Bo's Café (21 page)

“I’m sure I won’t always respond well. I’m not used to this. But tell me what you’re doing and I’ll try to remember and let
you help me.”

“You’re serious.”

“As serious as I get. And even if you do it badly, I’ll work hard to listen to you. You telling me what you see is a hundred
times better than me trying to figure it out in the heat of the moment. It won’t be easy, but you can test me on this and
see if I mean it.”

She is turned away again, thinking it through, I suppose.

I kneel down by her chair. “Will you look at me?” She does. “This isn’t another attempt to buy a get-out-of-the-doghouse-free
card. You believe me?”

Lindsey looks down for a moment. Then she straightens up and looks deeply into my eyes for a long time. We’re only a couple
of feet apart.

“I believe you,” she says. “I don’t know what it means, but I do believe you’re sincere. I can’t help but think it will only
last a few days, until the next blowup. But I want to help if you think I can.”

“Thank you.”

She looks into my eyes. “I’ve let you back in so many times before. I always hoped you’d change, but I never really believed
you would. Mostly, I was terrified of losing everything if I didn’t. In spite of everything, I do love you. And I always wanted
your apologies to be real. I just didn’t want our life together to be over. How messed up is that? I don’t think I’ve
ever
believed you. And I don’t think things are really going to change even now.”

“That’s not messed up. That’s rational. You were just scared. You didn’t know what else to do.”

She pauses and looks at her hands, clasped together in her lap. “I choose to forgive you today though, and not because I’m
afraid to leave. If this is a game, I’ll be gone. But I think you’re telling me the truth, for the first time in a very long
while. I want to see if you’ll let me really help you, whatever that means. I still want to be… to be with you.” She looks
up at me. “Do you realize how long I’ve hoped for that? No. You can’t. You cannot possibly understand—”

Her voice breaks off, and she begins weeping again. But this weeping is different. She leans in toward me. I desperately want
to hold her. Still, I wait for a moment, not wanting to frighten her. But she stays pressed against me. So I take her into
my arms.

And I hold her as tenderly as I’ve ever held anything in my life.

(Monday Evening, May 11)

The weekend is filled with long walks around the neighborhood. Slowly, Lindsey and I start to talk our way through things
that have been ignored for a long time. Sometimes the conversation starts to get heated, but I find myself immediately backing
off and letting things cool down. I’m starting to learn to admit it a little quicker when she lets me know my anger is ramping
up.

I take Monday off, which surprises Lindsey. We drive up the coast to a tiny café in Carpinteria that we used to visit a lot
when we were first married. In the same corner booth where we celebrated our first anniversary, we linger over some great
food and wine. The place is nearly empty. I tell her the story of meeting Andy and my first trip to Bo’s. About Cynthia, Carlos,
Hank, and Bo himself. We are still awkward and tentative. But as I get to talking about the deck crowd’s humor, we start to
relax and laugh together.

Later in the evening, we are leaning back, together, in the same side of the booth, finishing off our biscotti and Italian
coffees. We’re happy being quiet together. Eventually Lindsey asks me, “So, where do we go from here?”

Something beautiful and fragile has happened. But we both agree we don’t know how to turn this around by ourselves. Reaffirming
our love and commitment to each other won’t do it alone. There’s still so much we’re unwilling to touch. We’re both afraid
we’ll soon figure out how to undo the magic God worked for us several days ago.

All of a sudden, I suggest something that would have sounded ridiculous even yesterday. I ask her to accompany me to Bo’s.

“Lindsey,” I say, “we’ve got to go there.” I find myself repeating Andy: “They have a shrimp cocktail that’ll cure rickets.
They serve it on a plate.
On a plate
, for crying out loud!”

She laughs at me. “Do you think they’d mind? It is
your
place.”

“Once they get some time with you, I won’t be invited anymore.”

“I would like to meet Andy.”

“I’d like that too.” I squeeze her hand tightly in mine.

“I’ll send him an e-mail. He can pick us up. He’d love that. You just gotta take a ride in his car. We don’t happen to have
any out-of-style sunglasses lying around, do we?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“You might need ’em. Never mind. I’m sure he’s got plenty. You’re gonna love the Electra. Just wait.”

