Bo's Café

by John Lynch

  Andy slaps his knee. “Whoo-eee! Yep, you got her there, Steven.” He picks up his glass, swirling his ice. “Yep, first you start talking about grace. Next thing you know you’re skipping Sunday school and sleeping in till noon. Then, a couple days later you’re down at the dog track, drinking whiskey out of a paper bag and dating a showgirl named Tiffany!”

  “Why do you enjoy making everything I say sound stupid?” I ask.

  “I don’t,” he says. “I only enjoy making the stupid things you say sound stupid.”

  Cynthia takes over. “Steven, my friend, would you be offended if I told you that you sound to me like the one with the religious platitudes?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” she continues, “you sound like the one who’s using religious concepts, and promoting them to others when they haven’t even worked for yourself.”

  “Meaning?” I repeat.

  “Meaning, grace is a gift only the nonreligious can accept. They’re the only ones who can get it. They’re the only ones who can use it. Religious folks see grace as soft. So they keep trying to manage their junk with their own willpower and tenacity. Nothing defines religion quite as well as a bunch of people trying to do impossible tasks with limited power while bluffing to themselves that it’s working.”

  She leans even closer. “I just took in a lot of churches and religious institutions with that last statement.”

  “Did you hear that?” Andy laughs. “So, who’s the religious one now, my friend?”

  Cynthia smiles. “It takes a whole lot more than willpower to get anything done in the human heart. You gotta allow yourself to receive something you can’t find on your own.”

  Andy folds his arms and raises his eyebrows at me.

  “You’ll hear this next statement a lot around here, Steven,” Cynthia says. “ ‘What if there was a place safe enough to tell the worst about you and still be loved just as much, if not more, for sharing it?’ Do you know what happens?”

  “Carlos says your stuff starts to get fixed.”

  “Resolved,” Cynthia corrects. “And do you know what that safety is called? It’s called an environment of grace. An environment where you can even say stuff as ridiculously naive and tired as the propaganda you’ve been holding on to.”

  I sit and stare at her a moment. Andy smiles and breaks the silence. “She’s good, huh?”

  “I’m not sure at this particular moment,” I say, even though I have little doubt.

  “So, to answer your question from before,” she says, “someone has to break that pattern if anything’s going to change. That’s why Andy won’t bite at trying to fix what you’re throwing at him. Now, lots of people don’t like this answer, and they go back to trying to fix their lives with mediocre ability. You can fool yourself quite a while, playing that game. But if you’re tired of the cycle and actually consider some of this, you might just get healthy.”

  “Okay, enough, both of you,” I call out. “My head hurts.”

  “Good,” Andy replies. “Our work here is done.”

  “One more question,” I say. “Then I do have to go. We all know I have an issue with anger. I also know you don’t think it’s my most critical one. Andy, you said that Cynthia helped you work through some stuff that you’d ignored for a long time. What stuff was that?”

  He taps his watch. “Gee, you’re gonna miss that meeting.”

  “I’ll be fine. Are you gonna answer my question?”

  Cynthia interrupts. “May I answer it?”

  “Sure,” I say, taking a drink of my tea. “Right now I’m just looking for some dirt on Andy to get the attention off of me.”

  Cynthia doesn’t laugh at my joke. “You may not like what you’re going to hear. I don’t like telling it.”

  She motions to the busboy. “Dear, would you be so kind as to refresh this young man’s drink? Thank you.”

  She looks at Andy and then out to the ocean. She is much less animated, much less immediate.

  “At the time of Laura’s death, Andy was running an incredibly successful Forbes-rated company in Newport Beach. He was the golden boy of the South Coast financial world.”

  “I oversaw an incredibly talented team of commodity portfolio analysts,” Andy says.

  “Yeah. I actually figured that out a while ago.”

  “That so?” Andy throws me a sideways glance. “Over time I got Langston Group into a pretty strong position. Top two or three in the western states.”

