When Young and I were hanging out several nights a week, he was the most sociable man I knew. He’d go out anytime, anywhere, with no advance notice.
Young, meet us at Westfield Saloon.
Am across town, be there in twenty. Save me a drink.
Will do.
And so on.
Young decided to go where the job took him, and it took him to Millbrae. Different seasons of life. We need to trust there will be new mercies with each. He met a woman from PCC the week before he was leaving. They went out once, had a great time, and went out again the next night. He told her he wanted to keep seeing her. She’s working on her PhD, already busy; it works out for them. At the bank, he’s making a hardly-livable wage but building a client base. “There’s huge upside,” he said when I asked. But right now, his life involves going to work, squeezing in a workout if he has time, coming home, eating dinner and talking to Theresa, either by phone or Skype.
We stayed up late that night, discussing him and Theresa, Jessie and me, church and friends. Life. Sunday morning, I called Jessie with the train details so she could pick me up at the station.
She asked, “Did Young’s snoring keep you awake last night?”
She must have spoken louder than she anticipated. Young, sitting across the room, yelled, “Did she say something about me snoring?”
I chuckled quietly. Told her I’d see her in a short while and hung up.
Young dropped me off at the station. I was surprised how desolate it was. I saw two people, that was all. I bought a ticket for Sunnyvale and barreled down the stairs to the Cal Train track. I’d never done this before; there was no attendant and the signs weren’t clearly marked. I asked a woman if I was in the right spot. I was, though an hour early. I read, then journaled for a while.
Memory is a powerful thing, never to be underestimated. Though that train ride was spent alone, the seats dirtier and the passengers quiet, it would have been impossible for me to make the trip without having images of that day flood my mind, reflecting upon it. What very well could be the only perfect day I’ve known. As the train drew closer to Sunnyvale, I found myself almost giddy. There was always a heightened sense of excitement before I saw her, but this morning it was amplified for some reason.
She was wearing tight jeans, tucked into new, brown boots she’d bought herself for Christmas. I asked her to wear them; I’d been wanting to see them. She said they made her as tall as me. I told her there was no way, then proved it to her. We stood back to back—I still had at least two inches on her. She was wearing a beige sweater and tank top. I remember the details because she stole my breath when I saw her. We were early for church and drove to a nearby café for coffee and pastries.
“What was your favorite part of the weekend?” I asked.
“The dancing.”
“I think it was my favorite part, as well. I’m not sure anything can top that.”
“Will you be my date for Denise’s wedding?”
“I would love to.”
At church, Ken preached on Genesis 3—the fall of Eden and the curse upon the land—and how it affects men and women today. Women suffer in childbirth. He spoke of women reaching the age of thirty or so and feeling desperate to have children. Some take matters into their own hands and ally themselves with men they shouldn’t be with. Men, conversely, feel the curse of the land. Our labor is cursed. It’s why it seems we can never get ahead. Sadly, a man’s labor defines his self-worth.
“But we are owned by Christ,” he said.
I prayed that: to be owned by God, that he would direct my steps.
Ken read Genesis 3:15. (To the serpent) “I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your seed and her seed; he shall bruise you on the head and you shall bruise him on the heel.” I’d heard that verse explained as being a pre-cursor to Christ, the first mention of the Gospel in Scripture. That interpretation never seemed right to me. I thought it was too much of a stretch. Ken offered a different explanation. “It’s life on the earth. A continual push-pull. Sometimes getting bitten by the devil and sometimes crushing his head.” His interpretation made sense to me. It was more consistent with my life. Joys fleeced with pain, but always ending in hope.
After the service, we stood and talked to a few members of her community group. I saw an older, African-American woman standing by herself and went to meet her. Melanie was her name. A faint smell of alcohol on her breath. She was from New Orleans and had lived in Los Angeles for a time, but couldn’t stand cities anymore. “The suburbs are the place to be,” she said. She’d visited the church three times but thought the service was too long. Under an hour was her preference. I told her at my church growing up the people would walk out if the sermon went past noon. She asked which of the women standing was my girlfriend and I pointed to Jessie.
“She’s gorgeous…and tall.”
Jessie joined us and I introduced them. “I was just telling him,” said Melanie, “you need to move to the suburbs. Don’t move to L.A., either!”
We said goodbye and walked to the lobby. We saw Pastor Ken and said hello.
“How are you two doing?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. I’m never sure how to answer that question. Did he want a simply reply (“We’re good.”) or something more drawn-out. I looked at Jessie, then to Pastor Ken and answered, “We’re doing well.” She nodded.
Holding hands on the way to the parking lot, she asked, “Did Melanie’s breath smell like booze to you?”
“Yes.”
We drove to a creperie in downtown Los Gatos. On the way there, she mentioned the sermon. I hadn’t planned on discussing these things, her being sick and all, but after a sermon that seemed directly aimed at us and the issues we faced, we decided to talk about it.
“What do you think Pastor Ken thinks of us?” she asked. “Do you think he likes us as a couple?”
“He doesn’t know me,” I answered. “I think if we asked him, he’d probably say, ‘I don’t know Michael well enough to say if you two should get married, but I don’t see any glaring red flags.’”
