Bo's Café Page 11

  And Andy… I think he’s a really nice guy with some good insights who just likes to talk. Honestly, I think he’s getting as much from me as I am from him. I’m like the son he’s never had. I also think it’s probably pretty important to him that a younger, successful businessman finds his wisdom helpful. That’s fine, but there’s a limit to how deep I want to go with all of this. Whatever their deal is with permission and protection, it’s all too slow and soft for my pace. Maybe I’ll keep coming to Bo’s from time to time. Why not? They’re a pretty great group of people. Most of them can’t even understand my life; they don’t have to. But I’m sure not going to turn over my dirty laundry to people who couldn’t hold a position two levels beneath me at Visratech.

  But I’m back at Bo’s today. I’m dropping in unannounced. I’m immediately greeted by Bo’s booming voice. “Where’s the suit?”

  “Hey, Bo,” I say, reaching out my hand. “Well, the suit kind of seems a little out of place around here.”

  “Oh, yeah, it does, cher.” He laughs. “You come in lookin’ like a symphony conductor, and we got us a deckful of banjo players.” He laughs until he starts hacking like a man with tuberculosis.

  “Hey then,” he rasps, catching his breath, “how you likin’ that shrimp cocktail last time?”

  “It was great, Bo.”

  “Well, get it out of yo’ head,” he says, glaring suddenly and leaning in at me. “We got no shrimps today. We got us five-day-old snapper with worms. That’s what you’re gettin’ and yo’ gonna like it.”

  I know the routine now. “Okay, then, snapper and worms it is.”

  “Good. You lookin’ for Andy? He’s not here yet. What the deal is with that boy?”

  I shrug. “Don’t know. Didn’t call him. I just thought I’d stop by. Take my chances, see who’s here.”

  “You got Hank and Carlos. So snapper and worms gonna look like an improvement.” He laughs again then yells out to the kitchen as he walks away, “One snapper with worms for the deck crowd!”

  I’m greeted warmly by the group, already a couple dozen strong. Carlos pulls out a chair for me.

  “Hey, Steven. Great to see you, man. What’s up?” He looks me over, sizing up my clothing selection.

  “You’re looking fine, my man. Nice uniform. Most of you important dudes dress like this when you’re trying to act all casual. You got your starched khaki slacks and your pastel shirt with the little crocodile guy on it. I love that little guy. He’s cool. Nothing says, ‘I’m a relaxed, important dude,’ like that crocodile shirt tucked into a pair of starched pants. Nice.”

  He laughs and reaches for my hand. “Hey, I’m just playing with you, man. It’s good to see you, Steven.”

  I reach back and give his hand a firm shake. “So, where’s Andy?”

  “He was here a little bit ago,” Hank answers, “but he had to get back down to the marina. So what are you ordering?”

  I tilt my head. “I think snapper with worms.”

  Others on the deck continue to greet me. Only after everyone settles back into their routines does Carlos lean in to ask, “So, how’s it been going?”

  “What do you mean? With what?” I look back and forth between the two.

  “You know,” Carlos says, “the rides with Captain Andy?”

  I tip my head back a little. “Oh. Well, that’s a good question. I was just thinking about that on the way over.” I’m not sure how much to say.

  Hank grins. “You’re not sure how much to say, are you? I mean, you barely know us, and we’re asking to see your dirty underwear.”

  “Once again, my friend”—Carlos groans, pushing his bread bowl of chowder away—“you have proven your knack for ruining my lunch.”

  “You flatter me,” Hank says, eyeing the remains of the bread bowl. “You mind?”

  These two are like an old married couple on a cruise. “Hank, you’re right,” I say. “I don’t know how much to tell you.”