“But didn’t you tell me that he sold the Electra?” she asks.

“Yes, he did,” I answer. “Yes, he did.”

It’s eleven thirty the next morning. And I’m walking up the stairs to the patio deck at Bo’s. I’ve come by myself, having
called ahead and learned Andy would not be here until after noon. Perfect. As I reach the deck I spot Cynthia, Carlos, and
Hank, all sitting together at their regular table. I’m incredibly nervous. Each of them, as well as others from tables nearby,
call out my name. I am silent as I stand in front of them.

Carlos says, “Dude, you gonna say something?” Then, “Oh, I get it—we’re playing charades!” He excitedly rubs his hands together.
“Give me a second. I love this game! Two words? Is it like the name of a movie? Come on, man, give us something. I can’t do
this alone.”

I love Carlos.

I am not sure what to do next. Everything I rehearsed on the drive over seems corny now. So instead, I reach into my pocket
and pull out a single key and place it on the table in front of Hank.

“What’s this?” he asks.

I pause before I can answer.

“It’s the key to Andy’s Electra.”

The deck area near the table goes silent. Everyone is staring at the key.

“But… how… ?” Hank mutters, unable to finish his sentence.

“It’s a long story,” I answer, repeating Hank’s line from our last time together. He looks up at me for a long time. Then,
slowly, his face forms a deep, warm smile. He nods his head. I smile back at him, and nod mine. I turn to see Cynthia and
Carlos grinning like proud parents. Sometimes things actually work out better than you can rehearse them. This is one of those
times.

“Hank, if you would, tell Andy the paperwork’s in the dash. The car’s all his.”

He looks at me and then over to Carlos. He shakes his head, looks back at me, and smiles. “I’d be glad to, Steven.”

I turn to walk away. After a few steps I turn and come back.

I look directly into Hank’s eyes. “Thank you, Hank. It was your care for Andy that got his car back. It was your care for
me that made me go get it.”

He pushes his chair back, stands up, and reaches for my hand. He shakes it firmly and slowly. “No, you’re wrong, Steven. This
was all you, my friend. This was all you.”

I wave to everyone and then turn to walk away. I don’t want to spoil this moment by saying something stupid. As I reach the
stairs I look back. Hank is still standing there, holding the key in his hand.

(Noon, Thursday, May 14)

The headlights and grille of Andy’s Electra seem to follow me through the parking lot, smiling gratefully, as I walk to my
car. Freshly waxed and meticulously shined up, the owner agreed to bring Andy’s car to Bo’s before noon in the same condition
he bought it. At the price he charged me, it’s the very least he could do. The guy didn’t really want to sell the car. He
said he’d been looking for one like that for as long as he could remember. That’s never a particularly good situation for
the buyer.

I still can’t believe I was able to track it down. I called a friend with software to locate recent property sales and used-car
transactions. But the retitling must have not fully gone through yet. He couldn’t find a thing for a 1970 Electra in all Southern
California. Then it dawned on me that I could check out Web sites of Electra owners. It’s crazy. There must be two dozen sites!
For a car that hasn’t been produced since I was a boy. After combing through discussions about tail fin heights in various
years and the comparative merits of particular muffler housings, I finally stumble upon it. A guy’s bragging about locating
and purchasing the car of his dreams.

“This baby is incredible! A pristine 1970 Buick Electra. She’s a cherry-apple red convertible. A convertible! What are the
chances of stumbling onto one of those? You
never
see ’em anymore. Killer! And to top it off, a previous owner installed front-seat tuck-’n’roll upholstery from a car of Cary
Grant’s.
Cary freaking Grant!
”

I knew I had found Andy’s car… . I also knew it was probably gonna cost me more than my Mercedes to get it back. And I didn’t
care. I was so excited to find it.

As I drive back up the coast, I am filled with this incredible sense of satisfaction. I don’t think I can remember ever doing
anything like this—in maybe my entire life.

Where have I been? How have I missed this kind of life?

Andy taught me this. He’s been waiting for me to learn it so I could pass it on. I’m sure he never thought it would come back
around to him like this. Go figure.

