This time was different. When my mother asked if I drank too much, I answered with a simple “yes.” It was the area of my life I’d been refusing to address. I told her of the lawyer and his fees. I thought she was going to pass out. I said a quick prayer and asked what I needed to ask—for financial help, should I need it, and almost assuredly I would.
“Four thousand dollars?”
A 38-year-old man asking his parents for financial help. What had I done?
“And you think it’s absolutely necessary to hire a lawyer? For one DUI?”
“I talked to a couple of friends who went through it and they recommended it.”
“Of course we’ll help you out. I’m just having a hard time believing it’s that expensive.”
It’s been a recurring theme over the years. I’m sure anyone who’s moved to New York or L.A. or the Bay Area from a small town in the South or Midwest is familiar with the refrain from parents and friends: Houses cost how much? I can’t believe it. You pay how much for gas? How does anyone afford to live there?
We spoke often throughout the day. She and my father spent hours online, researching DUIs in the state of California, still convinced I was overreacting and didn’t need to spend so much on a lawyer. Surely, for a first time offense it couldn’t be that heavy a penalty. They called later that afternoon, both of them on the phone this time.
“Well, your dad and I are shocked,” my mother said. “We had no idea. How does anyone afford to live there?”
At the end of the conversation, she added, “I won’t tell your brother.”
“It’s okay. I’m going to tell him myself.”
I had judged Stephen mercilessly, not only for his DUI but all the other times he’d gotten in trouble. I was arrogant in my ability to drive after drinking. I considered myself good at it. It wasn’t the same as what Stephen had done. Feeling the biggest hypocrite of anyone I’d ever known, I called my brother.
“Hey, what’s up?” he answered.
“I need to tell you something…”
My brother, showing more grace than I could have expected, accepted my apology without a trace of resentment.
“Thank you,” I said.
Everything was changed now. What was I going to do? Find a better job? Of course, how could I? I was going to have a DUI on my record. All I had to show for my efforts was a half-finished book. Where was I going to get the money? I could sell my guitars. I’d have to fix the broken input on my Les Paul and put a new pick guard on the Telecaster. Replace the tubes in my amp if I decided to sell that, too. I lay on my bed, trying to calm a spirit filled with regret, not the least over which potentially ruining things with Jessie.
I was supposed to drive up to see her the next day. How could I? I couldn’t make it more than five seconds without remembering the horrible details: mug shot, handcuffs, orange juice container in the toilet. Even if I went, what was I going to say? No way could I fake being happy or chipper for the weekend. Unfortunately, with me, what you see is what you get. The transparency had made me a good actor but it often bit me in the rear during times like these, when I needed to be charming and enthusiastic. A night in jail, faced with a year of dealing with this, financial ruin…should I cancel the trip and forget I’d ever met her?
I got on my knees beside the bed and turned to Psalm 51. “God have mercy on me, according to your unfailing love.” I spent the rest of the day praying those lines. It was all I knew to pray. Fifteen years of sacrificing career and money for crazy pipe dreams. Music, acting, writing books? What was I thinking? I’d wrecked myself and, quite possibly, would be fired from my job tomorrow. What a fool I was for ruining a chance at a career by chasing stupid dreams. My future may be ruined now. I can’t afford this. Not to mention Jessie.
It was over before it began.
Chapter Two
I hadn’t been that excited over anyone in a long time. Couldn’t remember the last time. A month earlier, my friend Sonia called and asked if I’d be willing to meet a friend of hers who was coming to town at the end of June. I said yes, but didn’t take it too seriously. It was still a month away. No one in L.A. plans that far in advance. We mark our calendars in pencil.
I forgot about it over the next three weeks. There was too much going on—the Serve the City project I was leading, a church dinner I was co-hosting, the book I was trying to finish. That week, I dropped Sonia a line to see if we were still on for the weekend. She was busy Friday night; I was busy Saturday. We’d have to make it for Sunday night. She and her friend Jessie would be attending the downtown worship service that evening if I wanted to meet them there, to which I agreed.
