“It’s not fair,” said Courtney. “They’re such bullies.”
Courtney refused the breathalyzer, an automatic year’s suspension of her license. She’d begun to realize the weight of her situation. “They shouldn’t have that much power. I’m going to have to drive with a suspended license, anyway. I don’t have a choice with my job. It’s either that or I’ll go on unemployment and drink all day.”
Angelica stepped out of the room and returned shortly carrying three pizza boxes. Her last class and she’d decided to feed us dinner. We stood and helped ourselves to pizza and leftover Coke from the potluck. Courtney continued her story while we ate. The cop (“that little punk”) maced her. She’d argued with him, and had also been smoking medical marijuana at the time. “I get migraines,” she said.
“They put me in jail. I never got a phone call. Never got medical attention. Is there any way I can get the number of the woman with the broken shoulder? I want to start a campaign against the L.A. County Police. They have too much power.”
At seven, Gladys and Angelica stood to leave. Walter asked Gladys what she had learned from the class.
“Everybody wants to get drunk,” she said. “You have a hard day, you need something to take the stress off. When I get drunk now, I get a designated driver. I told my kid, ‘If you get drunk, call me for a ride.’”
“Did you like the AA programs?” Walter asked.
“They’ve been okay. I liked the stories. A few of the people scared me, though. But I got to know some of the others and still bring them cookies every now and then.”
Walter stepped out from behind his desk. “I will now give the podium to Angelica.”
Angelica, wearing black driving gloves, a scarf and tall-heeled boots, stood at Walter’s desk and began talking in a tough, Brazilian accent. “Alright, sit down. There will be no food or drink in this class. You will sit there and stay quiet for three hours. You think you don’t want to be here? Well, how do you think I feel? I have to stay here with you criminals all night. That’s what you are is a bunch of criminals...”
She stopped and smiled, then looked at Walter.
“That’s what this class could have been, but you made it fun. You treated us like people, not criminals. Thank you, Walter. If I ever see you on the street, you can come right up to me and say, ‘It’s Walter, your DUI instructor,’ and I will be happy to talk to you. You made this class enjoyable. I’ve told everyone before, but when my DUI happened, I became so depressed I didn’t think there was any way I could deal with it. But you helped me get through it.”
“It’s like I always say,” said Walter, “does this make you bad people? No. You’re going to make it through this. It’s not the end of the world. You’re good people. It doesn’t excuse what you did, but you can’t let it define you.”
Angelica hugged us before she left and invited everyone to visit her at the restaurant anytime. She and Gladys joked they were going to have a drink at the nearby pub. “Join us after class if you want.”
“So what’s going on in the news?” asked Walter. “Bernie Madoff’s son committed suicide. Did you guys read about that? It’s very sad.”
“Come on. You can’t tell me he wasn’t involved, too. He knew exactly what his dad was doing.”
“Of course he knew.”
“I don’t care at all,” said Benton. “I don’t feel any compassion for him. Besides, he had everything he wanted in this life.”
Walter interrupted. “It’s sad that a person reaches the point of not being able to see a way out and thinks ending his life is the only way to get rid of the pain. That’s why people get high, right? To numb the pain. It’s why I got high.”
“You didn’t tell us that, Walter. How long did you take drugs?”
“I was what you call a functional addict. I owned my own business, as you’ve heard me say. I lived in Van Nuys, hung out with actors and actresses, did the Sunset Strip scene. I was addicted to cocaine. Did half a million dollars in blow over fifteen years. I would quit cocaine and smoke weed. It was always something. I’d go several weeks but something inside me would snap and the urge would return. I’d find my dealer and before I knew it I was back on it. I liked it. Cocaine was my drug. I never liked alcohol much. I did everything else, though—except heroin. I never did heroin because I was afraid of needles. Back then you didn’t smoke it.
“People always ask, ‘What was it like growing up in the Sixties?’ I tell them, ‘If I remembered the Sixties, I’d tell you.’ People have always wanted to get high. Charles is from Kenya. In Kenya, they scrape the bark off trees. We’ll try anything to get high. Kids now are addicted to Ritalin. And nutmeg.”
