by John Lynch
“My Respect for Burglars Is Rising by the Moment.”
(Friday Afternoon, March 20)
I need a document on my desk at home for a meeting later today and I’m running short on clothes. So I leave the office and run over to our house at lunchtime. I put my key into the lock and the door doesn’t open. I check my key and try it again. Nothing. I go around back and try the patio entrance. Same nothing.
You gotta be kidding me. She’s had the locks changed. Lindsey’s locked me out of my own house!
I stay in the backyard for fear that Melanie Patton might see me.
I call Lindsey’s cell phone. I can’t believe she’d do this. No answer. I check some doors. No luck. This is as stupid as it gets. Does she have a spare key under something? I’m so angry I can’t even remember if we kept one outside for the old locks. Does a neighbor have a key? I call her cell phone again. I leave a message for her to call me. Then I try the garage side door. Locked.
Finally I discover an unlocked window. Jennifer’s bathroom. It’s tiny and about seven feet up. After several efforts of gouging it with a garden trowel, I eventually pry the screen off. I grab a lawn chair, prop it against the patio wall, and start to work my way up and over. But there’s nothing below in the bathroom to break my fall. And the window’s so small there’s no room to cram my feet in first, so I try to wedge my legs around the outside brickwork and work myself down the bathroom wall—my left hand almost supported by the toilet-roll dispenser with the slick metal lid. I’ve now got grease on the front of my shirt from the window frame. Great. The final drop is about four feet.
I cannot believe I am doing this, breaking into my own home, dangling over some really hard tile… . My respect for burglars is rising by the moment.
Blood rushing to my head, I finally drop to the floor, landing really hard on my shoulder. I get up, inspect myself for damage, and begin my search for clothes and work papers. Then my phone rings. It’s her.
“Steven?”
“Yes. Lindsey, do you know where I am?”
“No.”
“I’m in our house.”
“You’re in the house?”
“That’s right.”
“What are you doing in there? How did… I had the locks changed.”
“I noticed. Lindsey, what in the hell are you doing, locking me out of my home?”
“Don’t even start. What are you doing? How did you get in the house?”
“Jennifer’s bathroom window was unlocked. This is crazy, Lindsey. This is my house. I cannot believe you did this.”
“You need to get out of the house right now, Steven.”
“How could you possibly think it was a good idea to change the locks? Huh?”
“Steven, you scared me. You scared us. Gloria told me I should change the locks until we figure things out. I don’t know what to do right now.”
I scream into the phone. “Gloria Creighton told you! Great. The voice of reason. She’s an idiot! I can’t believe this!”
“Please, get out of the house, Steven.”
“Lindsey, did you ever think I might need some clothes at some point? I’m picking up clothes and some papers.”
“I don’t know who to call. I want you out of there.”
“Stop saying that!” I yell.
“Stop yelling at me, Steven.”
“You locked me out of my own house!”
Then I hear a click. She has hung up on me.
I walk into the living room and sit down in the same chair I sat in the night they both walked out the front door.
What is happening? This is so stupidly out of control.
I don’t know what else to do. I remember I have Andy’s number. I call him.
“Hello? Hello? Geez, I hate that jingle.”
“Andy, it’s Steven.”
“The danged thing rang this time. I completely miss a bunch of calls earlier and this one gets through. I’m at the same place the whole time. Go figure.”
I’m rethinking my choice to call him.
“I don’t even know why I called, Andy.”
“Well, I’m not sure how I answered. So we’re even. What’s up, Steven?”
“I’m so mad I can barely sit still,” I say. I’m up and pacing now as I talk.
“And so you called me? And to think I picked this one up and missed four others.”
“I’m serious, Andy.”
“So am I. I gotta get another provider. That’s what they call ’em, right? Providers?”
“Yes, Andy. Providers.”
“So, what’s up, young man?”
“My wife locked me out of my house.”
“Hmmm. That sounds serious.”