I knew Sunday was going to be a long day. I was serving communion at the early service, taking care of the one-year-olds in the nursery during the 11:00 service, and meeting friends for lunch. The day, however, turned out longer than I expected. I was late getting out of the nursery; we were short on volunteers and it took longer to clean up. After lunch, I went to my friend Jason’s and spent time with him, his wife Sherrill and the kids. The weekends are the only chance I get to see them and I make sure to carve out time to visit. By the time I finished grocery shopping and returned home, it was late afternoon. I didn’t want to go out again, especially driving downtown for a third church service. Too much church sometimes is not a healthy thing. Five o’clock rolled around and I was still undecided on whether to go. On one hand, I didn’t want to turn down a chance to meet someone. One never knows…
On the other hand, how many bad set-up dates had I been on over the years? I’d rather not count. I called Sonia and told her I wasn’t going to make it to the service, but asked if they were doing anything after that. I could hear her friend in the background; she and Sonia were laughing. They probably expected me to flake, which was frustrating because I rarely back out of commitments. I almost always see them through, but I didn’t want another instance where I’d built up hope in my mind and was let down. Sonia said they would probably go to a late dinner with her community group if I wanted to join them. That sounded fine. Traffic would be moving quickly by then and I wouldn’t overdose on church for the day.
I showered and changed, left the apartment and arrived downtown before the service ended. I parked on a nearby side street and waited for Sonia’s call, which came shortly after. They were going to an Indian restaurant near USC. I told her I would be there soon, put the address into the GPS on my phone and followed its directions to the restaurant. I saw Sonia and her friend getting out of the car and crossed the street to meet them and say hello.
“Wow, she’s cute,” I thought. Sonia introduced us and we walked across the intersection to the restaurant. I stole another glance. “She’s really cute.”
We were the first to arrive. I excused myself to the restroom before finding a seat. I didn’t need to use it, but I wanted to sit by Jessie and thought it would look more natural if I returned from the restroom and casually took a seat next to her. When I returned, the problem had been solved. There was an open seat across from her and I sat in it.
She and Sonia had gone to Stanford together. After that, she went to law school on the East Coast. We didn’t get far into the conversation before others began arriving. Soon, there were enough to fill three tables. A woman sat beside me, Deb, whom I’d not met before. She was from Seattle and had attended my former church in Green Lake. I dropped some names and we realized we knew many of the same people—surprising, given the church was small and I’d attended over ten years ago. She filled me in on the latest news. I asked about the Scotts and Linds, surrogate families to me when I was there.
Jessie was sitting next to Stewart Chen. Stewart was in his early 40s, a mathematician, and very talkative. He crowded her ear with conversation, spraying her with dozens of questions, mostly academic related. He knew a professor of hers at Cornell and was eager to talk about the research he was doing in that particular field of applied mathematics. Now, I like Stewart. He’s a great guy. But in that mom
ent, I wished a giant hand would come down, pick him up and drop him someplace else…maybe a science fair or something.
The meal came and I prayed for the four of us sitting at our end of the table. We ordered family style and split the dishes. I ordered two tall beers for us to share. During pauses in the conversation, Jessie would ask me a question (how long I’d been in L.A., what I was doing in Seattle) and I’d ask her similar ones. Stewart was quick to interject with each. By then, the others were loosened up and speaking freely. Deb wanted to talk more about the church in Green Lake. I answered her questions, though half-heartedly; I was listening to Jessie’s comments from across the table—taking what I could get, snippets of conversations between the interruptions. Frequently, we’d make eye contact and smile at each other. I think she was frustrated by the interruptions, too.
After dinner, I walked Sonia and her to the car. “Is anyone going out after this?” Jessie asked.
Sounded like a good idea to me. Sonia, however, was tired and wanted to get to bed early. So much for that. I needed Sonia to be the buffer.
“What are you both doing tomorrow?” I asked.
Sonia, God bless her, took the elephant out of the room. “I’m busy, but the two of you should go out.”