“Nutmeg?” someone asked.
“It’s got the same properties as speed. It’s how kids get through school these days. That’s how I got through college. Black beauties will keep you awake for three days, for God’s sake.
“For me, I was able to get clean through 12-step programs. First, it was AA, then Cocaine Anonymous. Whether you’re into a higher power or not, there’s good that can come out of them. If you don’t believe in a higher power, there’s an atheist AA in Santa Monica. That’s all a support group is—people working through it together, being there for each other. It’s been two years since my last relapse.
“Why do we want to get high? Or drunk? Two reasons. It’s an escape and it’s pleasurable. It’s an extension of your mood that day. If you were pissed off during the day, you start drinking and before you know it you’re looking for a fight. You get that buzz; it feels great and relaxes you. What happens? You want to feel that way all night, so what do you do?”
Courtney spoke up. “Keep drinking.”
“It’s like a bell curve. When you start drinking, you’re at the bottom. Soon, the alcohol kicks in and you reach the high point in the middle; then your body starts metabolizing alcohol and you come down. I call it the Five Dwarves of Drinking, because you go through all the different emotions: happy, bashful, dopey, grumpy and sleepy.”
Chapter Seventeen
I asked Jessie on the train that day, “Who’s your favorite artist?” Honestly, I know next to nothing about art. My favorites are the impressionists, which I’m told is an instant indicator someone is an art novice. I have four pieces on my walls: an Andy Warhol Double-Elvis painting, a Warhol Beethoven, a Monet copy (of course) I bought at the Getty center and a James Dean print hanging in my bedroom. They are reflective of me and my personality.
Her favorite was Fernando Botero, a Colombian artist I’d never heard of. When she told me, I made a mental note: “Remember that. It could be useful someday.” She sent me an email link with some of her favorite Botero prints. He’s known for oversized, obese characters, children with adult features and sympathetic size, which give his work a cartoonish but thought-provoking style. I dug up the email she’d sent, found a print online, chose the matting and frame and ordered it for her Christmas gift.
Though I was eager to see it, I didn’t open it when it arrived. There was no way I’d be able to repack it tightly enough. I also didn’t expect it to be so large. I’d already rented a hotel room, but still wasn’t sure if I was going to drive or fly. I didn’t want to drive; it was forecasted to rain all weekend from Los Angeles to the Bay Area. It would also be my last time driving for a while. My court date was set for the next week—an almost guaranteed 30-day suspension. I’d chosen glass instead of an acrylic glazing and now regretted it. Was I going to trust an airline worker with glass…during the holiday season? Not a chance. I decided to drive.
Before the trip, she asked, “What would you think about meeting with Pastor Ken while you’re here to talk about our relationship and get his opinion?”
“I think it’s a great idea. Let’s see if he can meet us on Saturday.”
In the meantime, our other plans were ice skating (We’d decided to incorporate more physical exercise into our visits together and it sounded like a wintry, holiday thing to do), and a vis
it to her office and introduction to her co-workers, which I looked forward to.
I woke early and excited. As expected, it was raining heavily when I woke up (definitely the wettest season I remember in Southern California). I got ready, finished packing, went to get coffee and gas, checked my oil and got on the freeway. It was too early to text so I got a couple of hours into the drive before wishing her good morning. She was in court that morning but leaving at noon and taking the rest of the day off. Taking Friday off was the best way to go, I realized. The downside—Sunday was cut short—but made worth it by the empty streets on Friday while others were working. I’d been writing a song for her and brought my guitar, wanting to play it for her.
She had sent me a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon a while back. In it, Hobbes (the tiger) says, “I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can play together all night.”
Calvin (falling asleep) responds, “Well, I’ll see you in a few minutes, ol’ buddy.”
“I’ll be there,” Hobbes answers.
We liked the idea of being together in our dreams. “What shall we do tonight?” I’d ask. “Skiing in the Alps? Snorkeling in the Caribbean?”
