Bo's Café

by John Lynch

  “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.

  “All these people. How many of them will ever get to see their abilities released? They keep slamming up against the same wall because there’s no one to protect them in their weak areas. And they end up bitter and cynical.”

  I call back to the car, “We’ve got an entire department at my company. Creative Development. They all have talent to burn, but they’ve always got some fatal flaw just waiting for a run-in with a supervisor.”

  “And this isn’t even including all the lights that have been intentionally turned off. They’re convinced if others can’t see an issue, it might not exist. These are the most pitiful ones. They’re being eaten alive in secret. It’s the hiding that gives their issues power. That’s how addictions gain their strength. And slowly, it begins to define their lives.”

  “You ever struggle with this kind of stuff, Andy?”

  He slowly looks back at me. “Every one of us wrestles with something, Steven, something that threatens to take us down. God watches these scenes every night, all night. Every one. He’s the only One who can see in the dark.” He pauses a moment and I think about how long its been since I thought about God. “It breaks His heart long before the rest of us see the results.”

  I kick at the ground. “And this is supposed to encourage me?”

  He looks directly at me. “I’m sorry. I’m talking a lot, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Steven, let me ask you a question. What do all these people need?”

  I walk back from the ledge, taking off the ridiculous sunglasses. “That’s kind of like asking a person who’s lost his keys to tell you where he lost them, don’t you think?”

  He smiles and then laughs. “That’s good.”

  We’re both quiet for a bit. I’m wishing I’d worn a jacket. And I’m wishing we could find a way to wrap this up. This really isn’t heading in a helpful direction. I guess I thought he saw something that night and might have some advice. And he’s a nice guy. But maybe that’s it. As a friend of my dad’s, I suppose I owed him this. But that’s as far as this needs to go.

  Andy’s leaning against the driver’s door, like he’s settling in for another long dissertation on something or other. I’m about to tell him I need to get back, when he speaks in almost a whisper.

  “So, Steven, why weren’t you able to go home that afternoon last week?”

  Here’s my chance.

  “Great question. What do you say we head back and figure that out another time? I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I’ve just got to get going.”

  He seems embarrassed. “Oh! You want to head back. Well… sure.” He inspects his cigar. “I’m not even halfway done with this puppy. You want to head back, huh? Down the hill… . ?”

  “It’s getting a little chilly, and—”

  He immediately sits up and fumbles with his keys. “Yep. Back. That’s what we’ll do.” He starts up the car and I climb back in and buckle up.

  We sit there for a few moments with the car rumbling. He’s looking forward, his hand still on the keys. Then, as though he’s had a complete change of mind, he turns the car off, reworks his ball cap, and turns back toward me. He stares at me for an uncomfortably long time.

  Just start the car! I’m thinking.

  “You’re not used to answering questions like that one, are you?”

  I look back at him, trying to look sincere. “No, it’s not that. I’m just… I need to get back.”

  “If this was working for you, it wouldn’t seem that way. You’re just done with this conversation, aren’t you? Impatient? Don’t patronize me, Steven. That’s what’s happening, right?”

  “Yes, Andy,” I say. “That’s what’s happening.”

  He winces and then smiles. “Don’t mince words; speak your mind, Steven.” Then suddenly he slaps his hand to his forehead. “You know, I completely forgot! What would you say if I told you I had a Dodgers warm-up jacket in the trunk?”

  “I’d say you’re trying to keep us from going back.”

  He smiles as he opens the driver’s-side door and heads to the trunk. “It’s a really nice jacket. Give me a second.”

  A few moments later I’m wearing a Dodgers warm-up. Not a flimsy Windbreaker, but one of those shiny heavyweight flannel-lined ones relief pitchers wear in the bull pen. This guy is something. It’s like he just wants to be with me.

  “So?” he asks, as if he’s just served me a fancy dinner and wants some feedback.

  “It’s fine. Plenty warm. Thanks.”

  “About my question—you gonna take a hack at it?”

  “I’m sorry, Andy,” I say. “What was the question again?”

  “Why weren’t you able to go home that afternoon last week?”

  “Andy, did you even read my e-mail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you not read the part about Lindsey and me having an argument? You’re up here with me and you’re talking about people down there. I’d like to help them. But I happen to be in the middle of a marriage that’s having some problems at the moment.”

  “Tell me about it,” he says.

  “It was just stupid. I forgot to pick up our daughter. And Lindsey lit into me. It’s like she waits until she’s got the right ammo. And then she keeps poking until she gets me angry. She knows she can do it anytime she wants. It got pretty ugly. I got exasperated and I lost my temper.” That’s all he needs to know. “I just need to stop letting her get to me, you know?”

