Bo's Café (16 page)

After a few minutes, I lift my head and stare. What comes next? I’ve been through this drill with her so many times.

One of us gets into a car and drives in no particular direction—usually her. Then I feel lousy all day. Then sometime this
evening or tomorrow morning, I’ll sit down in front of Lindsey and apologize. It’s like clockwork. I’ll own everything, even
though I don’t believe it. I’m just wanting things back to… whatever they were before. I’ll ask her to forgive me. I’ll send
flowers. I’ll write notes. What a putz! I’m like an actor in a soap opera trying to schmooze my way back to normalcy.

The saddest part is that Lindsey has also learned to play the game. She’s found her role in this madness. So far, she’s loved
me enough to keep forgiving me. She tries to forget and pretend it’ll get better.

So why does it feel different now?

I’m onto myself, that’s why. Have I ever thought that before? I no longer trust my own remorse. All these years, I’ve apologized
for my crappy behavior. But I was never sorry, not really. I gave myself so much arrogant license to hurt her and anyone else.
Because I was bigger and stronger. And they were weaker.

Oh, God. I’ve been lying to myself. How do I get out of this? I just want to start all over, throw away everything. Please
help me. I don’t know if I can do this. Please help me start over.

Eventually, I get up and drive back down the hill, past east Culver City, past Venice, then past Marina del Rey, all the way
back to our home in Manhattan Beach. I turn onto our street, but Lindsey’s car is gone. I call her cell phone… then again.
No answer.

I don’t leave a message.

(Friday Morning, May 8)

Sitting in my driveway, I become overwhelmed by the realization of what I’ve risked. I look in the rearview mirror. My hair
is an oily mess, my mouth feels like chalk, and I need a shave. The
Wall Street Journal
should get a look at me now.

I am suddenly struck with this thought:
I have no one to talk to about this… except Andy. I’m not sure what he’ll do with it, but I have to call him.

I quickly remember I’ve erased his messages and don’t have his number in my phone. My mind is spinning. I run inside the house,
change out of my pajamas into some clothes I find lying on the floor, and jump back into the car. I drive to Bo’s, which is
not yet open. But Bo is out front signing for a delivery. He’s ready to banter with me but does a double take when he sees
my condition.

“Who you be needin’
cher
?”

I tell him I’m looking for Andy.

Bo gives me the address for a dock in Marina del Rey. It’s the same marina where my CEO’s boat is moored. I’m ashamed to think
of how many times I’ve been in and out of that marina and never even noticed the man who has become so important to me.

It’s about a mile and a half away. I start walking fast, sensing an urgency to solve something before any more damage is done.
I’ve walked more than halfway before it dawns on me that I drove my car to Bo’s.

I continue walking anyway.

It’s 9:00 a.m. by the time I reach the marina. I run down the walkway to where the boats are docked. Andy is nowhere in sight.
I yell his name a couple of times. Nothing. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I collapse onto a bench. The sun is glaring intensely
off the water. I feel like I’m hungover.

I have no idea how much time has passed when I hear a voice.

“Are you here for your boat, sir?”

I answer back without looking up, “No, thanks. I’m just sitting.”

“Well, look, fella, we don’t allow loitering here.”

I look up to see Andy. He’s grinning at me.

I smile weakly.

“Gotcha… ,” he says.

He’s in his usual Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, flip-flops, and sunglasses. He’s holding two steaming paper cups of coffee.

“Bo called and told me you might be stopping by. Hey, you look terrible. What, is it Hobo Day down at the office?”

I look down at what I’m wearing. In my hurry back at the house, I’d pulled on the clothes I wore to paint the bathroom the
day before. I’ve been walking through the Marina del Rey yachting community in slippers, blue jeans, and a cutoff sweatshirt
spattered in purple and aqua… . Nice.

I gratefully reach for the cup of coffee. “Andy, how many times have you checked out the boat for our group?”

“Oh, a few times or so. Cool yacht.”

“You knew who I was back then?”

No response. He sits down on the bench next to me. Just having something warm in my hands feels good… feels real. Like life
is actually happening.

