took us several minutes to walk from the car to the park and up the hill to find the best-shaded area on the lawn. We were going to stay there at all possible costs. As long as the wedding took place on the other side of the wall, we’d be fine.
That is until the bride, groom and rest of the wedding party stepped onto the lawn for pictures. One of the groomsmen looked our way. I’m sure for him it was quite a sight, a man in a Van Halen t-shirt and a woman in flip-flops, cuddling together on a metallic-looking tarp only a few feet away from his best friend’s marriage ceremony. We turned our faces and laughed.
“I’m so embarrassed. Should we leave?”
“We’re fine. I think they’ll leave soon.”
“What if we show up in one of the pictures? I should have worn something nicer.”
We shielded ourselves from view, waiting for them to disappear. No such luck. The other guests joined them on the lawn. Several pointed in our direction.
“I can take a hint. You get the tarp and I’ll roll up the sleeping bag. Let’s get out of here.”
We packed up and waved goodbye to the guests. It wasn’t a huge disappointment. The mosquitoes had gotten much worse. I had a bite on my hand and she’d suffered two large ones on her foot. “I’ll give you a piggyback ride down the hill,” I offered. Laughing on our way, we walked to the car and drove to Berkeley for dinner.
Later that night, when finally we’d said goodbye, I went inside and found Aaron still awake. We stayed up late, catching up on friends from PCC, Andrew, Diana and Baby Daniel. He looked happy. He seemed a fish out of water in Los Angeles, as if biding his time there. He was the man reading Steinbeck and studying geological readouts while others were going to the clubs. He’d flourish here, I thought. And he was able to live rent-free in a wonderful home. (Well, if someone would bring it into the new millennium, decoration-wise. Perhaps take out the organ, trinkets and badly-painted ceramic plates hanging on the wall.) Aaron soon went to bed. I stayed up awhile longer, reliving the moments that defined the day. From the power of the church service, seeing the Folsom Street Fair crowd, the tension of the drive to Tilden Park, the laughter of the wedding—and what did we have to show for it? Memories and mosquito bites. The lasting impressions of the weekend. Eventually, I washed up and retired to my room, knowing I had a long drive ahead of me the next morning. Not to mention my court hearing in two days.
Chapter Ten
What are the fears that lie deepest? A fear of our lives not working out? Perhaps we’ve seen a glimpse of something better and can’t imagine going back to the way it was before?
I’d never been inside a courtroom before. Jessie does it every day, but we lead different lives. My father was a physician, but I abhor doctors’ offices. They scare me. I was scared now. Thirty-eight years old and scared. Scared of my life falling apart. I still had hope of things turning around. Up to that point, I’d made a mess of my life, vocationally and financially.
I had no idea how much worse it would get.
My friend Jeff, one of the most generous men I know, not only with his time but his money and service, always there for a ride to the airport or to buy a friend dinner, offered to accompany me to court that morning. It was especially generous, given he runs a small hedge fund and the majority of his work is done from 6 to 10 a.m. We stopped at Starbucks on the way. I made sure not to spill coffee on the white shirt or tie I was wearing.
I’d never met Stan Pugliese. The only correspondence we’d shared was by email. His replies were usually curt—almost rude—and a few days late. Otherwise, he seemed to ignore me. His last email had instructed me to meet him outside the courtroom at 8:30. I didn’t know if it was uncommon or not that I hadn’t met my attorney. Should I be worried? I had asked Nick about it.
“That’s the way this guy is,” he said. “I never met him, either.”
Jeff dropped me off in front of the courthouse and went to park. I had no idea what to expect when I entered the building and quickly realized I was far from alone. The line wrapped three times around the lobby—at least three hundred people waiting to clear security. I took my place at the rear, called Jeff and told him I’d save him a spot in line. Jessie emailed while I was waiting. She was praying for me and gave me a verse to meditate upon, from Ephesians 5. “Be imitators of God, therefore, as dearly loved children, and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us.” I thanked her and said I would call as soon as I was done—then added I was crazy about her.
When Jeff entered, he saw me waving and stood beside me. I was quick to notice the look of annoyance on his face when he saw the number of people and stayed careful with my words. In his shoes, I’d be upset about having to stand in a thirty-minute line for a DUI hearing that wasn’t mine. He never complained. He made two calls to his office, putting some items on hold and making arrangements for others.
