Bo's Café (6 page)

“Do I have a choice?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I guess it’s fine.”

“Would you like my phone number, Steven? Just in case you can’t make it.”

“Okay.”

I punch his number into my phone.

“It’s a new phone. I’m not very good at answering it yet. I’m still trying to figure it out. Half the time it rings this obnoxious
jingle; the rest of the time it doesn’t ring at all. I’ll find missed calls from the week before. But I’ve noticed it takes
good pictures. Lot of money a month for a tiny camera. I actually tried to punch my number into my own phone yesterday. I
wasn’t made for this decade, I tell you.”

“Yeah.” I finish pressing buttons and pocket my phone. “I understand,” I say, not understanding at all.

“Have a good night, Steven. How’s next Thursday, say noon?”

I nod and he revs the engine and the giant Buick Electra rumbles out of the parking lot.

*   *   *

I check my e-mail upon my arrival back at the Marriott. Lindsey has written this:

Steven, I’ve been praying a lot about this. I know this doesn’t sound right coming in an e-mail, but I’m considering pursuing
a legal separation. One moment I’m thinking I should call this off and invite you back home. The next moment I’m replaying
one of the dozens of times where you yelled me down until I had to leave the room. Time apart and some talks with friends
have opened my eyes. This is not normal, Steven. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I love you, but I don’t love this
life we’re in. I want Jennifer to have a future where she can just be a kid and laugh and hear laughter in her home. I don’t
know what needs to happen for you. You are so angry and unhappy and I don’t know how to help you anymore. I’ve been thinking
maybe going to church could have helped us; I just don’t know.

(Friday Afternoon, March 20)

I need a document on my desk at home for a meeting later today and I’m running short on clothes. So I leave the office and
run over to our house at lunchtime. I put my key into the lock and the door doesn’t open. I check my key and try it again.
Nothing. I go around back and try the patio entrance. Same nothing.

You gotta be kidding me. She’s had the locks changed. Lindsey’s locked me out of my own house!

I stay in the backyard for fear that Melanie Patton might see me.

I call Lindsey’s cell phone. I can’t believe she’d do this. No answer. I check some doors. No luck. This is as stupid as it
gets. Does she have a spare key under something? I’m so angry I can’t even remember if we kept one outside for the old locks.
Does a neighbor have a key? I call her cell phone again. I leave a message for her to call me. Then I try the garage side
door. Locked.

Finally I discover an unlocked window. Jennifer’s bathroom. It’s tiny and about seven feet up. After several efforts of gouging
it with a garden trowel, I eventually pry the screen off. I grab a lawn chair, prop it against the patio wall, and start to
work my way up and over. But there’s nothing below in the bathroom to break my fall. And the window’s so small there’s no
room to cram my feet in first, so I try to wedge my legs around the outside brickwork and work myself down the bathroom wall—my
left hand almost supported by the toilet-roll dispenser with the slick metal lid. I’ve now got grease on the front of my shirt
from the window frame. Great. The final drop is about four feet.

I cannot believe I am doing this, breaking into my own home, dangling over some really hard tile… . My respect for burglars
is rising by the moment.

Blood rushing to my head, I finally drop to the floor, landing really hard on my shoulder. I get up, inspect myself for damage,
and begin my search for clothes and work papers. Then my phone rings. It’s her.

“Steven?”

“Yes. Lindsey, do you know where I am?”

“No.”

“I’m in our house.”

“You’re in the house?”

“That’s right.”

“What are you doing in there? How did… I had the locks changed.”

“I noticed. Lindsey, what in the hell are you doing, locking me out of my home?”

“Don’t even start. What are
you
doing? How did you get in the house?”

“Jennifer’s bathroom window was unlocked. This is crazy, Lindsey. This is my house. I cannot believe you did this.”

“You need to get out of the house right now, Steven.”

“How could you possibly think it was a good idea to change the locks? Huh?”

“Steven, you scared me. You scared us. Gloria told me I should change the locks until we figure things out. I don’t know what
to do right now.”

I scream into the phone. “Gloria Creighton told you! Great. The voice of reason. She’s an idiot! I can’t believe this!”

