by John Lynch
I pick up my water glass and lean closer to him. “You want me to call the manager? Or do you want me to pour this glass of ice all over you before I throw you out in the street?”
His voice is quieter now. “Yeah, I guess you could do that. Then you could drive home and pretend this didn’t happen. You could go back to what you’ve been doing. Pretend it’s just a bad week, a couple bad breaks. But you’ll be back. If not here then somewhere else.”
He pauses.
“And until you let someone shine a light into your room, nothing’s gonna change. Life’s gonna get more painful, more confusing, and darker. Pour ice on me if you want. Heck, throw me out if it makes you feel better.”
The man tips up his glass and shakes a couple of ice cubes into his mouth.
“Oh, by the way, you might wanna take that name tag off your shirt if you don’t want strangers calling you by name, Steven… . Just a thought.”
I look down and see the name tag—the little sticker with my name on it that I’ve worn all day since that meeting outside the office. What an idiot! Might as well have been wearing a sign around my neck saying, “Please talk to me, I’m lonely!” I rip the sticker off my shirt.
We’re both quiet, except for his obnoxious crunching.
“Look,” I say. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m… I’m not in a very good place. And some stranger starts spouting stuff about me and I don’t know what to do. Maybe this is all a joke someone put you up to, but I need it to stop. What do you say we start over? Tell me your name and how you know me.”
He shakes his head. “Oh no you don’t. I’ll call the manager out here and see why a perfect stranger wants to know my name.”
I chuckle. “I deserved that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.
“Steven,” he says, “would it help if you knew that I’m from this neighborhood? I grew up here too. I remember when this place was Petrazello’s. Gracious Sister of Monrovia, they had great pizza! The sauce… It had this sweetness to it. Remember? Nobody was sure if it was cinnamon or what.”
“I’d forgotten that.”
“You can’t find that sauce anymore. It died with old man Petrazello.”
Then he smiles warmly, searching my eyes. “Maybe it would help if I told you that I know your dad.”
“You do? Why didn’t you say that at the start?”
“I’ve seen you before this,” he says. “You were sitting in the parking lot.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Your dad told me about the car. Steven, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there aren’t a lot of late-model SL-Class Mercedes in this neighborhood.”
“So you know my dad, huh?”
He nods. “We were pretty good friends when you were a little kid. Hung out here a lot. Then I got on the fast track, and we sort of lost touch until a few years ago. Anyway, he brags about you, you know. So I’ve kind of kept a watch for you and followed your life the last couple years. That’s how I was sure it was you today when you walked into Fenton’s. I was walking out of Radio Shack next door and thought, How cool is this? I know this kid, but he doesn’t know me. Let’s have some fun.”
“So that’s how you knew about Manhattan Beach?”
“Yep.”
“So, you’re not a mind reader, after all?”
“Not really. But I kind of was there for a while, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, you were.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t told you about me.”
“Me too.”
We’re quiet again, both staring at the television set. Finally I laugh. “So are you going to tell my dad I threatened to beat up one of his friends?”
“No, that can be our secret.”
“Explain this, then.” I look away from the TV. “You said some things a couple minutes ago that my dad wouldn’t have known. What was that about?”
He gives me a sideways look. “What stuff was that?”
“You know, the fight with my wife and… that whole bumping-into-furniture thing.”
“Oh, I just get those little sayings off the Internet. Sometimes they’re from Dr. Phil, sometimes Oprah.”
“No, you don’t.” I shake my head. “How did you know those things about me? I hide that stuff pretty well.”
“Maybe not as well as you think.” He lets that last statement hang in the air for a while. I’m not sure what to say. This guy may be my dad’s friend, but he’s still pretty annoying.
He spins around on his stool and jumps up, like a little kid.
“Come outside for a second? I wanna show you something.”
He takes a few steps toward the door and turns to me. “Come on, it’s not like you’ll miss your drink.”
So I follow his flip-flopping feet out to the parking lot. There, sitting directly next to my car, is a shiny cherry-red vintage convertible.
He leans against the trunk. “Nice, huh? Buick Electra—1970. Only about six thousand ever made it to the street. Less than two hundred still running. Four-fifty-five with eight cylinders and 370 horses pulling this sled. I redid the whole thing myself from the ground up.” He looks lovingly at the car. “Even the upholstery. The door panels and the whole steering assembly came from an Electra owned by Cary Grant.”
When he sees my blank stare, he says, “He was an actor… in the forties and fifties, um, before Brad Pitt was born. Anyway, you gotta jiggle the passenger door handle from the inside to get in, and she drinks a lot of oil. But if you want to get your hair scared, there ain’t nothing like this ride! You can sit in it if you’d like.”
It truly is an impressive vehicle, especially the storage compartment which makes up half its size. You could drive a present-day hybrid into that trunk and still have room for groceries. This car looks like a shiny safety-deposit box on whitewall tires. No big fins, no gimmicks—Detroit’s last attempt to build a car that could comfortably fill an entire lane.
I shake my head. “Thanks. I can see it just fine from here.”