How was this morning going to affect my life? I knew financial stability was, along with family concern, the main obstacle in our way. I took full responsibility for it. I made my choices and had to live with the consequences either way. I couldn’t be bitter. I should have thought of these concerns when I was spending all my time and income on film and musical pursuits. How much had I spent over the years? Thousands. Photos, workshops, guitars, CDs, recording time, mailings, teeth—not to mention the hours spent. The real work always began when I’d finished my day job.
Since I’d known her, she had been honest about her feelings. She wanted to be able to quit her job one day and raise a family. Though she resented herself for feeling this way, she’d given up a lifestyle when she left the corporate firm and sometimes
missed it. “I see my friends living in beautiful houses in the city and making a ton of money. I struggle with it. It makes me wonder if I did the right thing.”
“I don’t plan on being poor the rest of my life,” I said. “I’m not asking you to be. I’ll do whatever I have to do. If it means going back to school or switching careers, I will. Whatever it takes. But right now, it hasn’t happened. I want you to be there with me as I work toward this. I need you to believe in me.”
When a man finds something worth his focus and attention, the thought of losing it becomes disheartening. What was going to happen that morning? And where was Stan? I’d been standing in the hall for ten minutes and hadn’t seen anyone resembling an Italian man. Jeff could see my concern, the graven look on my face. He went to the opposite end of the hall, the other courtroom, to see if he spotted him there. Court was starting in less than five minutes and there was no sign of this guy.
“Are you Stan?” I asked an older man carrying a briefcase.
“No.”
To another man (He didn’t look Italian, but I was getting desperate): “Mr. Pugliese?”
“No.”
I called his office. The receptionist said she’d page him and have him call me. I texted Nick and asked, “What does Pugliese look like?”
I went into the courtroom and sat in the back, sweating lightly. An email flashed on my phone. From Jon, the subject heading: Acts 20.
I know you are not in the office this morning, but I am sending this in hopes that you check your phone's email, for the reason stated in verse 2. “He traveled through that area, speaking many words of encouragement to the people.” I hope these few verses encourage you today as you enter the courtroom. I know you don’t want to be there. I know you made a mistake, but the important part is that YOU KNOW this does not define who you are. Be humbled but not shamed. See this as a learning experience for yourself and one that can be passed on to those you love.
Another thing I got out of this passage is how encouraging Paul was to others, so much so that many different people accompanied him on his trips, all from different areas and customs and cultures. All bound by this man and his passion to spread the Good News. You too are a great encouragement to those around you, from your loving heart and generous time to give to those in need, as well as your passion for Christ. You have those friends just like Paul that accompany you on your journey, whether physically or in spirit. Please know when you enter the courtroom today that you are not alone. I will be there in spirit, as well as many of your other friends. But most importantly, Jesus and the Holy Spirit and the Father will be surrounding you on all sides. You are not alone, brother. Love you.
I read the verses in my seat, as well as his kind words. Thank God for friends like Jon, who love me and would do anything for me.
A text arrived. It was Nick. “Big fat guy,” was his reply.
That helped. Now I knew I was looking for a fat Italian guy. I returned to the hallway; the proceedings had yet to start. I told Jeff he could leave if he wanted. He said to call when I was done and he’d pick me up and take me to breakfast. I thanked him and returned to the courtroom, looking desperately every time the door opened to see if it was a fat Italian. The bailiff, a thin, young white girl, began shouting instructions to everyone, and was most adamant with the command, “Turn off your cell phones. If I see your phone, I will take it from you and you will not get it back until the end of the day.” I checked once more to see if Stan had called and put my phone in my pocket. The judge soon entered. What was I going to do if he called my name and Stan wasn’t there? The bailiff said the docket was not in specific order. I felt the sweat under my arms. I raised my hand and called the bailiff over.
“My lawyer’s not here. What do I do if the judge calls for me?”
“Your attorney’s got your file. The judge can’t call your name until he gets here.”
I thanked her and breathed a sigh of relief. I chewed upon Jon’s email, encouraged by its words. I prayed for Jessie—for her work that day, her relationship with her family and our relationship, thanking God I had met a woman who prayed for me during difficult circumstances. The door opened and I turned to look. This time there could be no doubt. He was as heavy as advertised. Sweat on his brow. Circles under his armpits. I motioned to him.
“Stan?”
“Are you Michael?”
“Good to meet you.”
“Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He went to the front and I returned to my seat. I listened as the first few people appeared before the judge. One was a young guy, tattooed out, wearing a black concert t-shirt. Did appearance factor into these things? The judge seemed to be giving most of them a similar sentence, a fine and a court-ordered alcohol program. I noticed they were up and out pretty quickly. There wasn’t a maelstrom of shame cast down from the bench to their shoulders, no thundering voice from above proclaiming them the worst citizens to ever own a driver’s license. Pugliese approached and told me to follow him to the booth at the rear wall. He pulled a thick folder of documents from his briefcase and instructed me to initial the places marked with an “X.”
“Stay here. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”
I prayed the Psalms. Surely goodness and loving-kindness will follow me all the days of my life, and I walk in the house of the Lord forever. I thought about Jon’s words. “This does not define you.” David was a murderer but it didn’t define him. He was still able to write Psalm 23. His sin would always be attached to him but he was loved by God regardless. The same with me. I could say, “I will walk in the house of the Lord forever,” because I knew I was loved by God. I’d been shown grace by so many—most importantly God, but also Jessie, Jeff and Jon—and I knew goodness and loving-kindness would follow me all the days of my life. When the judge called my name, I walked to the front of the courtroom, stood next to Pugliese and said exactly what he told me to say. If I appeared humble to the judge, it was because I was sorry for what I’d done. He ordered the 541 class. The prosecutor interjected and requested an additional MADD program, to which he agreed. And of course, the mandatory fine.
I walked through the courtroom door into the cashier’s office. She handed me the necessary paperwork. I had a year to complete the 541 program, the MADD class, and pay the $2000 fine. In lieu of the fine, I could do eleven Saturdays of community service. I briefly considered it but chose not to. Yes, it would save me $2000, but eleven Saturdays? I’d never see Jessie in such case. Leaving the courthouse, I didn’t see Pugliese again. (Evidently, $4000 doesn’t buy what it used to.) He emailed later that day, advising me to enroll in the 541 class immediately. Hopefully it would help with my DMV hearing. He sent me a list of class locations throughout the city. It was the last I heard from him.
541 class. What was it? I started calling around and asking. It was a three-month alcohol training class, once a week. I called the ones closest to work first, then those close to home. The more I called, the more reality sunk in and the higher my anxiety grew. The classes were all in the $750 to $800 range. I called a few more, hoping to find one cheaper, but the only one under $700 was in Inglewood by the Forum. I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d have a license and didn’t want to commit to one that far, especially if I’d have to bus the last few weeks. I found one on Overland and Braddock, close to the YMCA where I teach. Maybe I could establish a rhythm to my Tuesdays: leave work, fit in a quick workout and attend class from 6 to 9 p.m. The woman on the phone told me to come the following Monday to sign up.
Unfortunately, the class fell on the same night as Celebrate Recovery. That week, realizing it was going to be my last meeting for a while, I thanked Erin and the others for the support they’d given me. “I’m going to miss you guys. You’ve been a huge encouragement to me during the most difficult time of my life.”
Afterward, Kyle Fowlkes, an older man from church arrested for DUI a year earlier, pulled me aside to tell me he’d taken the 541 class on Overl
and and Braddock. “It was terrible. We had to sit in a cramped, hot room in the most uncomfortable seats for three hours while a boring speaker talked. I watched the clock the entire time.”
Downcast, I drove home that night. I was going to miss those guys. They had given me valuable teaching and inspiration. Now my Tuesday nights would be spent in a hot classroom, bored out of my mind. “Lord,” I prayed, “Let me find grace in everything. Show me your love, even in a 541 class.”
I dreaded the class. I expected to be judged, shamed and frowned upon with scorn. I expected to walk in, find seats facing frontward, a podium and a lecturer standing in front, showing slides and PowerPoint presentations detailing deaths by drunk drivers over the years with a rolling graph to illustrate the marked escalation. The only prayer I could make was that somehow I could be a witness. I went to sign up. I wasn’t alone; four others were sitting in chairs, waiting. The woman behind the Plexiglas gave me a mound of paperwork to fill out and told me to sit down and do it.
The first page was a survey on drinking habits. “Have you ever blacked out from drinking too much? Grayed out?”
“Wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t,” I thought.
That was a sarcastic quip, but my attitude was anything but. I didn’t need a lecturer with PowerPoint to highlight I had done wrong. I had never denied it and was determined to make sure drinking didn’t become a problem. I finished filling out the forms. I shudder to think about one day, years down the road, seeing my arrest documents (complete with mug shot), the mound of paperwork I signed for Pugliese and the 541 contract. The day of that bonfire will be a celebration.
Arresting Grace Page 11