I asked Jessie for her number. She said she was having dinner with a friend but could meet me later. I told her I’d call tomorrow to make plans, then said goodbye to them both. Jessie gave me a quick hug. I went home, got ready for bed and texted to say I’d enjoyed meeting her. We exchanged a few messages. She was watching a reality show on TV about a polygamist married to several wives.
“I can feel my brain cells dying just hearing about it,” I teased.
I called the next morning. She was sitting by the pool, half-lounging, half-working. She’d stayed up late watching the show. Evidently, the man’s wives spent the duration of the episode backstabbing each other. Fascinating television, I mentioned. She and her friend Esther were going to dinner at 6:30. We agreed she would call me when she finished and I’d pick her up at Esther’s downtown condo.
In the meantime, I needed to find a place to take her. I called Rebekah, my friend Chris’s wife. She’s a lawyer and works downtown. She suggested a few places but strongly recommended the Hotel Figueroa. I researched it online; those posting reviews raved about the hotel’s patio area. I called and asked the manager if there were heat lamps on the patio. He said yes, which gave me my answer. We’d go there.
At 8:00, I was still waiting to hear from her. I wanted to be close to the freeway entrance to save time, so I drove to a neighborhood street, a block from the on-ramp, and waited in my car, praying and relaxing. A hunch came over me that I needed a jacket. I rarely wear jackets and didn’t have one in the car. It was a strong hunch and I returned home to get one. She called as I was walking out the door. They were leaving the restaurant and heading downtown. She suggested meeting at the hotel. Esther could drop her off on the way. “That’s fine,” I answered. “See you there.”
I drove the block for ten minutes looking for a parking spot but couldn’t find one. She texted while I was driving. “Running late but will be there soon. PS: I’ll be the one with the book bag.” I remembered that because I thought it was cute, as if I could forget what she looked like. I parked in the hotel lot, deciding to pay the $10 charge, and went to wait in the lobby.
She was as pretty as I remembered, wearing a sleeveless blouse, hair pulled back…and no jacket! Blessed hunches. I put the coat around her shoulders and we walked outside to the patio. This time, there were no interruptions. Stewart was out of the picture. It was just the two of us and the conversation was seamless and natural. She’d quit her job at a corporate firm in San Francisco and moved back home to San Jose to practice public interest law, representing foster children. When she spoke of her job and the kids, a look of compassion filled her eyes. It was obvious how much she cared. She’d taken a mission trip to Belize last December, teaching at a children’s school there, and again, it was the same thing—when she spoke of the kids, individually by name, her eyes gave it away...she cared.
We talked of life in L.A. and San Francisco. She teased me for calling it San Fran. “No one from the Bay Area calls it that,” she said. “It’s either S.F. or ‘the city.’” She didn’t think she could live in Los Angeles. “People in L.A. are more vain. I’ve already found myself looking in the mirror more since I’ve been here.” She was also amazed by how little people in L.A. ate. “They don’t eat their food. They peck at it. I want to start a program called ‘Feed L.A.’ We’re going to fatten some of these people up. You can be the first to volunteer. You’re too skinny.”
She didn’t own a Smartphone, which I found refreshing. Later, she received a text on her cell. “That’s Esther,” she announced. “She wants to know how it’s going. What should I say?”
“Let me answer.”
She handed me the phone and I sent a quick reply.
“What did you tell her?”
“That we were on our way to Vegas and would see her in two days.”
“You did not write that! Michael, please tell me you’re kidding!”
That was enough for me. I was sold. Big-hearted and transparent, two of the most endearing qualities to me, not to mention she was gorgeous. Going on midnight, we decided to leave. I paid the bill and walked her to the car. I handed her my phone to navigate us on the GPS. It turned out both of us were directionally challenged. We took a wrong street and ended in Little Tokyo. Inspired, I asked if she wanted to get ramen. I didn’t want the date to end and I don’t think she did, either. She agreed. We parked several blocks away, a dark street near an underpass, and arrived just as the restaurant was closing its doors. The hostess seated us at the bar in front of the chef’s counter.