  “That’s it?” he asks.

  “Pretty much.”

  Andy shakes his head. “Because I gotta tell you, it doesn’t sound like that’s it. Married people get into arguments. And most married people get exasperated. Comes with the vows. But none of that sounds like bumping-into-furniture-in-the-dark kind of stuff.”

  “Look, I know what you’re gonna say. I know what I need to do. It’s just a matter of doing it. Yeah, I’m not tracking with the God thing. And if I was, I’d be able to face things better. I should make time. But I get busy. I need to just get away and get things back in order.”

  Andy’s quiet.

  “They’ve got a married couples class at our church. That would make her happy, and we probably wouldn’t be at each other’s throats. You know, just being around other couples.”

  “A spiritual kick in the pants, huh?”

  I give a half smile. �
�Well, yeah. I mean, more than that. But…”

  “And that’ll solve it? You know, that’ll keep you from continuing to show up in Fenton’s parking lot?”

  “Andy, you want to know the truth? At least half of this stuff is about her. She says it’s about me and of course I can’t win that one. I have to give in and promise to try harder or whatever. But I can fix my stuff. It’s her I can’t figure out.”

  “And you were kind of hoping maybe I might be that magic man with the silver bullet, huh?” he says.

  “What are you saying, Andy?”

  “I’m saying that you think you understand what your problems are. You don’t need anyone’s help; you just need better coffee. Listen, there’s a great place in Hermosa Beach. High-octane. We’ll get you some caffeine, and you can be on your way.”

  He starts the car.

  “Hold on a minute. I don’t get it. Why are we leaving?”

  He speaks over the sound of the engine. “I think I’m trying too hard for something you don’t want. Maybe I’m the one getting cold now.”

  This guy is a piece of work. “Andy, I don’t get you.”

  “Look, Steven, like those people down there, you’ve been protecting yourself like this all your life.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “How could you know that?”

  “Here’s the pattern. You go along the best you can… until every now and then, when some ‘problem’ slaps you in the face. You ignore it until the slapping gets too painful. Then you go to work on the symptoms. Maybe you get your wife to admit to her issues, or you take an extra day off here and there. You patch things up, maybe learn how to argue nicer. You read a book on dealing with your anger. All symptoms. Maybe you even fix something and think life will now be all better. The slapping seems less frequent for a while.”

  I sigh. “And… ?”

  “And eventually the pain returns,” Andy continues. “Only now it starts to scare you because you realize that what you tried didn’t work. And you don’t know it yet, but this time, you can’t get back to your day-to-day. That’s when you end up at Fenton’s. That’s how you end up here.”

  I scowl at him. “Turn off the car.”

  He does.

  “What are you saying? We’re not supposed to work on our issues?”

  Andy shakes his head. “No. I’m saying you think you’re doing that. But you’re only swatting symptoms. You think because you know something is wrong, you have the ability to solve it. You’ve been doing this for as long as you can remember. And so far, every time, you’ve been wrong. And it’s not your fault, but you’re zero for the last several years, my boy. And sometimes, late at night, lying in bed, you get really scared. A can’t-go-back-to-sleep scared. Because you suspect there are deeper issues—ones you don’t have the foggiest idea about—much less how to solve.”

  Almost against my will, my face unclenches. I look Andy directly in the eyes.

  “And on this particular assessment,” he says, “you are 100 percent correct.”

  “Look,” I say, trying to get past the uncomfortable truth he’s just nailed. “I thought you wanted to help me.”

  “I can’t. At least not on your terms. So, are you gonna stop trying to buy me off and answer my question, or am I buying you a pound of coffee and sending you on your way?”

  “Stop the drama, Andy. What are you trying to get out of me?”

  “A way in.” He reaches over and taps my chest with his fingers. “Has anyone ever had access to the real you? You’ve managed to keep everyone at the surface level for a long time. If you want help, that’s got to stop. Even I’m too busy for that.”

  I shake my head and sigh again. I do not get this guy.

  Andy reaches toward the ignition switch. “Look, it’s late. I’ve confused you enough. Let’s call it a night.”

  “Wait,” I say, holding out my hand. “Lindsey and I—she asked me to leave the house. I’m staying in a hotel.”

  Andy waits for a few seconds before he suddenly yells out, “Oh, man, I knew it! I was afraid of that.”

  “What?”

  “I knew it.”

  “Don’t give me that,” I snap back. “Nobody knows.”

  “I did. I’m good; that’s all I can say.”

  “Okay. Tell me, then. How did you know?”

