Bo's Café (11 page)

“Okay, hold on for a second,” I say, shaking my head. “Cynthia, you’re a lot of work, do you know that?”

“You’re right, Steven. Look at me talking too much.” She starts to get up, restacking pages she’d spread out at the table.
“I should be writing. Instead, I’m meddling.”

“No, it’s not that. Please, sit back down.” I wait until she does before saying, “It’s just that I’m realizing it might not
be best to drink when I’m with you all.”

We all laugh.

“Steven, may I continue, then? This will only take a couple moments. I’m almost done with everything I know.”

“Swing away,” I say, sweeping my hand in her direction.

“Okay. So, my young friend, I would guess this has been your game plan so far. It’s really quite funny when you step back
and look at it. Maybe not so funny when it happens to be you. Anyway, try this on. You take a stab at figuring out your junk.
But it doesn’t bring any resolution. So you rehearse it, over and over. Still nothing. Then you find some allies you can explain
your version of reality to. Maybe you get some temporary relief but still no resolution… . See, Steven, this whole resolving-life-issues
stuff is not like solving problems at work, is it?”

She waits for a response.

The answer is “No, it’s not.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “Stay with me here, dear.”

We both laugh. How does she do that without making me feeling patronized?

“The solution,” she continues, “isn’t in getting more information. The solution isn’t in getting others to see things your
way or even in bringing more diligence to solve it. Now, are you ready, my dear? I’m about to say something harsh, but I don’t
mean it to be as rude as it will sound.

“The problem is you’re a highly trained, intelligent, and successful professional, but when it comes to your personal life,
you’re a real amateur human being. Honey, you’re as blind as a bat when it comes to you.”

I laugh out loud. “You weren’t kidding about the harsh-sounding part, were you? Cynthia, you blow me away. You’re like this
artsy lady about to show me pictures of her grandchildren. But I gotta tell you, my mother never says things like this to
me.”

“Honey, you should ask her,” she says, laughing. “Maybe she’d like to!” She leans forward again. “Steven, do you want to know
why you are clueless about you? Do you?” She stops again and stares. “Honey, I really need a verbal nod of some sort here.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, tell me why.”

“It’s because,” she says slowly and dramatically, “you don’t yet know who you really are. And Steven, you don’t know who you
are because you haven’t yet learned grace.”

I stop her before she can continue. “Oh, boy. See, there you go. That’s all gibberish to me. I don’t want to be mean, but
you and Carlos, you sound like cult members.
Grace.
Do you have any idea what that sounds like? It’s right up there with fluffy bunnies and unicorns. You’re aware there’s not
a lot of grace talk in my board meetings. Look, I know you may not understand this, but in places where things get done, there’s
accountability, and quotas, and deadlines. You know what I think God wants? He wants all of us to take responsibility for
what we’re doing. Sorry, Cynthia. I was tracking with you. But if you wanna make sense to me, throw away the religious buzzwords.”

Andy slaps his knee. “Whoo-eee! Yep, you got her there, Steven.” He picks up his glass, swirling his ice. “Yep, first you
start talking about grace. Next thing you know you’re skipping Sunday school and sleeping in till noon. Then, a couple days
later you’re down at the dog track, drinking whiskey out of a paper bag and dating a showgirl named Tiffany!”

“Why do you enjoy making everything I say sound stupid?” I ask.

“I don’t,” he says. “I only enjoy making the stupid things you say sound stupid.”

Cynthia takes over. “Steven, my friend, would you be offended if I told you that you sound to me like the one with the religious
platitudes?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” she continues, “you sound like the one who’s using religious concepts, and promoting them to others when they haven’t
even worked for yourself.”

“Meaning?” I repeat.

“Meaning, grace is a gift only the nonreligious can accept. They’re the only ones who can get it. They’re the only ones who
can use it. Religious folks see grace as
soft
. So they keep trying to manage their junk with their own willpower and tenacity. Nothing defines religion quite as well as
a bunch of people trying to do impossible tasks with limited power while bluffing to themselves that it’s working.”

She leans even closer. “I just took in a lot of churches and religious institutions with that last statement.”