  “Big name. I first heard about Langston in my teens.”

  “For the first five years there,” Cynthia says, taking over, “everything Andy touched was golden. But there was something sinister working in the background from back to his childhood. Laura could see it but married him anyway. That woman loved him so. But he carried this deep sense of inadequacy that was driving him to not fail at all costs.”

  “That’s called shame,” Andy says.

  “Over the years he carried it to high school sports and then to college and the girls he dated. And now here he was, finally in a place where preparation, hard work, and skill met opportunity. He worked like a dog, trading family and sanity for turning that company into something that would…”

  Andy helps her. “Prove something to someone.”

  “Oh, dear.” Cynthia is now looking directly at me. “This wasn’t a case of misplaced priorities. For Andy, every victory, each procurement was more proof, more vindication of his worth. But his drive was beginning to undermine his empire. Others could see it and tried to help. But all he could see were forces standing against the proof of his value as a leader. He hated who he was becoming, but he refused to lose. He began justifying more high-risk deals.”

  Both Cynthia and Andy are silent for a moment.

  “Then Laura got sick,” Andy says. “She needed me more than ever. I was too focused on keeping the rocket soaring. It tore me up and hurt her incredibly. I—”

  He stops. His eyes are full of tears.

  “I began justifying more and more questionable practices, more risky ventures. Word got out to deep-pocket investors that the Langston Group was no longer a safe bet. I panicked. Two months before Laura’s death, I started to turn a blind eye to some of what I had put in motion. Then Laura died and I kept working. But I couldn’t think as clearly. I lost any sort of subtlety and began exposing accounts to enormous risk.”

  “Wow,” I say. “I’d never think you could have done that.”

  “And then she was gone,” he says. “Just gone. The only person who’d ever made sense of me was gone. I was completely out of control. One day I’d be unable to get out of bed, the next I’d be making million-dollar decisions with my eyes closed. Five months after Laura’s death, it all came tumbling out. The whole thing. I was fired. I would never work in finance again.”

  “I’m sorry, Andy.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “I needed you to hear this.”

  All three of us are silent.

  Andy finally starts again. “Steven, if you’d asked me what was wrong in the months before I was exposed, I would’ve said, ‘I need to get some rest, go on a vacation. I’m tired and Laura’s illness has been a real strain on our marriage.’ I might have mentioned some behaviors—working too hard, impatience, getting easily frustrated—but they were all symptoms. I couldn’t and wouldn’t allow myself to risk seeing what had been sabotaging me all my life.”

  Cynthia’s hand is now on Andy’s arm. “That answer could come only by someone offering him a safe place, someone who could handle the worst about him. Only then did Andy stop pretending. Only then could he begin to look at the worst of who he was without being destroyed by it.”

  “I think that may be enough for today,” Andy mumbles.

  “Wait, what about—”

  Andy looks really uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Right now, if you don’t mind, I think I just need to go home.”

  Cynthia and Andy stand up to hug each other. They embrace for a long time
. No words are spoken. Andy reaches for my hand, gives me a weak smile, and walks away.

  I clumsily say good-bye to Cynthia and excuse myself.

  Driving back to work, I decide to call Andy. He picks up after a couple of rings.

  “So I feel stupid pressing you,” I say. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but sensitivity is not my strong suit.”

  “Steven.” Andy’s voice is calm, more subdued than normal. “I’ve come to believe that there are no together people. Only those who dress better than others.”

  We both offer weak laughs the way people do when they’re trying to cover an awkward moment.

  Andy continues. “It’s a myth about needing superior religious folks to impart truth to the rest of us. Such people do not exist. Only those who think they are. Each of us, Steven, walks with a profound limp. Some have just learned to hide their limps better. Don’t ever trust anyone who makes you feel intimidated by their presence because of some aura of religious superiority. People like that are almost always hiding something—incredible arrogance or a secret depravity that would shock you.”