  “When you pulled into Fenton’s tonight. The parking-garage tag on your rearview mirror. An executive gets a nice little card or something.” He slaps his knee. “I could have been a detective, you know?”

  “My parking tag?”

  “Yeah. Well, that and the fact that you look like crap. I mean, no offense, but few wives would let their husbands leave the house looking like you do. Have you taken a look at your hair?”

  Just when I’m ready to rip into him, I look over and he’s smiling kindly at me. He says quietly, “Thanks, Steven. That took a lot of courage. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

  I settle back into my seat, my hands in the pockets of the jacket. “So now what?” I ask.

  “Down in that city, millions of people are hiding stuff, presenting only what they think they can control. They carry around guilt or anger or bottled-up hurt and don’t have any idea where to put it. It eats at them. It wakes them up at night. It sits in the passenger seat on long drives alone. It goes with them on vacation. It follows them into church and drowns out the message.”

  In the distance I hear the low roar of an airliner cruising past. The hum of traffic below sounds like the noisy generator keeping all the lights on.

  It’s like the noise in my head, I think. I can’t stop it. It’s like it’s only getting louder and tearing everything apart around me.

  The next thought brings back the chill. It’s been there so long, what if it only keeps getting worse?

  Andy interrupts. “What are you feeling, Steven?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t feel. Most the time, I just do what I’ve got to do and don’t worry about emotions. I don’t like where I’m at right now, but mainly because it seems like I should have been able to figure it out by now.” I pause, debating whether to share the next part. “But I guess it’s also that no one knows Steve Kerner, and if I died today, I’d be nauseated by what would be said at my funeral.”

  It’s quiet… and uncomfortable. I want to rustle the jacket just to make some noise.

  Andy lights another cigar. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “That, what you just said a moment ago? That was good. It was real. We can work with that.”

  He starts up the Electra and we head down the hill, back toward the lights and the stories of pain and hiding, one of which is my own. The smell of his cigar, the feel of the wind, and the engine noise is comforting. Andy slides a Van Morrison cassette into the tape player.

  We catch the 405 and merge onto Washington before taking the several-mile stretch of surface streets back to Fenton’s. It must be nine-thirty. I look at my watch for the first time: 11:55.

  He lifts his cigar in my direction. “You want one next time? They smell a lot better if you’re smoking one.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Thought I’d ask.” He pulls the car to a stop next to mine.

  I look down at my hands, unsure what to say after our strange evening together, but feeling strangely relieved somehow. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “You gotta jiggle the handle to get it open. I keep meaning to get it fixed.”

  I get out of the car and head toward mine. As Andy starts to pull away, I turn back and flag him down. I walk up to the driver’s side. “So, why are you doing this?” I ask.

  “Um—” He scratches his chin like he’s contemplating the answer to a riddle. “Because I can’t get home without leaving the parking lot?”

  “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Hey, can you get off some afternoon next week?”

  “During the day?” I ask.

  “Yeah, that’s where they’ve started putting the afternoons now.
”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Right. Fair question. Lots of answers. Can we get at it next time?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then I guess it’s fine.”

  “Would you like my phone number, Steven? Just in case you can’t make it.”

  “Okay.”

  I punch his number into my phone.

  “It’s a new phone. I’m not very good at answering it yet. I’m still trying to figure it out. Half the time it rings this obnoxious jingle; the rest of the time it doesn’t ring at all. I’ll find missed calls from the week before. But I’ve noticed it takes good pictures. Lot of money a month for a tiny camera. I actually tried to punch my number into my own phone yesterday. I wasn’t made for this decade, I tell you.”

  “Yeah.” I finish pressing buttons and pocket my phone. “I understand,” I say, not understanding at all.

  “Have a good night, Steven. How’s next Thursday, say noon?”

  I nod and he revs the engine and the giant Buick Electra rumbles out of the parking lot.

  * * *

  I check my e-mail upon my arrival back at the Marriott. Lindsey has written this:

  Steven, I’ve been praying a lot about this. I know this doesn’t sound right coming in an e-mail, but I’m considering pursuing a legal separation. One moment I’m thinking I should call this off and invite you back home. The next moment I’m replaying one of the dozens of times where you yelled me down until I had to leave the room. Time apart and some talks with friends have opened my eyes. This is not normal, Steven. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I love you, but I don’t love this life we’re in. I want Jennifer to have a future where she can just be a kid and laugh and hear laughter in her home. I don’t know what needs to happen for you. You are so angry and unhappy and I don’t know how to help you anymore. I’ve been thinking maybe going to church could have helped us; I just don’t know.