“Look, I’ve taken the high road for the last, what, nine days? And look what it’s gotten me. I should’ve never left this house. This is my house. Right? This is crap. She’s got a whole pack of people taking up for her. It’s crap! I’m not going to let this happen. If she wants someone gone, it’s gonna be her. I’ll freeze her credit cards; I’ll freeze the checking. I’m not gonna keep doing this.”
The line’s silent.
“Andy?”
“That’s another thing. The line can just go dead on me. For no reason. Thought it just happened again. Obviously not. ’Cause I can hear you talking now clear as a bell.”
“Did you hear me, Andy?”
“Yes, I heard you, Steven. So you’re gonna freeze her credit cards, huh?”
“I just don’t want to make Jennifer pay for this.”
“This reminds me of a Henny Youngman joke,” Andy says. “You ever hear of Henny Youngman, Steven?”
“I guess.”
Andy continues, “So a guy walks into the bar and says, ‘My wife’s credit card just got stolen.’ So, I ask him if he’s going to shut down the account. He answers, ‘I don’t think so. He’s spending less than she did.’ Woo, that’s funny!”
I do not get this guy at all.
“Anyhoo,” he finishes, like a bad comedian. “So, what then, after you freeze the cards?”
“I don’t know. I’m just sick of this.”
“Steven, listen to me. I want you to gather up enough clothes and stuff to last for a while, and then I want you to walk out the door and lock it behind you.”
“What? I’m really serious, Andy.”
“So am I, Steven. You scared your wife. I have no idea what you did, but you really scared her. And she has no ability to stop you. Only this temporary fix. You have no idea how serious this is. Unless I’m wrong, you don’t want to lose her. And you are this close to losing her—this close. And you don’t want that, Steven. Listen, you don’t know me well yet, but this one is about you, my friend. Now you can hang up on me and freeze all the accounts you want, but tonight the furniture will move again, and you won’t be able to turn that light on again for a long time.”
“She says she’s considering getting a separation,” I add.
“I believe that.”
“So, how is this about me?”
“Because, Steven, you’ve been arrogant enough to think you know what the issues are and how to solve them. You’ve been blaming everyone around you. And they can’t take it anymore. They’re so devastated by you that they’re locking you out… . Other than that, everything’s just fine.”
“Yeah, but I—”
“Walk out the door, Steven. I’m hanging up now. You can call me, if you want, once you get back to the office or your hotel. Good-bye, Steven.”
“Good-bye, Andy.”
I sit back down in the chair, exhausted. I can feel the pain of my fall through the window all over. My head is throbbing. I want to say, I’m not gonna listen to his psychobabble. Why would I listen to that? He agrees with her. He’s on her side. But as I sit there, I see Andy’s goofy face staring at me, saying, “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.”
And I find mys
elf going upstairs, packing clothes into a suitcase, and walking back downstairs and out the door, locking it behind me.
“Angry People Eat, Don’t They?”
(Late Morning, Thursday, March 26)
It’s now been fifteen days since I entered my home without the use of a bathroom window.
Following Andy’s counsel, I have stayed away. Anything I needed beyond what I grabbed earlier, I’ve purchased. Lindsey has appreciated my efforts and said yesterday that she’d like to meet somewhere soon and talk. She sounded less intense. I’ve picked Jennifer up from school several times to have that time together I missed two weeks ago. Things seem to be getting better.
Back at the Marriott, I’ve trained housekeeping, through a series of daily notepad instructions and exorbitant tipping, to take care of my dry cleaning and leave a bowl of oranges on the counter each evening. I love oranges and probably worry I could get scurvy or something, living in a hotel. I’m also putting in a pretty consistent hour of weights almost every night in the exercise room downstairs, which is more than I was getting at home.
I gotta say, there’s something I’ll miss when I move out of hotel life. You make a mess and someone cleans it up. And they smile at you for the privilege of doing so. Nobody’s on you about making the bed, and you can watch whatever you want on TV. And people are nice to you. Everywhere you go: “Hello, sir.” “Nice day, isn’t it, sir?” “You think the Lakers will beat the Spurs tonight, sir?” Nobody calls me “sir” at home.