“Did you hear that?” Andy laughs. “So, who’s the religious one now, my friend?”

Cynthia smiles. “It takes a whole lot more than willpower to get anything done in the human heart. You gotta allow yourself
to receive something you can’t find on your own.”

Andy folds his arms and raises his eyebrows at me.

“You’ll hear this next statement a lot around here, Steven,” Cynthia says. “ ‘What if there was a place safe enough to tell
the worst about you and still be loved just as much, if not more, for sharing it?’ Do you know what happens?”

“Carlos says your stuff starts to get fixed.”

“Resolved,” Cynthia corrects. “And do you know what that safety is called? It’s called an environment of grace. An environment
where you can even say stuff as ridiculously naive and tired as the propaganda you’ve been holding on to.”

I sit and stare at her a moment. Andy smiles and breaks the silence. “She’s good, huh?”

“I’m not sure at this particular moment,” I say, even though I have little doubt.

“So, to answer your question from before,” she says, “someone has to break that pattern if anything’s going to change. That’s
why Andy won’t bite at trying to fix what you’re throwing at him. Now, lots of people don’t like this answer, and they go
back to trying to fix their lives with mediocre ability. You can fool yourself quite a while, playing that game. But if you’re
tired of the cycle and actually consider some of this, you might just get healthy.”

“Okay, enough, both of you,” I call out. “My head hurts.”

“Good,” Andy replies. “Our work here is done.”

“One more question,” I say. “Then I do have to go. We all know I have an issue with anger. I also know you don’t think it’s
my most critical one. Andy, you said that Cynthia helped you work through some stuff that you’d ignored for a long time. What
stuff was that?”

He taps his watch. “Gee, you’re gonna miss that meeting.”

“I’ll be fine. Are you gonna answer my question?”

Cynthia interrupts. “May I answer it?”

“Sure,” I say, taking a drink of my tea. “Right now I’m just looking for some dirt on Andy to get the attention off of me.”

Cynthia doesn’t laugh at my joke. “You may not like what you’re going to hear. I don’t like telling it.”

She motions to the busboy. “Dear, would you be so kind as to refresh this young man’s drink? Thank you.”

She looks at Andy and then out to the ocean. She is much less animated, much less immediate.

“At the time of Laura’s death, Andy was running an incredibly successful Forbes-rated company in Newport Beach. He was the
golden boy of the South Coast financial world.”

“I oversaw an incredibly talented team of commodity portfolio analysts,” Andy says.

“Yeah. I actually figured that out a while ago.”

“That so?” Andy throws me a sideways glance. “Over time I got Langston Group into a pretty strong position. Top two or three
in the western states.”

“Big name. I first heard about Langston in my teens.”

“For the first five years there,” Cynthia says, taking over, “everything Andy touched was golden. But there was something
sinister working in the background from back to his childhood. Laura could see it but married him anyway. That woman loved
him so. But he carried this deep sense of inadequacy that was driving him to not fail at all costs.”

“That’s called shame,” Andy says.

“Over the years he carried it to high school sports and then to college and the girls he dated. And now here he was, finally
in a place where preparation, hard work, and skill met opportunity. He worked like a dog, trading family and sanity for turning
that company into something that would…”

Andy helps her. “Prove something to someone.”

“Oh, dear.” Cynthia is now looking directly at me. “This wasn’t a case of misplaced priorities. For Andy, every victory, each
procurement was more proof, more vindication of his worth. But his drive was beginning to undermine his empire. Others could
see it and tried to help. But all he could see were forces standing against the proof of his value as a leader. He hated who
he was becoming, but he refused to lose. He began justifying more high-risk deals.”

Both Cynthia and Andy are silent for a moment.

“Then Laura got sick,” Andy says. “She needed me more than ever. I was too focused on keeping the rocket soaring. It tore
me up and hurt her incredibly. I—”

He stops. His eyes are full of tears.

“I began justifying more and more questionable practices, more risky ventures. Word got out to deep-pocket investors that
the Langston Group was no longer a safe bet. I panicked. Two months before Laura’s death, I started to turn a blind eye to
some of what I had put in motion. Then Laura died and I kept working. But I couldn’t think as clearly. I lost any sort of
subtlety and began exposing accounts to enormous risk.”