  I say nothing, listening carefully as I drive, not wanting to stop his reflections.

  “I don’t want any pretend superiority. I can’t hide well enough to pull that off, even if you want me to. I don’t want to intimidate you. I want to be someone who’s vulnerable and authentic. That’s the only ace I carry up my sleeve. I’m learning the power of love to heal me. I am trusting Him with me. No other cards, no other sleeves. No other nothing.”

  For a moment it’s quiet on the other end of the line. Then he says, “Thank you for giving me the privilege of today, my friend. Don’t go away, okay?”

  Suddenly I feel embarrassed for him and want to get out of this phone call.

  “Hey, I’ve got another call coming in,” I say. “It’s the office. I’d better take it. I’ll see you later, Andy.” I quickly hang up.

  There was no other call. I’m a liar. A liar who will avoid vulnerability at any cost.

  Later that evening, I’m brushing my teeth in front of that lit pull-out circular mirror that makes your nose hairs look really big. I’m just staring… at me. But tonight it’s different. It’s like I’m trying to see who’s in there. More stuff I never do. But suddenly, right here, tonight, I can’t turn away.

  What do people see when they look at this face? Is Carlos right? A guy they have to endure but don’t want to be around?

  My harangue is interrupted by a ding from the other room signaling the arrival of a new e-mail. It’s Andy.

  Steven,

  I’m free tomorrow morning. My Fridays are usually pretty busy, but I’d like to come by your office if you wouldn’t mind. I don’t need a lot of time. You could drop in and out as necessary. I’d just like to see more of your world. Shoot me an address and tell me where I can sit, like a fly on the wall. I won’t embarrass you by smoking in the lobby or wearing my Hawaiian shirt with the hula girls on it. I still have some respectable clothes I can dig up.

  See you Wednesday.

  Andy

  No. I don’t want him at my work.

  Minutes later I’m lying in bed trying to figure out why. Maybe it’s because who I am at work and who I want Andy to see are two really different people. I turn off CNN and spend the next hour staring at the darkness, defending myself and devaluing Andy and his friends. But my pitiful charade disgusts even me. I’m like a sixth grader hiding magazines from his mom. I slowly shake my head in the dark. The next morning I e-mail Andy.

  Andy,

  I’ve got some time between 10:45 and 11:30. I’ve attached a map. Have the receptionist call me, and I’ll meet you in the lobby.

  Please don’t wear a suit. I don’t think I could handle it.

  S.

  “God, What Are You Doing to Me Here?”

  (Friday Morning, April 3)

  I’m staring at my screen, waiting for the call that Andy is in the lobby.

  What is my problem? I’ve got a top-floor office overlooking one of the most expensive and vital business districts in the country. I’m VP of one of the most innovative and successful companies in Southern California. He’s a marina operator. Chill.

  I glance at my watch for the eleventh time in as many minutes. It’s 10:42.

  God, what are You doing to me here? Why did You let this guy into my life? I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling.

  I want to shut down this whole thing with him. But I have this sense that if I don’t face this stuff, whatever it is, it’s going to ruin me. And… if I do face this stuff, it’s going to ruin me… . Maybe I should just get sick. I feel like I’m coming down with something. Yeah, maybe I need to go home, cancel this meeting.

  I’m snapped out of my daze by the receptionist’s voice. “There’s an Andy Monroe here to see you.”

  As I turn the corner into the lobby, my fears are realized. Andy’s talking to board vice chairman Phillip Castleman and human resources director Whitney Rhodes. Great.They’ve seen more of my worst than anyone but my wife.

  Phillip sees me crossing the courtyard and yells out, “Ste-ven, you didn’t tell me you were friends with Andy Monroe. I’ve know this old carpetbagger for decades. We go back to the MBA program at Pepperdine.”

  “Well, hey, how about that?” I respond with a weak smile.