He hops in the car, starts the engine, and puts it in gear. “Suit yourself. Maybe we’ll see each other again. Nice to meet you, though.”
“Hold on a minute,” I yell.
He puts the car back in park and lets the engine idle. “Look, Steven, you’ll never discover most of what you went searching for tonight as long as you’re setting the terms. That’s how this stuff works. Maybe you came here for a reason. Or maybe you were brought here.” He peers into my eyes. “What if God brought you here to meet an old guy with a Buick Electra who may be just a little further down the road than you? I don’t believe much in coincidence. Maybe this is nothing more than a funny practical joke God let us stumble into. Or maybe both of us have been led here.”
He reaches into his wallet and fumbles around.
“My name’s Andy. Here’s my card.”
I take it from him. There’s nothing on it but a name—Andy Monroe—and e-mail address.
“You decide you want to ride around in this cream puff, e-mail me. Okay?”
He puts the car into reverse. Then he smiles at me and slips on a pair of sunglasses as if it were noon.
His giant Buick Electra with white upholstery and whitewall tires slowly rumbles its way out of the parking lot. By the time I look up from putting his card in my wallet, he’s vanished down Colorado Boulevard into the chilly early spring night air.
“You Really Don’t Get It, Do You?”
(Late Evening, Wednesday, March 11)
By the time I work my way down the Coast Highway and into our gated Manhattan Beach neighborhood, it’s after eleven. Our gaslight-lined street looks even more quiet, safe, and elegant after driving through the area of sketchy, weed-choked rental houses that dominate life around Fenton’s.
I pull into our circular driveway and turn off the car, admiring our home. The landscapers did a good job this week upgrading our ground lighting. This is the first time I’ve seen it at night. It really takes the shad
ows out of the front terrace and ties it in well with the surrounding trees and shrubs.
Lights are all still on inside. That’s not good. It means Lindsey’s up, probably rehearsing tonight’s version of her disappointment.
I don’t need this. Not tonight.
I sit there a while longer; tapping my fingers on the dash, hoping the lights will turn off.
We weren’t always like this. It wasn’t this hard. I actually used to look forward to coming home. We’d call each other during the day. And when I walked in, I don’t know, it was fun. I’d open some wine and we’d talk.
More tapping.
And what does she have to be disappointed about? What am I not doing? I could be doing a lot of other things than working this hard. If anyone should be complaining, it’s me.
Ten minutes later I finally walk into the house. Lindsey’s standing at the kitchen sink and doesn’t turn around at my “Hey there!” My wife is a strikingly attractive woman. She has dark brown eyes and hair exactly the same color. She’s in great shape and dresses like she knows it. I married her, in part, because of her self-confidence. When we get crossways, it’s what I can’t stand about her.
“I’ve called three times today at your office and twice on your cell phone.” She blurts it out with her back to me, like she’s hoping the suddenness will cause me to confess something.
“Steven, you were going to pick her up from school today. You and her. You were going to have some time with your daughter. Remember?”
“Crap!” I start for the stairs. “I totally spaced it.”
She lets me get halfway up before she says, “She’s asleep. Come back down the stairs. You’ll wake her up.”
She turns fully toward me and lets me see her disdain.
“Steven, she stood at the loading zone for over an hour after school. Parents picking up kids circled around, concerned about her. ‘Are you okay? Do you need a ride?’ ‘No,’ she had to say over and over. ‘My dad will be here soon.’ ”
“Enough. I get it.” If I don’t stop her, she’ll just keep at me.
“She’s eleven once,” she continues. “This is it; this is that time. When you promise something, you can’t just—”
“Don’t start this,” I say. “I made a mistake. I forgot. I screwed up, okay? I’ll talk to her later.”
“Oh, ‘later.’ ” She nods sarcastically. “Which ‘later’ would that be, Steven?”
“Don’t patronize me, Lindsey. You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. I really don’t,” she says as she paces into the living room, straightening magazines that are already straight. “Is this the ‘later’ like those other commitments you make and don’t keep? Or is this a different one? I’m curious.”
“Knock it off,” I say, raising my voice. “I don’t need this right now.”
“Shhh! You’re going to wake her up. She doesn’t need to hear this.”
“Oh, that’s great,” I say even louder, throwing my briefcase down. “Yeah, that’s good. Take a few jabs and then tell me to be quiet. Great!”
She turns away and almost under her breath says, “I can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” She swipes her arm across the entire room. “All of it.” She holds her gesture, then slumps her shoulders and sighs. “I can’t keep covering for you, Steven. Jennifer loves you. You’re her dad. But she’s starting to not trust you, to no longer count on you. I don’t want that. I don’t want my daughter to grow up that way. She deserves more, Steven.”
“Don’t start the drama, Lindsey.”
“You don’t get it, do you, Steven? The pattern doesn’t change. You’re upset with your life and you take it out on me, on us. I am continually walking on eggshells around you. I’ve never walked on eggshells with anyone. Didn’t even know what it meant. And now, for Jennifer’s sake, it feels like all I do when you’re around.”
She stops for a moment, as though she’s counting the cost of what’s coming next.
“You know what? I’m not unhappy—not until you come in with your resentment.”