I brought up a difficult subject, one I’d wanted to avoid. Money and career. She agreed it was the main issue we faced, the one that would keep us apart. With her parents, it would be the chief concern. And I didn’t blame them.
“Do you resent me for struggling with this?” she asked.
“No, not in the least. If I can’t figure out how to fix this, I wouldn’t expect you to be with me.”
At the restaurant, we split a piece of quiche, a custard and berry crepe, and a Nutella muffin. She recognized a girl she’d gone to high school with but couldn’t remember her name and didn’t want to shout across the room. We walked to a park near the Los Gatos strip. A street preacher was preaching on the sidewalk. Though no one was listening, he sounded sincere, without a hint of Bible-thumping or being overly-judgmental. We found a bench near a fountain and watched the children playing in its water. She’d saved me several pieces of chocolate from a gift box she received at Christmas. She fed me a piece. I kissed her and gave her half. We read two of the “Griffin and Sabine” books. She’d discovered them a few weeks earlier and wanted to show them to me. We people-watched, as always. An older couple across the park was looking at us and we tried to guess what they were saying.
Had I known this would be the last time I saw her, what would I have done differently? Had I known it would be the last time I put my arm around her and kissed her, what might I have said?
Nothing. You can’t regret a perfect day.
How could I regret standing in church, meeting Melanie, the smell of alcohol on her breath, listening as she told me how beautiful Jessie was…and tall? Would I dare take back driving into Los Gatos, discussing Ken’s sermon, the curse of Eden and how it affects us still today? We knew money was the big issue. I could say it was family, but the two go hand in hand. Stability I couldn’t offer. I wouldn’t change the conversation, however. We spoke
openly and honestly. There were never hidden thoughts.
Would I change anything about the lunch we shared—the most delicious, fruitful crepe and perfectly salted quiche Lorraine? A meal that enjoyable can’t be scripted. No, I wouldn’t change it. Would I regret the afternoon in the park, holding each other, feeding each other salted caramels, watching and laughing at the small children running through the fountain (His mom can’t go in to get him because she’s wearing a dress. And look at his saggy diaper!)? These are the moments dreams are made of. They’re never looked back on with anything but fondness. Perhaps bittersweet fondness, as something so wonderful couldn’t endure. But that’s life. When we left the park, the older couple was still watching us, smiling.
“What do you think they’re saying?”
“I think they’re saying, ‘That couple is too much into PDA.’ What do you think they’re saying?”
“I think they’re saying, ‘Isn’t that romantic? It reminds me of us in our younger days.’”
“They’re probably saying, ‘They shouldn’t kiss in front of children. It’s not proper.’”
“But what they’re thinking is, ‘Seems like a good idea. Let’s try it ourselves.’”
“Let’s go talk to them.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Hearts grow heavy when two people, crazy about each other, know it’s time to separate. We thought we had more time than we did. We walked the row of shops in downtown Los Gatos, past the café where we shared apricot French toast and I recited melancholic prose from my first book. She wanted to visit a nearby gelato shop a block away so we made that our last meal together. Perhaps that’s the one thing I’d do differently. If I had known it was going to be our last time eating together, it wouldn’t have been gelato. I would have cancelled my flight, taken her to a restaurant in Saratoga, Manresa, that I’d been saving for a special occasion. Had I known.
Approaching the airport, she said, “I always get sad when you leave.”
I squeezed her hand.
“When am I going to see you again?”
“Soon,” I told her. Valentine’s Day was coming up. It brought me joy thinking of spending the day with her. We held each other, saying goodbye. Thank you, San Jose International, for being generous and lax with curbside security. I kissed her, then turned and kissed her again. The face had taken on features.
Give me until May, I thought. My suspension would be over. My book would be finished. If I couldn’t get it represented, I’d look for a better job in an HR capacity, hopefully in the Bay Area. We’d talked about wanting to take a trip to Fiji or Tahiti. Paris, as well. But the Pacific Islands were our number one choice.
“For our honeymoon,” I joked, “we’ll spend one week in Paris and the other in Tahiti.”
“I’ve heard the food in Tahiti isn’t very good, and the locals aren’t friendly.”
“Fiji it is, then.”
“I want to take you to this restaurant in Paris. Olivia and I went there when we were in Paris. You can’t see it from the street. You have to go down a long flight of stairs to get there. Three-star Michelin-rated. Michael, it’s the best meal I’ve ever had.”
If we couldn’t dream, what would we do? Grace upon grace, the ability to imagine, to daydream, elevate our minds and spirit above the weariness of living.
On the flight home, I sat beside a Middle Eastern couple. The woman, very pretty, wore gold bracelets on both arms, reaching to her elbows. The man wore several pieces of jewelry, also. Halfway home, the flight attendant got on the intercom and asked if Mr. Hassan would ring his buzzer. The man stood, shuffled past me and walked to the back of the plane. The lady on the intercom announced congratulations to them, that they were newlyweds and the airline would like to give them a complimentary bottle of champagne. The man returned and I offered him congratulations. He thanked me. Several others wished the couple well and the attendant presented them with the champagne. “Of course, you can’t open it on the plane,” she said.