“How about Paris at sunset?”
I imagined her wearing a sexy red dress and us dancing the tango in a grand ballroom. Or as spies in Europe, or solving a mystery together. Or in the Swiss Alps, relaxing in a chalet on the mountains. The song, not surprisingly, was called “In Dreams.” I’d rewritten it a dozen times already. I was never happy with it, but liked the idea I was working on at the moment. It had potential. Written in the key of C, my go-to key:
In dreams I am an agent
A war-torn Europe I call my home
Tailored suits they fill my wardrobe
A dozen languages I know
(Here, I change to a minor chord to give it a more somber tone.)
But a spy spends life in secret
No one to share his secret thoughts
And the closet is half-empty
It makes me think…
(Bringing it back to a major chord to lift the mood.)
That if they gave me a choice
Between the dream and real life
I’d choose real life
And the grace I find with you
It still needed a lot of work. The lyrics weren’t done and I wasn’t sure of the transition chords. Hopefully I’d have time to figure it out on the road.
Hearkening back to my traveling days, I stopped only for gas. The excitement was more than enough to compensate for tiredness or rain. I arrived at the hotel early, slightly north of noon. Best Western Alameda. I unloaded my car, put the Botero print against the wall by the bed, and tried to play through the song but couldn’t figure out the transition chords. Jessie called. She’d finished in court early. My heart leapt.
“I can’t wait to see you.”
“I’ve been excited all morning.”
“Hurry and get here. Drive safely, though.”
“Be there as soon as I can.”
I was too excited to stay in my room. I went to the end of the hall and stared out the window. My sister called while I was waiting. She was sorry I couldn’t make it home for Christmas and asked if there was anything I wanted as a gift.
“Anything is fine, sis. Actually, I could use a sweater.”
She said she would send a gift card—it was easier—and asked me to please not send gifts to her and Jeff and the kids. “We know it’s hard for you right now.”
I appreciated her saying it but was still going to send them something. Jessie would be there any minute; I told Cathy I’d call next week when Mom and Dad were visiting, that I loved her and to say hello to everyone. Jessie texted seconds later. She was parked downstairs. I hadn’t seen her car. How did I miss it? I sprinted down the flight of stairs. We never know how much we miss someone until we see them for the first time in a while.
“You shaved.”
“First thing I did this morning.”
“I like it. You get an extra kiss for that.”
We decided to exchange gifts then. She already knew what she was getting. We had played Twenty Questions earlier that week and she figured it out. (Patience is a virtue I’m still learning. Perhaps one day.) We went upstairs to open each other’s gift. We had a hard time opening the box for the Botero print because of all the tape. She was pleased with it and thanked me with a kiss. I opened my gifts: a nice checkered shirt, which I had told her I needed, shaving cream and after shave balm. She was the only one I’d go clean-shaven for. I laughed, thanked her and tried the shirt on in front of her. It fit perfectly and I wore it under my cardigan.
We went to lunch, then to her office so I could meet Tina, her best friend at work, and some of her other co-workers. The office wasn’t at all what I expected. The lobby looked more like a pediatrician’s office than a law firm. Soft, yellow walls and large blocks for chairs. Each attorney’s office door was decorated with a pocket-sized puppet supposed to bear resemblance to that person. Jessie had furnished her office with several photos (her teaching in Belize; several of her family members) and her first oil painting—a row of trees lining a disappearing road. Before we left, Tina said, “It was good to finally meet you. You make her very happy.”
Her co-worker Dave was having a birthday party late that afternoon and several in the office were meeting for happy hour at a bar in downtown San Jose. We decided to drop in and say hello, but stay no more than an hour. She’d finally taken the plunge and bought a Smartphone, as well as one for her father, and plugged the address of the bar into the phone’s GPS.