“Wow,” I say. “I’d never think you could have done that.”

“And then she was gone,” he says. “Just gone. The only person who’d ever made sense of me was gone. I was completely out of
control. One day I’d be unable to get out of bed, the next I’d be making million-dollar decisions with my eyes closed. Five
months after Laura’s death, it all came tumbling out. The whole thing. I was fired. I would never work in finance again.”

“I’m sorry, Andy.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I needed you to hear this.”

All three of us are silent.

Andy finally starts again. “Steven, if you’d asked me what was wrong in the months before I was exposed, I would’ve said,
‘I need to get some rest, go on a vacation. I’m tired and Laura’s illness has been a real strain on our marriage.’ I might
have mentioned some behaviors—working too hard, impatience, getting easily frustrated—but they were all symptoms. I couldn’t
and wouldn’t allow myself to risk seeing what had been sabotaging me all my life.”

Cynthia’s hand is now on Andy’s arm. “That answer could come only by someone offering him a safe place, someone who could
handle the worst about him. Only then did Andy stop pretending. Only then could he begin to look at the worst of who he was
without being destroyed by it.”

“I think that may be enough for today,” Andy mumbles.

“Wait, what about—”

Andy looks really uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Right now, if you don’t mind, I think I just need to go home.”

Cynthia and Andy stand up to hug each other. They embrace for a long time. No words are spoken. Andy reaches for my hand,
gives me a weak smile, and walks away.

I clumsily say good-bye to Cynthia and excuse myself.

Driving back to work, I decide to call Andy. He picks up after a couple of rings.

“So I feel stupid pressing you,” I say. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but sensitivity is not my strong suit.”

“Steven.” Andy’s voice is calm, more subdued than normal. “I’ve come to believe that there are no
together
people. Only those who dress better than others.”

We both offer weak laughs the way people do when they’re trying to cover an awkward moment.

Andy continues. “It’s a myth about needing superior religious folks to impart truth to the rest of us. Such people do not
exist. Only those who think they are. Each of us, Steven, walks with a profound limp. Some have just learned to hide their
limps better. Don’t ever trust anyone who makes you feel intimidated by their presence because of some aura of religious superiority.
People like that are almost always hiding something—incredible arrogance or a secret depravity that would shock you.”

I say nothing, listening carefully as I drive, not wanting to stop his reflections.

“I don’t want any pretend superiority. I can’t hide well enough to pull that off, even if you want me to. I don’t want to
intimidate you. I want to be someone who’s vulnerable and authentic. That’s the only ace I carry up my sleeve. I’m learning
the power of love to heal me. I am trusting Him
with
me. No other cards, no other sleeves. No other nothing.”

For a moment it’s quiet on the other end of the line. Then he says, “Thank you for giving me the privilege of today, my friend.
Don’t go away, okay?”

Suddenly I feel embarrassed for him and want to get out of this phone call.

“Hey, I’ve got another call coming in,” I say. “It’s the office. I’d better take it. I’ll see you later, Andy.” I quickly
hang up.

There was no other call. I’m a liar. A liar who will avoid vulnerability at any cost.

Later that evening, I’m brushing my teeth in front of that lit pull-out circular mirror that makes your nose hairs look really
big. I’m just staring… at me. But tonight it’s different. It’s like I’m trying to see who’s in there.
More stuff I never do.
But suddenly, right here, tonight, I can’t turn away.

What do people see when they look at this face? Is Carlos right? A guy they have to endure but don’t want to be around?

My harangue is interrupted by a ding from the other room signaling the arrival of a new e-mail. It’s Andy.

Steven,

I’m free tomorrow morning. My Fridays are usually pretty busy, but I’d like to come by your office if you wouldn’t mind. I
don’t need a lot of time. You could drop in and out as necessary. I’d just like to see more of your world. Shoot me an address
and tell me where I can sit, like a fly on the wall. I won’t embarrass you by smoking in the lobby or wearing my Hawaiian
shirt with the hula girls on it. I still have some respectable clothes I can dig up.