  Hank forks a piece of the huge shrimp cocktail just placed in front of me. “You don’t have to tell us anything. You just have to be willing to share your food.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Want to know his game plan?” Carlos asks abruptly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been watching the old man for over three years now,” Carlos says, leaning back, putting his hands behind his head. “He’s one of those rare cats who learned something profound about halfway through life. Most never get it. His failure gave him a great gift. Got him off track long enough to start listening and seeing. He got to see life for real, after there’s not so much to lose. Changed his whole way of seeing the world, his friendships, his lifestyle. Took a lot of his fears away. Made him a lot more fun to be around.”

  “So what did he learn?” I ask.

  Hank beams. “This is so cool!” he says. “ ‘What did he learn?’ Like Frodo asking questions about Gandalf! I love this stuff!”

  Carlos shakes his head and continues, “Andy figured this out—there’s a stinking huge difference between influence and the authority you get with a title.”

  “Any dolt can stumble into a title,” Hank barks. “Lots of people with big-sounding titles have people under them listening only because they have to.”

  Carlos nods. “Yeah. Almost anyone can teach information. I’ve only met a handful who are allowed to really influence.”

  I’m listening, but with Andy not here, I decide to change the subject.

  “So, tell the truth. Do you guys ever feel like it’s not going anywhere?” I ask. “Like nothing ever gets solved? I mean, ‘Come on,’ I want to say, ‘let’s just get on with it.’ What does the guy need from me, a note from my parents? You guys know what I mean, right?”

  The two of them look at each other, like they’re trying to figure out who should answer. Carlos wipes his hands and face on his napkin as he responds.

  “Look, Steven. I like you, man. A lot. But I gotta tell you, here’s how it goes. A big guy like you, maybe you’re willing to invest a couple more times for a payoff. That’s how it goes down in corporateland, huh? This time or next, Andy’s gonna give you a magic one-liner or two that’ll set you free. You’re used to shiny packaging, man. Unless the container looks like what you expect, you get all patronizing and condescending. You understand condescending?”

  I glare at him. “Yes, I understand condescending.”

  “So you’ll get impatient when Andy doesn’t give you the shiny, clean package, and pretty soon we won’t see you no more. Look, Steven, this whole deal is not about some little behavioral technique—fix a bad habit or learn new skills to mask your behaviors. Because little techniques, they don’t do squat. They just fail you, man. Next time you’ll be even more cynical and all closed off. Soon you’ll stop letting God get your attention in a parking lot, huh? You just settle in and figure this is as good as it gets. So the rich dude buys enough toys and keeps busy enough to pretend it doesn’t hurt. That’s where technique gets you, my friend.”

  I respond, too loudly, “What are you doing? I don’t get this. I have to tell you, you were both a lot more fun here last time. What gives?”

  “Look, we’re not stupid,” Carlos says. “We know where this is heading. We want to see you stay. You need a community like this, man. But we can’t talk you into it. See, what Andy’s giving you is so much bigger than you can know. You have no idea what the old guy’s handing you. You can’t see it. You’re still too proud.”

  Suddenly he slaps his hands together, shaking his head in frustration, “Aaargh! I’m doing it again. I’m sorry, man. You don’t need Carlos poking at you.”

  “No, just say it, Carlos. You want to say something to me, just say it.” I’m really agitated now.

  Carlos sits back in his chair. “You want me to, then I will. Do you mind an observation, Steven?”

  “I’m not sure.” I shake my head and cross my arms. “I don’t get you guys. You talk about this being a ‘safe place,�
� but neither of you two seem very safe at the moment.”

  Carlos puts his fork down and pats his hands on his knees, like he’s realizing the need to change his approach.

  “I guess that depends on what you mean by safe, huh?” he says. “See, man, if safe is just nice and sweet, where everybody’s smiling at you and nobody’s ever dealing with nothing, that’s not safe. That’s a retirement home. I like nice. Even Hank likes nice. Push come to shove, nice wins. But nice ain’t enough for safe. A safe place isn’t a soft place.

  “Safe is a place where you can get out the worst about you and they don’t run you off, talk you down, or head for the hills. It’s having someone to stand with when you start to face the shameful stuff, man. It’s where you can be a jerk and still have a place at the table the next day… where you don’t have to hide or fake or pretend or bluff. Safe is being loved more for revealing your crap, not less. Safe is not having to ‘man up’ or be coerced to ‘get real’ or none of that nonsense.”