Today I’m supposed to meet Andy again. I almost called it off. I’m feeling manipulated by him. His revving engine drowned out any chance for response the other night. I don’t mind driving around in the evenings, but this is a workday. Monday through Friday is a nonstop blur of fifteen-minute meetings and cell messages. To top it off, I left the office yesterday feeling as if a coup is brewing between a couple of board members and our head of human resources, all aimed in my direction. I don’t get Whitney. She’s the head of HR, but she’s far more effective as director of rallying the board against Steven. I need to get there before they convene any more private teleconferences.
Andy is already there when I pull up to Fenton’s, sitting comfortably with his arm across the front seat of his car. He looks as if he slept in his clothes. I feel incredibly conspicuous in my suit. But I needed to wear it today for an earlier meeting. He’s wearing those same dated sunglasses. I’m wearing my Oakleys, but he hands me a pair of thick, heavy, old-school shades. “About your sunglasses,” he says. “Uh, how do I say this delicately? These might look better, don’t you think?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Look,” I shoot back. “These are top-of-the-line. Light as a feather. The best out there. Yours look like you found them under a pile of old clothes at a thrift store.”
“Are you kidding?” He scrunches up his face in disbelief. “Who would throw away a pair of these babies? You’ll never find a pair of Wayfarers at a thrift store, buddy. These are Ray-Bans, my friend. The genuine article. Bob Dylan’s wearing these on the cover of Highway 61.”
He hands them to me again and says, “Humor me.”
I begrudgingly put on his twenty-pound sunglasses, and we’re off.
This whole thing doesn’t feel right. In daylight, this whole whatever it is feels really odd. I don’t know if I’m frustrated with Andy’s sunglasses issues or with having to cancel three meetings while he takes for granted that I will. I did appreciate our talk on the hill last week. It was good to get that all out. And as much as I wanted to choke him during that phone call from my house, what he told me was probably right. It sure seems to have worked with Lindsey. But it’s time to end these therapy rides. I need to tell Andy enough to let him know he’s in over his head. He already knows way more than I’m ready to let anyone into. I know how these things go. You let one person in on an issue, and the next moment you’re sitting in a circle with a bunch of slugs still living at home, one of them saying, “What Steven needs is a giant hug!”
So I’ll frighten the old guy a bit. Give him a few choice excerpts from the last fight with Lindsey. Then I can thank him for his concern and get back to my world.
“Andy, I’ve got real anger issues,” I blurt out over the noise in the car.
He looks over at me and smiles. “Really? Now, see, I never would have guessed that. Anger, huh? Shoplifting, maybe, but anger you say. Boy, you think you know a guy.”
I yell louder. “You’re not taking me seriously!”
He glances over again. “You are aware you’re yelling really loud, right?”
I kind of want to punch him at this point. “Are you hearing what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I get it,” he says. “You could go postal on me at any minute.” Andy rests his hand on the steering wheel. “So what sounds good for lunch?”
“I mean it, Andy. Something is wrong. I explode at my wife, my associates, sometimes even my daughter, Jennifer. It’s a real thing. I’ve done it for a long time.”
“I believe you,” he says. “Do you want to rage right now? I could pull over.”
I look back at him blankly.
“Otherwise, I need lunch. What do you say we head out to one of my favorite places? They serve a shrimp cocktail that’ll cure rickets. This is not conventional shrimp cocktail. This puppy’s got huge purple onions, cucumbers, and big fresh shrimp. They serve it on a plate. On a plate, for crying out loud!”
“What is with you, Andy?”
“What’s with me?” he asks. “I’m not the loud, angry guy.”