“Here we go,” I mumble.
“You’re so dissatisfied with your own life,” she says, back to straightening things, “that you can’t bear the thought of anyone being dissatisfied with theirs. You can’t tolerate the notion that it could possibly have anything to do with you. So you tear into everyone and everything and can’t understand why everything is all torn up around you.”
“That’s not fair,” I shoot back.
“You’re right. It’s not fair. Here’s how it goes.”
She runs up to the front door, acting out what she is saying. “You walk in with something you’re unhappy about.” She runs back to the couch. “Then I try to reason with you. And you get louder and louder and meaner and meaner.” She takes a step toward the kitchen. “Then, when I can’t stand it, or you scare me enough, I leave the room.” She then walks back into the middle of the living room with her arms stretched out. “And somehow you imagine that you won.”
I try to respond, but she stops me, raising her hand.
“You know what?” She slowly shakes her head, a forced smile on her face that is more of a grimace. “I used to be able to stay in the ring with you. But something inside me has gone away. I’ve lost my confidence. I’ve lost who I used to be. I don’t even recognize me anymore. So, Steven, you win. You’ve beaten me down to where I can’t help you anymore.”
“Look,” I say, trying to calm myself down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I screwed up. Okay?” I walk into the living room. “Is that what you need to hear? I screwed up. I’ll make it up to her. I can find some time later this week. I’m sorry, all right?”
She slowly walks over to stand right in front of me. “No, see, that’s not going to work this time, Steven. I’m done. I sat here tonight, as I waited and waited… again. And somewhere around eight thirty I found myself thinking something’s wrong with you. And I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if you’re having an affair or if the man I thought I knew has turned out to be a phony. So I’m done. I mean, really done.”
“Why do you do that?” I ask. I hate it when she pulls the “affair” card. “Why do you always have to accuse me of an affair? You do this all the time. You know you can get me angry accusing me of an affair. All right, you got me. I’m angry.”
She spins completely around in exasperation. “You really don’t get it, do you? You’re so wrapped up in your own arrogant little world that you can’t see what’s going on, can you?”
“My little world?” I yell, getting louder with each word. “Oh! Excuse me, then. Would that be the arrogant little world that lets you spend half your day at a health club or gossiping with your little friends at fashionable little wine bars, on my dime? Would it be that arrogant little world?”
“See, there you go. You think it’s all about the stuff. You think everyone should walk around bowing to you for what you can do.”
She runs into the kitchen, calling out from there: “You’re so blind, Steven. Jennifer isn’t going to remember that she had all the stuff.”
She walks purposefully back out of the kitchen, dramatically waiting a moment before she says: “She’s going to remember that you weren’t here. And even when you were here, you weren’t here. That’s what she’ll remember.”
“That’s crap, Lindsey!” I yell.
“All we have ever wanted was you, your person. And with all your skills and magic, you have been totally incapable of providing that for your wife and daughter.”
“Shut up, Lindsey. Shut up!”
“You’re doing it again. You get angry, then you get loud, and then you get stupid. Angry and stupid. Angry and stu-pid.” She pops the p.
“Don’t do that!” I step toward her.
“Do what?”
“Stop it! You know what I’m talking about.”
“Do you know that what you find significant means nothing to e
ither of us? All your importance at the office, all your greatness. Nothing. Zip. Nada.”
That’s when I snap. I yell and grab a vase of flowers off the dining room table, whacking her arm with my shoulder as I reach for it. I swing the vase like a discus thrower, flowers and water flying across the room and onto her. Then the vase slips out of my hands and explodes on the staircase. For a moment, we both look at the room, covered with flowers, broken glass, and dripping water. I’m breathing hard, my fists clenched at my sides.
“Sometimes,” I growl through my teeth, “I really, really do not like you, Lindsey!”
She swallows. “You’re acting like a crazy man, Steven.” Her voice is forced calm.
I step right in front of her and yell at the top of my lungs, “Just shut up! Shut your stinking, stupid, fat mouth!”
She tries to move away from me. Almost involuntarily I block her path.
“Get away from me,” she says quietly.
“No! I hate this!” My entire body is screaming. I can’t calm down. “Do you hear me? I hate you! Do you hear me?”
Lindsey runs up the stairs. I run up after her, not knowing why. She’s standing in front of the closet when I get to the bedroom.
“Get away!” she screams. “Get away from me, Steven! I’ll call the police!”
“Stop it!” I yell. “Just talk to me. I’m not doing anything. I’m not going to do anything.”
She runs toward the bathroom.
“Don’t go in there, Lindsey!” I scream out. “I’m warning you. Don’t close—”
Before she can close the door, I run toward it and slam my full weight into it. The door flies open, knocking her down on the other side.
She shrieks, “Oh, God! You broke my nose! I think my nose is broken! Get away from this door. Get away from me!”
I let go of the door. She slams and locks it. She’s crying, moaning, and screaming all at the same time.
What am I doing?
“Okay. Lindsey, calm down. I want us to talk.”
She’s sobbing on the other side of the door. “I’m scared, Steven. I just need you to leave me alone.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