Nash picked me up at the airport. I put my suitcase in the backseat, crammed with cooking utensils and food supplies for PATH, a homeless ministry our church supports. He’d been up since 5 a.m., having cooked breakfast for the residents there. He and other members of his community group have been doing it once a month for six years. We went to a nearby British pub and ordered dinner. He told me he was thinking, after this year, of going part-time in school. He couldn’t sleep he was so stressed out, mostly at the thought of being $160k in debt and living destitute for the next twenty years. For two consecutive summers, he traveled to Kenya to serve at a PCC-sponsored orphanage. It did a number on his heart and, after the second trip, he returned with a desire to work in public service. It’s why he quit the film industry, studied for and took the LSAT, and enrolled in law school. But the thought of being sixty and still living in poverty was causing him anxiety. We stayed there until late, talking about God and faith and life. We’d both taken strange career paths, in the arts, and they didn’t work out. Now, we were at the place in our lives where we needed God to show up. If not, I would lose this woman. Nash would come to his wit’s end. We were on our faces in prayer, pleading with God to do a work. He must.
At the creperie in Los Gatos, Jessie and I talked about decisions and how we made them. “I’ve never made a pros and cons list,” I told her. It was true. I weigh decisions in my mind, the benefits of each, but have never written a list. She was surprised by that.
“I’ve become more conservative over the years,” I said. “You should have seen me at 30. But still, I know what I want; and if I pray about it and get no conviction otherwise, I do it. Trust God and don’t look back. I don’t know how else to live.”
We all have an image in our minds of how we want our lives to look. Loving God, strong family and strong career—the American ideal. Some get it and God bless them for it. That’s most of the friends I have in church. Life worked out for them, and they trusted God along the way.
But not everyone’s works that way. Mine didn’t, likely because of the decisions I made. But with an American Dream Christianity often comes a sense of self-reliance; and I’d rather be in a position of need, face down on the floor praying, pleading with God for help, than bargaining with the chips of prosperity and self-sufficiency.
“You are worth the risk.” I told her from the start.
“But what if we end up hurting each other?”
“I won’t hurt you. If it’s me that gets hurt, you’re worth it. And I’d do it again.”
And I would. Gladly.
Travis was at the bus stop the next morning, bundled with gloves, coat, cap and his enormous backpack. “It’s cold,” he said. “This morning it was in the 40s. Do you know if it’s snowing in the mountains? I hope so. We might go up this weekend.”
“Where would you go? Big Bear?”
“Yeah, Mammoth or Big Bear. Probably Big Bear. I like it. It’s not as big. My friends go there. Mammoth has more runs, but Big Bear is cheaper. $25 a lift ticket versus $90.”
“Do you ski or board?”
“Board. I surf, too, so it’s the same.”
“It’s cool you grew up here and learned to surf.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll become one of those surf legends or snowboard legends. That would be cool.”
“Where do you surf?”
“Past Malibu. I can’t remember the name of the beach. I like it because the sand is tilted and you don’t have to swim out as far. You step into the water and it comes up to your waist. I bodyboard, too. There’s a water trampoline and sometimes I swim out past the waves and sit on it. There are lifeguards out there and if I get tired I can ride back on one of their boards.
“Is it still snowing in the San Gabriel Mountains? I’d like to board down those hills. That’s wild that it snowed there. The first time it’s snowed there in forever. Do you know how long it’s been? Gosh, it must be 15, 16 years.”
&
nbsp; “I was thinking 12.”
“It’s global warming. My grandfather doesn’t believe in global warming. He says it’s just the weather change. But how can you not believe in it? The polar ice caps are melting.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I asked Marilyn, the associate at Pugliese’s office, if I could forego installing the interlock device and ride out the remainder of my suspension, biking and bussing. She said it was fine, allowable by the DMV. I found not driving calmed me; it quieted my soul. I was enjoying this season of life and wasn’t sure I was ready to get back to hectic L.A. traffic. On the bus, I stood beside a homeless lady carrying a huge bag wrapped in duct tape. I enjoyed standing next to her. It sounds prideful to say that, as I shouldn’t have noticed she was homeless, but at the same time it’s impossible not to. We’re not in the Kingdom yet and, in this life, we judge people based on appearance and clothing and social status. However, being surrounded by those different from us diminishes it to a degree. The thought of being another driver on the road, judged by my car, rushing everywhere, never slowing down—I’d eventually do it, but didn’t look forward to it as much as I thought I would.
The next morning, I saw Travis at the bus stop.
“So you play baseball, I heard?”
“Yeah, I want to play in high school and get a scholarship to USC. Do you know where Veterans Park in Santa Monica is?”
“Of course.”
“Me and my brother were throwing the ball there. I kept having to take a step back because I can throw it such a long way. A step back is like…one city block. That’s how far I can throw it. I’m hoping it’s not too late to sign up. Games start in March.”
“Are you going boarding this weekend?”
“Yeah. I’m hoping I can do both, snowboard and play baseball. Hey, do you see the trash over there? A group of crows came by this morning and were throwing the trash all around.”
“What time was that?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“What time do you get here in the morning?”
Arresting Grace Page 23