It is a phenomenal drive back to work. I can’t stop smiling.

It’s time to take Andy up on his offer to get back together. I decide so say nothing about the car. I’m dying to. But I don’t
want to mess things up. I’ll wait until he says something. The essence of our e-mail interaction went like this:

Andy,

Hello, friend. So much to talk to you about. When we were last together you asked me to write once I was ready to have you
come pick me up. I think I’m ready. Except I’d like my wife to come along, if you don’t mind.

Sincerely,

Steven

Steven,

Well, well, well… So Lindsey wants a ride in the old Buick, eh? I tell you, the ladies love the old Electras. Hard to explain.
They’re not as sexy as your GTOs or Barracudas. But something about that cushiony drive shaft just seems to hit ’em where
they live.

So, Thursday at 11:00 a.m.?

Andy

Just honk, and we’ll come right out. Thanks for everything, Andy.

Steven

So, just wondering. Is this the thanks you were gonna wait on until you saw how things went?

Andy

Yeah, I think it’s that thanks.

Steven

Then, you’re welcome.

Andy

And just when I’m thinking that’s it
—
that he’s not going to mention the car:

Hey, Steven… ?

Yes?

Thank you, my friend. I’m not sure what to say. Thank you….

Andy

(Late Morning, Thursday, May 21)

He should be at our house any minute. I’m more anxious right now than when Andy showed up at my office. We’re about to sail
into uncharted waters. What if Lindsey doesn’t like him right away?
I
sure didn’t. What if she’s put off by the crowd at Bo’s? What if she doesn’t get their humor? What if they don’t get her?

Lindsey shyly walks down the stairs. She is wearing a pair of sunglasses with oversize frames.

I smile up at her. “Where did you find those?”

“Chanel. They’re retro. They’re actually pretty stylish.”

“Well, thanks. They should make Andy very happy.”

Then comes the sound of a horn.

We open the door to see Andy standing behind the Electra’s fully opened passenger door. He is wearing baggy shorts, flip-flops,
sunglasses, the ever-present L.A. Dodgers hat, and one of the three or four Hawaiian shirts I’ve ever seen him in since I
met him. The dark blue one with the hula girls. Geez.

Lindsey has been unusually quiet all morning, so I take charge. “Andy, this is my wife, Lindsey. I’ve told her all about you.
Or, as much as I thought she could bear.”

Andy totally ignores me, smiles at Lindsey, and reaches for her hand. “I’m really glad to meet you, lovely lady,” he says,
with just the slightest bow.

“May I say,” he adds, referring to her sundress, “yellow is definitely your color.”

I give him a look.
Don’t push it, old-timer.

Lindsey breaks into a beautiful smile at Andy’s greeting. She looks great, even in those ridiculous glasses.

And then, suddenly, she throws her arms around Andy and gives him a very tender hug.

Have you ever had one of those moments that freezes time and seems to last for minutes? This is one of those. My mind flashes
to that night at Fenton’s when Andy promised me his car could take us to the places I needed to go. And now, here in my front
yard, my wife, full of gratitude and hope, is hugging this unlikely driver who has brought me to those places.

“Now, those…
those
are sunglasses. See, Steven? Didn’t I tell you? It’s not just a thing from my generation. Classy young, hip women get it.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him… .

As he ushers us both into the backseat he mumbles under his breath, but loud enough for us both to hear, “It never ceases
to amaze me how one can have such great taste and the other so little. The guy must be a great kisser. That’s all I can say.”

Then we’re off. He was right. Lindsey loves the car. And she appears completely delighted and comfortable with Andy. It’s
a beautiful, clear day, and she’s beaming as he brings the car up to speed on the Coast Highway from Manhattan Beach toward
Bo’s.

I look over at my wife. Her beautiful dark brown hair is blowing behind her. Her eyes are closed, drinking in the cool, morning
wind. She scrunches closer to me and puts her arm in mine.

For the first time in a very long time, I am actually
in
the moment, fully enjoying it, fully a part of it. For so long I was watching my life from a distance, critiquing everyone
and everything in it. Standing outside its enjoyment. Today it’s as if that whole way of coping has blown out the top of Andy’s
convertible.