“I’m a mess, Andy.”

“Well, at least you haven’t lost your keen sense of the obvious.” He pats my knee playfully.

“Andy, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really sorry. I haven’t called you or returned your calls or e-mails. But I really need to
talk to you.”

Before answering, Andy blows on his coffee a long time. “Uh-huh. Well, you see, I think I’m gonna have to say no to that.”

“What?” I nearly choke on the sip I’ve just taken.

“I’ve got some boats to clean, and I think maybe I’m not the best person to walk this through with you.”

“Are you kidding me?” I say. “I think you’re the
only
person who can walk this through with me.”

“Well, see, that’s gonna be a problem.” He is still blowing on his coffee, staring straight ahead.

I turn slightly toward him. “Andy, when I didn’t get back to you, I really messed up, didn’t I?”

Andy stands up and walks to the rail overlooking the boats and the harbor. He is turned away from me as he speaks.

“I was keeping up with you through your dad long before we met at Fenton’s. I’ve cared about you for some time now. I’d rehearsed
a dozen times what I’d say if we ever got the chance to talk. Many times I wanted to introduce myself to you here at the marina,
but the time was never right. So when I finally got the chance to be in your life, maybe it was too important to me that you’d
let me in. I’ve thought a lot about that these last few weeks.”

I sit, staring at him, unable to think of something appropriate to say. Eventually I break the silence.

“I don’t know about any of that, Andy. I just know this isn’t about you.
You
didn’t do anything wrong. It’s all been about me. Hank warned me I would do this very thing. That I would leave you, reject
you. I don’t think you can know how much I hate admitting he was right, but he was. He saw where I was headed.”

I stand up and face him. I can’t look him in the eye for long, so I begin pacing. I’m really scared. My hands are sweating.
I start trying to say words, but nothing comes. Finally, I catch my breath and mumble more than speak, still not able to look
at him directly.

“I don’t know what to say, Andy. I’m so sorry. This was all new to me, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I don’t let people
in like this. I never have. It got too close. So I ran. I run a lot.”

I stop and look at him again until he is looking into my eyes.

“I know this sounds weak, but I do need you, Andy. I’m in a lot of trouble. I hurt Lindsey. I really screwed up again. I don’t
know where to go if you won’t talk to me.”

He peers back at me, his face expressionless.

“Andy, are you gonna say something, or are you gonna just let me stew here?”

Still nothing. I catch a glance from him, just long enough to give a hint of a smile.

“Look, Andy,” I say in a voice that sounds far more serious than I expected it to. “I’m not leaving. So you’ve got a choice.
It’s not going to look good to your boss if some homeless guy keeps moping around the marina. And I
will
mope. I’ll make a scene and throw your name around like confetti. I didn’t get where I am by being passive.”

I take a couple of steps toward him. “Look, I’ll help you clean boats. I don’t think anyone will notice.”

He sips his coffee and takes a long look at my clothing. He smiles.

“Well, you
would
blend in. In that outfit, you should probably start with the bilge pumps.”

I smile. “I deserve that.”

“You do.” He sighs. “Let’s get to work.”

He turns and heads down the walkway without another word, and I follow.

Over the next several hours, Andy and I wash down boats together. He familiarizes me with the bilge pump on several of them.
I tell him everything that has just happened, leaving nothing out, including my pleading with God and my realizations of how
I’ve hurt my wife.

When we finish, we climb to the deck of the boat we’ve just finished. He looks out at the harbor for a while before speaking.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Andy says, stroking his chin. “You said these words to your wife: ‘You shut up! I’ve
done everything right. And you’ve been seeing some shrink guy while I’m living in a hotel.’ Then you felt that wasn’t enough
and added, ‘This is my house. You can live with your boyfriend!’ And then you ran out the door. Do I have that right?”

It sounds really awful coming out of his mouth. “Yeah. Not exactly in that order, but, yeah… .”

“Whooeee. And I’m the one checking out boats while you’re getting profiled in the
Wall Street Journal
? Where’s the justice in
that
universe?”