I’d been having trouble with my contact lens for the past two weeks. The doctor had given me a bad prescription in one eye, making it impossible for me to see objects close-up. I had an appointment scheduled for that week but, until then, was left to deal with it, which made the meal difficult. We were sitting side by side, our faces only inches apart, and I couldn’t make eye contact. She was still wearing my green coat and we sat with our shoulders touching, sharing a giant bowl of ramen and order of gyoza. The conversation wasn’t overly complex, simply talking and getting to know each other. She showed me pictures of her nieces, Alice and Stephanie, on her phone. I showed her the picture of Abby on mine.
Abby is Jason’s daughter. Jason is my oldest friend. I moved to Seattle in June of ‘95 and answered an ad he had posted in the local musician’s newspaper, looking for a Christian singer to play in a rock band. I had never sung in a band before, but lied and said I had. We began writing songs together and soon formed our band, Isabel Rings. Years later, after we’d broken up, he and Sherrill moved to Los Angeles. We remained close and, when I moved to L.A., I lived with them for four months, Sherrill being pregnant at the time with their first child.
Abby is their second—the middle child, as am I. I don’t believe in playing favorites, but the girl holds a special place in my heart. I’d do anything for her. Two years ago on Easter Sunday, Jason was making coffee in a French press. He let Abby help press down the plunger and the pot exploded on her. She spent three weeks in the burn unit of a celebrated hospital in Torrance, after which time, she underwent skin-grafting surgery. The blessing: The coffee grounds missed her face and private parts. However, she suffered third degree burns over twenty percent her body. During a visit, I took a picture of her in the hospital’s playroom. Though her arms and chest were covered in bandages, she wore the most peaceful expression on her face. I sent the photo to Sherrill and it became the one used for the prayer chain that was circulated. The chain eventually grew so large I had friends from different churches in different states who had received it.
“This little girl has me wrapped around her finger,” I said.
I wasn’t sure what time it was, but when the restaurant employee began mopping th
e floor around us, I figured it was our cue to leave. We returned to the car, our shoulders touching as we walked. I asked random questions on the way: her favorite vacation spot, musical preferences, all-time favorite movie. I discovered she wasn’t a fan of romantic comedies; her favorite movies were horror movies, the favorite of those being “The Shining.” How cool was that? Jason and I still quoted lines from “The Shining” to each other. I opened the door and helped her into the car. She reached across the seat and unlocked my door. We returned to Esther’s, finding it easily this time.
Now, this was a woman I’d met only the previous night. Granted, there was instant chemistry, attraction, an ease of conversation—and it appeared reciprocated. But still, she was leaving in the morning for San Jose. Did I want to see her again? Without question. I’d decided that after the Indian restaurant. Tonight only validated my opinion. However, I had no experience with long distance relationships; I wasn’t sure of the etiquette involved. Did I ask for her views on them as I walked her to the lobby door? Did I give her a big hug and tell her that even though we’d just met I felt an instant connection with her? Did I try to kiss her?
No. Instead, I gave her an awkward pat on the back and said goodnight. She handed me my jacket.
For a man who likes to think of himself as cool and somewhat engaging, I continually realize what a nerd I am. A pat on the back. “You blew that one,” I told myself, turning onto the freeway and driving home.
I’d botched the goodnight, surely, but I wasn’t too worried about it. There seemed to be a shared interest and attraction. I didn’t think a pat on the back was going to change that. The more important question was if she was interested in a long distance relationship—moreover, if she was willing to do one with me. I knew we shared a connection. It was there from the beginning. The only problem was about 400 miles.
I called on Thursday. The delicate balance of the dating scene—a man doesn’t want to appear too anxious but also wants to take the tide at its peak. We exchanged nervous greetings (more nervous on my end) and small talk, but I quickly got to the point of the call. I’d been thinking of what to say for two days. The words were simple. It was only a matter of saying them.
Arresting Grace Page 2