“Please, get out of the house, Steven.”

“Lindsey, did you ever think I might need some clothes at some point? I’m picking up clothes and some papers.”

“I don’t know who to call. I want you out of there.”

“Stop saying that!” I yell.

“Stop yelling at me, Steven.”

“You locked me out of my own house!”

Then I hear a click. She has hung up on me.

I walk into the living room and sit down in the same chair I sat in the night they both walked out the front door.

What is happening? This is so stupidly out of control.

I don’t know what else to do. I remember I have Andy’s number. I call him.

“Hello? Hello? Geez, I hate that jingle.”

“Andy, it’s Steven.”

“The danged thing rang this time. I completely miss a bunch of calls earlier and this one gets through. I’m at the same place
the whole time. Go figure.”

I’m rethinking my choice to call him.

“I don’t even know why I called, Andy.”

“Well, I’m not sure how I answered. So we’re even. What’s up, Steven?”

“I’m so mad I can barely sit still,” I say. I’m up and pacing now as I talk.

“And so you called me? And to think I picked this one up and missed four others.”

“I’m serious, Andy.”

“So am I. I gotta get another provider. That’s what they call ’em, right? Providers?”

“Yes, Andy. Providers.”

“So, what’s up, young man?”

“My wife locked me out of my house.”

“Hmmm. That sounds serious.”

“Look, I’ve taken the high road for the last, what, nine days? And look what it’s gotten me. I should’ve never left this house.
This is my house. Right? This is crap. She’s got a whole pack of people taking up for her. It’s crap! I’m not going to let
this happen. If she wants someone gone, it’s gonna be her. I’ll freeze her credit cards; I’ll freeze the checking. I’m not
gonna keep doing this.”

The line’s silent.

“Andy?”

“That’s another thing. The line can just go dead on me. For no reason. Thought it just happened again. Obviously not. ’Cause
I can hear you talking now clear as a bell.”

“Did you hear me, Andy?”

“Yes, I heard you, Steven. So you’re gonna freeze her credit cards, huh?”

“I just don’t want to make Jennifer pay for this.”

“This reminds me of a Henny Youngman joke,” Andy says. “You ever hear of Henny Youngman, Steven?”

“I guess.”

Andy continues, “So a guy walks into the bar and says, ‘My wife’s credit card just got stolen.’ So, I ask him if he’s going
to shut down the account. He answers, ‘I don’t think so. He’s spending less than she did.’ Woo, that’s funny!”

I do not get this guy at all.

“Anyhoo,” he finishes, like a bad comedian. “So, what then, after you freeze the cards?”

“I don’t know. I’m just sick of this.”

“Steven, listen to me. I want you to gather up enough clothes and stuff to last for a while, and then I want you to walk out
the door and lock it behind you.”

“What? I’m really serious, Andy.”

“So am I, Steven. You scared your wife. I have no idea what you did, but you really scared her. And she has no ability to
stop you. Only this temporary fix. You have no idea how serious this is. Unless I’m wrong, you don’t want to lose her. And
you are this close to losing her—this close. And you don’t want that, Steven. Listen, you don’t know me well yet, but this
one is about you, my friend. Now you can hang up on me and freeze all the accounts you want, but tonight the furniture will
move again, and you won’t be able to turn that light on again for a long time.”

“She says she’s considering getting a separation,” I add.

“I believe that.”

“So, how is this about me?”

“Because, Steven, you’ve been arrogant enough to think you know what the issues are and how to solve them. You’ve been blaming
everyone around you. And they can’t take it anymore. They’re so devastated by you that they’re locking you out… . Other than
that, everything’s just fine.”

“Yeah, but I—”

“Walk out the door, Steven. I’m hanging up now. You can call me, if you want, once you get back to the office or your hotel.
Good-bye, Steven.”

“Good-bye, Andy.”

I sit back down in the chair, exhausted. I can feel the pain of my fall through the window all over. My head is throbbing.
I want to say,
I’m not gonna listen to his psychobabble
.
Why would I listen to that? He agrees with her. He’s on her side.
But as I sit there, I see Andy’s goofy face staring at me, saying, “
And until you let someone shine a light into your room, nothing’s gonna change. Life’s gonna get more painful, more confusing,
and darker
.”