I shake my head. “I guess I deserve that too, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do.”

He pulls a cigar out of his shirt pocket, cuts off the end, and lights it. Then he looks at me and says, “Well, Steven, looks
like we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Andy replies, “but I haven’t really done much thus far to address the issues you’ve confided
to me.”

“Oh, it’s crossed my mind on occasion,” I say.

“Would you like to know why?”

“Yes, that
would
be nice.”

He blows out a puff of smoke. “You weren’t ready. And now, well, now you are.”

“Let me get this right. I cause my wife to scream and call the police, and that makes me ready?”

He tilts his head a little. “Not exactly. The rage, damage, and remorse cycle—you’ve been there before.”

“Yeah.” I chuckle weakly. “A few times.”

“And in the past, when the anger cooled down, you were always sad for the things you’d done. But today, humility has entered
the picture. I’m nearly certain of it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Two ways.” He places the cigar in his mouth and holds up two fingers. “Today, for the first time, you’re owning up to something
deeper than your behavior.”

I’m listening closely, waiting for a punch line.

“Did you catch that? That’s huge. It’s like two-thirds of the pie right there. You’re owning the fact that you try to control
others with your anger. This isn’t just about fixing your anger. This is about who you are, why you do what you do. The difference
couldn’t be bigger.”

I raise my hand. “Could you repeat that last sentence, the one about controlling others?”

“You’re owning the consent you give yourself to control others with your anger.”

“That’s what I thought you said… and you’re saying that’s a big deal.”

He nods. “Second way I know is that today you’re trusting me with
you
. Up until now you were just negotiating whether you would trust me with your anger. That’s playing with house money. It doesn’t
cost you much. And it sure isn’t humility. Humility is trusting God and others with
you
—your whole person. If I’m not mistaken, that’s what you’re doing here. You’re giving me access to
you
.”

He takes out his cigar and points at my chest, smiling. Finally, he gets up and walks right up next to me. Like Cynthia, he’s
standing very close. Looking deeply into my eyes he says, “My young friend, we’ve finally shown up at the right address at
the right time. This moment couldn’t be rushed, coerced, or manipulated. We couldn’t have found a shortcut to this moment.
But now we’re ready to play for real money.

“This is a sacred moment, my friend. With your permission, I have the privilege of protecting you.”

I get up and pace the deck.

“I don’t get it. You were just waiting for me to break down? Why didn’t we just dive in and get to the root of my anger? Maybe
I wouldn’t have blown it again.”

“Well, first of all, we were diving in. We were working at building a relationship where you could trust me. And all along
you were learning about what you were missing in your own world. And until you figured that out and knew you could trust me,
it wouldn’t have worked. Like I said before, I could’ve given you answers, but you needed a foundation first. A foundation
of grace.”

We’re standing side by side and he’s looking at me, like, I don’t know. Like he’s looking for something behind my eyes. I
can’t remember anyone in my life talking like this to me. It feels good.

“But to fully answer your question,” he says, turning back toward the ocean, “that’ll demand some deeper explanation. Has
the coffee kicked in?”

I shake my head back and forth, like a man trying to shake off drunkenness. “I hope so.”

“Just sit back and let the old sea captain work.”

I settle onto a bench and set my half-empty cup next to me.

“You heard of shame?”

“Shame,” I repeat.

He nods. “Everyone eventually stumbles into the ugly experience called shame.” He starts walking back and forth, working the
deck like it belongs to him. “It’s like in that dream where you’re walking around naked. You know what I mean?”

“I hate that dream,” I say.

“It’s the worst. Maybe not as bad as the clown chasing me with a hatchet, but pretty close. You know that one? Or where you’re
trying to run but your feet won’t move?”

“You’re interrupting yourself.”

“Right. So we experience shame hundreds of times before we reach adulthood. Maybe you get humiliated at a school dance. Maybe
a coach rips you apart in front of your PE class. Or, you walk into a party and find your girlfriend making out with some
guy from another school. Or maybe someone violates you—so badly you become convinced you can never tell anyone about it. People
will tell you they don’t carry any shame, but they do.”