  “No kidding,” Hank adds. “Nothing worse than a bunch of guys in the name of ‘being real’ trying to one-up each other with their Internet porn issues or how much they drink. It’s almost like bragging that you’re a real man. Really, just another form of hiding. Because you ain’t giving anyone in that room permission to help and stand with you in the issue. Dumb game. Fake game.”

  “See,” Carlos says, “the deal isn’t being able to just let everybody hear your garbage. Who wants that? Who needs that? I can get that in my own head. Safe is where I can tell you my garbage so you can enter in and stand with me in the solution of it. That’s safe, man.”

  Hank, reaching over and spearing another piece of shrimp off my plate, says, “You gonna eat that? You don’t wanna eat seafood after it’s been sitting out this long. Let me take the hit. An important guy like yourself, you can’t be risking salmonella.”

  I regroup. “All right, Carlos, I’m ready for your observation.”

  “All right. This relational solution stuff, the good stuff? Well, it’s messy, man. Because it demands that you care about something more than getting better before you can ever get better.”

  I blurt out, “Do you know how stupid that sounds?”

  Hank wipes his mouth with his napkin and then says slowly and loudly enough for others to hear, “Do you know how lame your game plan has been for us to watch?”

  The table and the entire deck are uncomfortably quiet.

  Carlos puts his hand on my arm. “Forgive my knuckle-dragging friend. See why I don’t take him out much?” Carlos gives a look that tells Hank he’ll take it from here. “But embedded in his primordial rudeness is straight-on truth. You know what you’re trying to do?”

  I stare at him blankly. It’s taking a lot of effort to stay in my chair right now.

  “No, you don’t. So let me tell you. You’re trying to make it look like you’re giving Andy a way in. But you won’t open any of the locks. You’re trying to give permission to something about you but not to you. You get that? And man, that’s only an elaborate attempt to solve an issue with a newer technique. It’ll work about as good as your last twelve. It’s like some kind of twisted manifest destiny, you know? You don’t allow it to work and then blame it for not working. So you go back to your old stuff and think you’re back in control. Am I close?”

  I pull my lips in and stare at him, resisting giving him any satisfaction.

  “But see, the other option is real scary, huh?”

  “Steven, you ever get a toothache?” he asks. “No way you’re going to no dentist, right? We know what that’s all about. Needles in your gums and people with their hands inside your mouth. But this toothache, it’s more pain than you can bear. So you search around the house till you find some Anbesol or something. You rub it in, and boom, the pain goes down. And you go on your way, able to convince yourself that you won’t have that pain again. But you got an abscess growing in there, man! It’s not going away because you rub some brand-name ointment from Walgreen’s on it. You get what I’m saying?”

  He’s talking a mile a minute again. I can barely keep up.

  “Steven, I gotta tell you, man, it’s real hard to watch someone cover pain with something that makes them hurt even more. Until you go to a dentist, you’ve got a black, rotting jaw just waiting to blow up.”

  “Okay,” Hank says, pretending nausea, “now who’s messing with people’s appetites?”

  These guys sound a lot better when Andy’s around. Hank’s getting under my skin. And Carlos’s whole patronizing dialect is starting to wear thin. I’m beginning to wonder what Andy sees in these guys. My thought is interrupted by Carlos’s cell phone. It’s Andy. He’s been delayed and won’t be able to make it for lunch. I immediately plan a polite exit.

  Hank smiles knowingly. “Well, you need to go now, don’t you?”

  “What?” I feign.

  Carlos says, “It’s fine, man. It’s all good. Hank and me, we’re like an acquired taste. We’re like wasabi. You ever had wasabi? Really good with some soy sauce and a California roll. But you don’t wanna be eating it straight. Your eyes water, and you wish you’d never been born. That’s how Hank and I seem to affect folks. An hour around us, and people are wishing they’d never been born.”