  This is not unlike former girlfriends at a sleepover, comparing notes. I’ll bet Castleman has been feeding Andy all sorts of dirt about my status around here.

  “Hey, look, I hate to break this up,” I say, “but Andy came to see me, thank you.”

  As Whitney walks away, she counters, “Fine, but Andy and I are having lunch together. And no, you can’t join us.”

  Phillip says to Andy, “I’ll see you around noon, when you and Steven are done. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Andy calls back, as Phillip disappears into the crowd intersecting the lobby.

  Andy and I grab a couple of lattes from the second-floor coffee shop and sit down in front of a secluded picture window overlooking the enormous lawns and ponds sprawling in front of the complex. Andy seems quite taken with it all, rising from his chair and standing and staring. I’m talking a mile a minute about nothing. Certain I’ve just been the topic of conversation, I just can’t face what he’s going to say when I stop.

  “This is absolutely beautiful, Steven,” he finally says, interrupting my babble. “What an incredible view.”

  I jerk back to the present. “Yes, it is. I hide up here. Nobody much comes to this spot. Sometimes this is the only place in the whole complex where I can make sense of anything.”

  “You’re kidding me. Nobody? See, I’d think people would be staring out this window all day long. I would—I may, actually! I might apply for a job in the coffee shop just so I can come up on break and look out this window.”

  Then it’s quiet, as we both know something needs to be said, but neither of us appears to know how to approach it. The suspense is killing me, so I begin. “Look, I think I know what you and Phil were talking about.”

  “Steven…”

  “Please, I need to get this out. Let me give you my version.” I dive in. “First, I’m sure he mentioned there’s talk about canning me. That’s a half-truth at best. Yeah, there are some on the board who want to get rid of me, but honestly, from where I sit, it’s jealousy. I’m thirty-four. Most of them are in their late forties. You do the math.”

  “Steven, it’s not like that.”

  “Andy, it’s okay. I like Phil. He’s a good guy. He’s gone to bat for me on several occasions. But for all appearances, his hands aren’t clean. He’s got his own butt to cover. Finding a younger scapegoat is a convenient way. I’m not saying I’ve done everything perfectly. But until they give me some room to create my team, I’m set up for failure. I’m covering for half the positions in this place. I can do in half the time what most of these six-figure kiss-ups are doing in their safe jobs. For all the talk of innovation it’s no more than
a good-old boys club.

  “And I can’t believe Whitney wants to talk with you!”

  “I asked to have lunch with her.”

  I pause. “You did? Listen, I’m sorry. I just think maybe you need to hear both sides before you make assessments.”

  He’s silent, staring out the window. And I start to wonder if I may have misread the situation.

  Andy stares out the window for a long time. “Are those mallards, Steven? Am I looking at mallards? You’ve got mallards in that pond, don’t you? Never can really tell what makes one a duck, the other a mallard. I guess they’re both ducks. But those are mallards, aren’t they?”

  I can’t believe this guy. “Did you hear a thing I said?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Every word.” He nods while still gazing out the window. “It’s just that you’ve got a veritable marshland out your window here. I’ve never seen anything like it! I’m expecting hippos or gators to emerge from those reeds at any moment. I need to come fishing here. You think they’d mind? Oops, sorry. Forget I asked. You’re the ‘they,’ aren’t you?”

  “Were you listening to me, Andy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then what did I say?”

  “Well, I think you were telling me your version of reality so I could make a better assessment of what to believe.”

  “And?”

  He turns and slowly walks to a seat directly across from me. He thumps the bottom of his coffee cup with his index finger. “Well, Steven, the trouble is, now I’ve only got one version.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, nobody told me anything.”

  “What?” I shake my head in disbelief. “Phil didn’t talk to you? You and he and Whitney weren’t…”

  “Nope. Just talk. ‘Is-your-brother-still-with-Intel?’ kind of stuff. There was some lively discussion about the clam chowder here, which led to a lunch invitation.”