He looks over long enough to see that I’m not smiling. Then slowly and clearly he says, “Steven, I understand that you have an anger issue. I get it. I understand it’s a big deal. It hurts people you care about. I believe you. I also believe you don’t have much confidence that I, or anyone else, can help you. And so you’re playing it like a trump card so I won’t get too close. You threw that out in hopes of ending our times together.”
He continues looking ahead as he speaks. “Look, Steven, I have no desire to be your fixer. I want to be your friend. And friends learn to trust each other with their stuff so they can stand together. That and they borrow tools. So the more you can let me know the real Steven and the more I can let you know the real Andy, the sooner we can begin to sort things out. That’s it. That’s my angle. Period. I’m not scared off by your arrogance, your anger, or your rudeness. Now, you start ripping up my upholstery with a box cutter and that might freak me out a bit.
“If you want, we can turn this car around and be done with the whole thing. Or a guy with a real anger issue, sitting next to an equally flawed man, can go have some lunch. Angry people eat, don’t they?”
I stare at the floorboard and sigh. “Yeah, angry people eat.”
“Good,” he says with a nod, and the Electra seems to pick up speed a little. “I’m telling you, it doesn’t come in one of those little parfait cups. But on a plate.”
Once I resolve that I’m trapped, I actually find myself relaxing a little. I put my phone on vibrate and allow myself to calm down… as much as I can without a shoulder harness. I fold my arms and lean back against the Cary Grant upholstery. Behind the oversized sunglasses, I close my eyes and try to let the sound of the wind block out everything.
I must have nodded off for a few minutes because when I open my eyes Andy is parking the Electra across from what looks like some kind of impromptu street market.
Where are we?
Makeshift booths and little trailers with rolled-out cloth awnings line the street. The people inside are selling flowers, fruit, vegetables. It’s like a throwback to an earlier era. Locals are out walking dogs, riding bicycles, and buying zucchini. It’s like this market is giving the neighborhood an occasion to get out and introduce itself. It must be a regular thing because the people in the booths call out to customers as if they’re old friends.
Andy’s not saying a word. He’s allowing me to figure out the scene for
myself.
The folks look like working people, chatting, laughing, yelling loudly. A smiling guy in a flannel shirt heaves a crate of nectarines up onto a counter. Behind the counter, a woman with her hair covered in a bandanna and wearing dirty bib overalls and a very stained apron is chiding him about the quality of the fruit he brought her last week.
In the center of all the activity, a delivery truck is unloading fish into the side door of a restaurant. They’re taking the occasion to make their fresh catches available to the locals. Two men are hauling huge, bloody cuts onto several nearby tables covered with newspaper. Two teenage girls are shouting, laughing, and throwing around what appears to be yellowtail tuna like bags of sand. The guy’s daughters, I imagine. I think about Jenny. I can’t picture the two of us slinging fish together. She’d never relax around me enough to keep from dropping them.
The smell of fish is heavy but not bad. It’s kind of nice. Something real. I’m struck that not much of my life is like this. When was the last time I walked through a street market? When was the last time I walked around without my laptop on a Thursday afternoon?
Suddenly someone begins to yell in our direction from across the street. An immense, bearded, dark-skinned man is approaching us, and he’s not smiling. “Andy Monroe! What the deal is? You bring the suit down here to audit us?” He’s signing for the fish delivered into his restaurant.
“No!” Andy yells back. “You have to actually make money for someone to audit you. The suit’s here to foreclose on you.”
The immense bearded man leans back and laughs hard. “Git on in here now. Tell the suit lunch is on me.”
Immediately we’re ushered through the front doors of a seafood restaurant called Pacific Bayou, which Andy tells me everyone calls Bo’s. The large man is Bo. He is as loud as he is intimidating. We’re whisked through the dining room and out onto a patio, where several tables and some standing heaters sit on a deck.
Bo, with a firm grip on my arm, guides me to a nearby table. “Your friend, he sits right here at this table every Thursday, summer, winter, rain or shine. What the deal is with that? Don’t ask me, cher. Git you a seat. You need a menu?”