The bar was one more likely to be seen in San Francisco than San Jose. A nondescript sign. We walked down a narrow flight of stairs. Darkly lit. Wouldn’t allow for more than four at a table—to keep a relaxed vibe, I suppose. The bartenders all wore newsboy hats and took an average of fifteen minutes to make a drink. When ordering, the bartender gave the customer a personality test to determine the drink he’d most enjoy. “What’s your favorite fruit?” “Do you prefer dark or milk chocolate?” Ours suggested (for me) an Irish gimlet and (for her) and English cosmopolitan. He spent several minutes shaking the tumblers.
True to our word, we stayed an hour. Though I enjoyed meeting her co-workers and hearing stories of Jessie in the workplace (Co-workers always provide a different perspective than friends), I hadn’t driven all that way in the rain to wish Dave a happy birthday.
Downtown San Jose was decorated for Christmas, including a two-block area filled with holiday displays, sponsored by different organizations throughout the city. Both of us have a thing about dolls that are too life-like; they creep us out—and some of these displays were flat-out creepy. Much too smiley and animated. We decided to see a movie and on the way to the theatre passed a homeless man. She stopped.
“My friend Lauren does this,” she said, bringing out a hand warmer from her purse. “She gives these to homeless people and says they like them.” She went back to speak with the man.
“Would you like this?”
The man looked puzzled. “What is that?”
“A hand warmer. In case your hands get cold.”
“Why are you giving me that? What I need is money. Do you have two dollars?”
“I thought you might need it.”
“Do you have two dollars?”
“No, I’m sorry. Have a good night.”
I waited until we were out of earshot before laughing. “I’m not sure I buy your friend Lauren’s story. The only way that man would enjoy a hand warmer was if he could trade it in for a shot of tequila.”
After the movie, we drove to a restaurant that served chicken wings, placed an order to go and brought it to the hotel. After we had eaten, I played “In Dreams” for her. I was nervous and couldn’t remember the melody line. I’m quite sure I botched the song, but she didn’t seem to mind. She left at midnight.
Saturday morning, we drove into Wi
llow Glen for breakfast—a café where we shared brioche and pie, coffee and tea, while sitting at a bar by the window. A Bernese mountain dog, my favorite breed, was sitting outside with its owners, an older man and his wife. A woman stepped out of a nearby shop and the dog grew excited to see her. We watched the interaction closely, wondering if the dog was naturally that friendly or knew the woman. We realized she was a friend of the couple. Jessie received an email from her friend Sandi, asking for help moving furniture.
We planned on going ice skating before meeting with Pastor Ken, but helping Sandi and her husband Dwight seemed the best thing to do. “Tell her we’ll come,” I said.
“Are you sure?
“Positive.”
Jessie called and told her we’d be there shortly, and we left the café.
Dwight and Sandi were having the carpets cleaned in their house. All the furniture needed to be taken to the garage; they’d decided to give the kitchen a thorough cleaning, as well. When we arrived, Jessie’s friend Trisha was sitting on the countertop, scrubbing the cabinets. Jessie stood on a chair and joined her. Dwight and I moved couches and chairs into the garage. It was raining and we had to take our shoes off each time we stepped outside—tricky, given we were carrying two large couches. Each time I passed through the kitchen, Jessie and I made eye contact and smiled at each other.
Dwight and Sandi thanked us for our help and asked if we wanted to stay for a meal. It was tempting but we were meeting Pastor Ken. We said goodbye, told them we’d see them tomorrow and drove into Sunnyvale.
“Should we stop and get something for Pastor Ken?”
It was a good idea. We went to the coffee shop and bought him a latte and pumpkin scone.
I’d not met him before. I had been to the church several times but never had the opportunity. I briefly told him about myself, then gave him a background of our relationship, touching upon the issues we were there to discuss. Jessie was completely honest, expressing her concerns, none of which was a surprise to me. We talked; Pastor Ken listened, after which he spoke awhile, explaining to me what he could about Korean culture. His brother had married a white woman and his parents still, years later, made bristling comments and spoke unfair words to her. He had only seen three occasions in which a Korean woman dating a non-Korean man succeeded. With all three, it was because the man was persevering, unwavering in his commitment. “That’s the only way it can work,” he said.
Arresting Grace Page 17
