Bo's Café (22 page)

Before too long I sit up and realize we’re driving down Washington Boulevard—that ribbon of asphalt forming well back into
Los Angeles proper and eventually dwindling to a single congested lane, dividing Venice from Marina del Rey. It ends in a
cul-de-sac a few steps from the boardwalk and from Bo’s.

The anxiousness returns.

How will my hygienically sensitive wife respond when Hank and Carlos take food from her plate? Will Bo swear at her?

Bo greets us as we walk through the louvered front doors of Pacific Bayou.

“So the suit found a date, huh? What the deal is with dat?”

“Bo,” Andy intervenes. “This is Steven’s wife, Lindsey.”

She brightens. “Steven has told me about you, Mr. Bo.”

“Mr.
Bo?” He thinks for a moment, tilting his head. “Hmm. I like dat. I’m likin’ dat a lot!”

He yells into the restaurant, to the staff at the front desk, several yards away: “You hearin’ that in there? This beautiful
woman, she calls me
Mr.
Bo! Time da rest of you be showin’ that kind of respect! Startin’ today, it’s Mr. Bo around here.

“Mr. Bo.” He rears back and laughs out loud. “I does like the sound of dat.”

He spins back around to my wife.

“You eatin’ free today, pretty lady. Suit, he’ll be payin’ double, but
you
, you’re eatin’ free!”

We’re ushered through the restaurant and up and outside onto the deck. I’ve missed just hanging out here. Hank and Carlos
are sitting at the same table in the middle of the deck, like they haven’t gotten up since the very first time I visited.
I think Hank’s even wearing the same shirt.

Pulling out a chair for Lindsey, Andy, acting like a maître d’, says, “Sit right here, young lady. I called ahead and told
them you two were coming. Bo wanted us all at the special table today.”

Bo politely hands Lindsey a menu and then barks at the rest of us. “Okay, here the deal is: We’re outta most everything on
the menu. You got boiled carp and scary mussels left over from last Sunday. You get you one check, not all separate. That
way maybe at least one of you be a decent tipper. Not a bunch of pocket change. Have you a nice day, an’ don’t make a mess!”

He turns to Lindsey and says under his breath, “You like shrimps?”

“Uhm… yes,” she says.

“You lucky today, pretty lady,” he says, snatching the menu back from her. “I take care of you.”

As Bo turns to badger more of the deck crowd, I take a deep breath and say, “Lindsey, this is Carlos and this is Hank.”

Stating the obvious, I add, “I—I’ve told you a lot about them.”

Carlos and Hank jump up like a couple of seventh graders about to pull a prank.

Hank blurts out, “Hi, we’re the Wasabi brothers. Everything you’ve heard about us is true.”

Carlos steps directly in front of Hank and takes Lindsey’s hand. “Please, let Carlos Badillo shelter you from my remedial
friend. He’s not so well. And don’t feed him nothing. You won’t be able to get him off your lap. Welcome to Bo’s, Lindsey.
We’re all really happy you’re here.”

Hank steps back next to Carlos. He says proudly, “We were a little rough on your husband a couple of times back. We weren’t
sure we’d ever see him back here.” He forces an expression that almost rises to a smile.

Bo barges in with Cynthia on his arm, beaming as if he’s just won a prize at the fair. Depositing her in a chair next to Hank,
Bo leans in to Lindsey and says under his breath, “Dis lady you gotta know. She’s the one keeps all these crawfish in line.
They don’t be skippin’ out with a bad tip with her around. More customers like this lady, and maybe someday you gonna see
Bo shut down this crab shack, move down the Trinidad way, and spend all day drinkin’ rum and playin’ Sudoku.”

He laughs as if he’s the funniest thing he’s met all day. The deck crowd joins in.

Just behind them Keith, Cynthia’s husband, walks in wearing a commercial pilot’s uniform.

“Hey, everybody, look!” Carlos says, bowing deeply. “The flyboy returns from the Orient! With spices and… what… abacuses?
Hey, man! Welcome home.”

Everyone stands to greet him. Keith looks like what you’d hope the pilot on your flight would look like. Tall, professional,
solid, and stable-appearing. His greetings are warm but precise. Standing next to Hank, I imagine a picture of them in the
dictionary next to the word
contrast
.

Hank lights up. “You bring back any of those bags of honey-roasted peanuts?”

“Sorry, Hank. All they’ve got now is what they call ‘pretzel medley.’ ”

Hank shakes his head.

“When did the pretzel get to medley status?” Carlos questions. “You gotta earn your way to medley status, man.
Fruit
medley—now
that’s
a medley. Remember? You had your pears in there, man, grapes and peaches and maraschino cherries and who knows what else?
The whole thing swimming around in, like, mango juice or something.
That’s
a medley. What, you add some bland dough sticks to pretzels, and suddenly some marketing suit calls it a medley? I don’t
think so.”

Andy looks off in the distance, wistful. “I’m so old I can remember when they gave you real silverware with the meals. In
coach!”

“You got meals? When did
that
stop?” Hank bellows.

Keith sits down next to Cynthia. “About the same time they started making
plastic
pilot’s wings for us to hand out to the kids.”

I offer my hand to Keith.

“Hello. I’m Steven and this is my wife, Lindsey.”

“I’m pleased to meet you both,” Keith says as he shakes my hand. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long for this introduction. I’m
in the air three out of four Thursdays. So I miss out on a lot of deck action.”