  Carlos smiles at me as he reaches for his drink. “So maybe we’ll see you next time, when you come back with the California roll, eh?”

  I put down cash for my food and begin to excuse myself.

  “I feel like I should pay for your meal because I ate so much of it,” Hank says, patting his stomach. “I’m not going to, but I thought it would be nice to tell you that.”

  This guy is a real piece of work.

  Hank nods his head toward me. “Hey, one more thing. Don’t leave yet.”

  I sit back down.

  “I’m gonna say this because I’m not sure I’m going to see you again.”

  He may not be far off there. “Why would you say that, Hank?” I ask.

  Ignoring my feigned confusion, Hank says, “Andy had to sell the car.”

  “What? The Electra? Andy sold the Electra?”

  “Yep, ” he answers, looking away.

  “Why would he sell it?”

  “Long story.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me?” I ask.

  Hank continues, still looking away. “A young guy he knows from church lost his job. He has a wife and three young kids. One of those middle-management cutback stories. They were about to lose their home. So Andy makes some phone calls and gets him a position in the same industry. But the guy’s still too far behind to keep his house. So Andy sells the car. Gets a bunch for it. Covers almost the whole nut. None of us would have known except the guy’s wife shows up here one day last week, looking for Andy, to thank him. She tells Carlos, Cynthia, and me the whole story… . That old cat, he’s something.”

  “But he loved that car,” I say, standing up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone enjoy something as much as he did that car.”

  “Yeah, a lot of us have taken a lot of drives with the old cat in that wagon.”

  I’m still stunned. “I don’t get it. Why would he give that car up when it was used for so much good?”

  “Maybe,” Hank says, turning to look at me, “he wasn’t so sure it still was.”

  I don’t know what to say. I sit back down. Carlos is quiet, letting Hank handle this.

  “Look, Steven, you haven’t done anything wrong to me. So forgive me if what I say doesn’t fit. In my work I get to see a lot of sharp young guys on the move. See ’em all the time. They blow through, and mostly just use people to get somewhere else. They pretend interest. They make you think they really did want to have lunch with you. And then, when they get what they want, or discover what they want isn’t there, they’re gone. I feel like I can size ’em up before they hit the front door. That may not be fair, but I’m usually pretty accurate.”

  Hank takes a long pause and then says, “So I just want to tell
you to be kind to Andy when you walk out. He really cares for you. See, after you leave, we’re the ones who have to clean up.”

  He stares into my eyes for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Well, thanks for the shrimp.” He nods. “Have a good day.”

  I’m embarrassed and angry all at once. I’m not sure what to say. I want to say something that’ll put Hank in his place, justify myself, and allow me to leave with the final word. But nothing comes. So I get up, mumble something about the check, and walk out of the restaurant.

  “This Whole Stinking Thing’s a Joke!”

  (Tuesday Evening, April 14)

  “This whole stinking thing’s a joke!” I yell out loud in my car as I speed out of Bo’s parking lot. I fly down Lincoln, with music on louder than usual, making all the lights. I am so sick of this. Within several minutes I am in the Marriott’s fitness center, replaying this insane last month over and over, underscored by the sound of my feet pounding on a treadmill.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m trying crap I’d usually mock just to convince my wife that I hear her. For what? I think she’s actually liking that I’m out here in a hotel. Everybody’s winning at my expense. I’m giving a bunch of wannabes a chance to work me over for being successful. Those guys all sit around with free time on a Thursday because they can’t do what I can. And then I let them demean me. “Steven, you’re too proud. Steven, you don’t let anyone in. Steven, you think you’ve got all the answers. Steven, you don’t give permission. Steven, you’re angry.”

  How about, “Hank, you’re in a dead-end job. Carlos, you talk too much and you cover for your stupid friend Hank too much. Cynthia, you get too close to people’s faces. Andy… you’re an idiot for selling that car… .”