And I find myself going upstairs, packing clothes into a suitcase, and walking back downstairs and out the door, locking it
behind me.

(Late Morning, Thursday, March 26)

It’s now been fifteen days since I entered my home without the use of a bathroom window.

Following Andy’s counsel, I have stayed away. Anything I needed beyond what I grabbed earlier, I’ve purchased. Lindsey has
appreciated my efforts and said yesterday that she’d like to meet somewhere soon and talk. She sounded less intense. I’ve
picked Jennifer up from school several times to have that time together I missed two weeks ago. Things seem to be getting
better.

Back at the Marriott, I’ve trained housekeeping, through a series of daily notepad instructions and exorbitant tipping, to
take care of my dry cleaning and leave a bowl of oranges on the counter each evening. I love oranges and probably worry I
could get scurvy or something, living in a hotel. I’m also putting in a pretty consistent hour of weights almost every night
in the exercise room downstairs, which is more than I was getting at home.

I gotta say, there’s something I’ll miss when I move out of hotel life. You make a mess and someone cleans it up. And they
smile at you for the privilege of doing so. Nobody’s on you about making the bed, and you can watch whatever you want on TV.
And people are nice to you. Everywhere you go: “Hello, sir.” “Nice day, isn’t it, sir?” “You think the Lakers will beat the
Spurs tonight, sir?” Nobody calls me “sir” at home.

Today I’m supposed to meet Andy again. I almost called it off. I’m feeling manipulated by him. His revving engine drowned
out any chance for response the other night. I don’t mind driving around in the evenings, but this is a workday. Monday through
Friday is a nonstop blur of fifteen-minute meetings and cell messages. To top it off, I left the office yesterday feeling
as if a coup is brewing between a couple of board members and our head of human resources, all aimed in my direction. I don’t
get Whitney. She’s the head of HR, but she’s far more effective as director of rallying the board against Steven. I need to
get there before they convene any more private teleconferences.

Andy is already there when I pull up to Fenton’s, sitting comfortably with his arm across the front seat of his car. He looks
as if he slept in his clothes. I feel incredibly conspicuous in my suit. But I needed to wear it today for an earlier meeting.
He’s wearing those same dated sunglasses. I’m wearing my Oakleys, but he hands me a pair of thick, heavy, old-school shades.
“About your sunglasses,” he says. “Uh, how do I say this delicately? These might look better, don’t you think?”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

“Look,” I shoot back. “These are top-of-the-line. Light as a feather. The best out there. Yours look like you found them under
a pile of old clothes at a thrift store.”

“Are you kidding?” He scrunches up his face in disbelief. “Who would throw away a pair of these babies? You’ll never find
a pair of Wayfarers at a thrift store, buddy. These are Ray-Bans, my friend. The genuine article. Bob Dylan’s wearing these
on the cover of
Highway 61
.”

He hands them to me again and says, “Humor me.”

I begrudgingly put on his twenty-pound sunglasses, and we’re off.

This whole thing doesn’t feel right. In daylight, this whole
whatever it is
feels really odd. I don’t know if I’m frustrated with Andy’s sunglasses issues or with having to cancel three meetings while
he takes for granted that I will. I did appreciate our talk on the hill last week. It was good to get that all out. And as
much as I wanted to choke him during that phone call from my house, what he told me was probably right. It sure seems to have
worked with Lindsey. But it’s time to end these therapy rides. I need to tell Andy enough to let him know he’s in over his
head. He already knows way more than I’m ready to let anyone into. I know how these things go. You let one person in on an
issue, and the next moment you’re sitting in a circle with a bunch of slugs still living at home, one of them saying, “What
Steven needs is a giant hug!”

So I’ll frighten the old guy a bit. Give him a few choice excerpts from the last fight with Lindsey. Then I can thank him
for his concern and get back to my world.

“Andy, I’ve got real anger issues,” I blurt out over the noise in the car.

He looks over at me and smiles. “Really? Now, see, I never would have guessed that. Anger, huh? Shoplifting, maybe, but anger
you say. Boy, you think you know a guy.”