Keith hugs Cynthia tightly. “I’ve really missed you, my wife. How’s the book coming? Are we going to be rich?”

“I’d keep your day job.” They hug each other again.

Soon we are all sitting at the table. The banter is flowing freely, but Lindsey seems, to me, unusually subdued and quiet.
Well, of course. These guys are a lot to handle the first time. She’ll settle in and really enjoy this.

Cynthia makes an attempt to draw Lindsey into conversation a couple of times, but for some reason my wife—usually pretty social—isn’t
entering in.

What’s going on? Is she willfully trying to not like this? Maybe because I think this is a great place and because these are
my friends, she’s going to go silent and pretend to not enjoy herself? Is that what’s happening here?

“Lindsey,” I whisper. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s great. Really. I’m fine.” That’s all she gives me.

Something’s wrong. I can feel it. I’ve been here before. I know this feeling. Still…

Cynthia smiles and places her hand on my arm but addresses Lindsey. “These guys are pretty random. I don’t even try to keep
up. I just let them babble.”

Cynthia must feel it too. She can see what Lindsey’s doing. They all can.

“What do you mean, babble?” Carlos objects. “My man Hank and I, we don’t babble.”

“Right.” Cynthia rolls her eyes. She now places her hand on Lindsey’s arm. “Just before you got here, they spent several minutes
debating whether the boulders on the hills outside Temecula are actually giant petrified vegetables. I rest my case.”

“That’s important talk,” Carlos defends. “This is how science got started. Guys like us.”

A shrimp cocktail is placed in front of my wife. Lindsey looks at it and says, “Why is it on a plate? I thought you were joking
about that.”

I can’t believe she’s saying this.

“Come on, Lindsey,” I plead. “It’s cool. It’s different. Just taste it.”

There is an awkward silence at the table.

“Just try it,” I say louder, fully embarrassed.

I only said what everyone else was thinking. Geez, it’s like nothing has changed. You try to do something a little more fun
and unusual, and unless it comes from her, she can’t get with it.

“I wasn’t complaining, Steven.” She takes a bite. “It’s good. I thought you were kidding about it being on a plate, that’s
all. Then they bring it on a plate and… I didn’t mean anything by it. I’ve just never seen shrimp cocktail on a plate.”

Carlos pats her on the back. “It’s great, huh? I love how they put all those purple onions around the shrimp. Keeps my people
in jobs. Now that you’ve tasted it, you’re gonna keep coming back. I know it.”

Oh, come on. Now she’s got Carlos trying to make her feel better because she’s got such an insensitive husband. Yeah, I’m
such a bad guy. And by the way, Carlos, that’s the same line you used on me the first time I was here. Come up with a new
one sometime, huh?

“So, Lindsey,” Andy says suddenly. “Tell us about you. How long have you been putting up with this bozo?”

Lindsey looks at me and then quickly down when our eyes meet. “We met when I was a senior in high school.”

“Oh,” Carlos helps. “So you two go back a ways. That’s great.”

He’s trying to help make things work, but my wife is giving absolutely nothing. She barely looks up.

Andy’s staring out at the ocean. He seems slightly embarrassed. Maybe he’s thinking this wasn’t such a good idea. This is
just what I feared. She doesn’t get what goes on here.

A conversation full of easygoing banter has quickly become stilted and forced simply because my wife can’t relax and enjoy
something a little different from her regular day-to-day.

A server sets a crab salad in front of Cynthia.

Andy steps in. “I’m really glad you two were able to join us today.”

I can tell he’s trying to smooth things over. Lindsey’s strangeness has got me completely off balance. I should just take
her aside in private and tell her I’m frustrated, but that seems even more awkward.

“These are good people, Lindsey. They’ve become friends of mine.”

Nothing more than a clumsy nod.

It amazes me how my wife can get everybody rushing to her defense simply by playing the frightened, unhappy child. I’ve seen
it so often, but never as clearly and blatantly as right now. All I wanted was for her to meet these people I’ve come to know
and enjoy, and the very fact that I enjoy them is her signal to derail the day.

“Lindsey, why don’t you at least say something?” I ask. “People are talking to you, and you’re giving them nothing.”

“She seems to be eating shrimp,” Hank says, giving me a furrowed brow.

No, Hank, she’s trying to wreck the day for me.

I sigh and look down at my hands. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d enjoy this place.”

She looks up at me with a hurt expression, trying to telegraph to the whole table what a bad person I am.

“What do you want, Steven? I
am
enjoying this place.”

I can feel several pairs of eyes burning into me. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Lindsey.”

“What? What are you talking about? Steven, stop it. You’re doing it again.”

Her voice is loud and piercing.

Great! Now you’re mad. And you’re going to let everyone see it. Now I’ve done something so terrible, and you’re angry and
so you’re justified, right? You win. You put on a show, stack the deck. Yep, looks like you got what you wanted.

“Steven, I don’t think—” Cynthia starts, but I cut her off.

“What are you getting bent out of shape about, Lindsey? How hard is it for you to just enjoy yourself, enjoy this place? You’re
acting like it’s this huge burden.”

“A huge… ?” She glares at me, and then her eyes turn to the others at the table.

No you don’t. Don’t go after their sympathy. Stand up for yourself if you’re so innocent. This is between you and me.

“Steven, do you remember you asked me to tell you when you’re doing it. Well, you’re doing it.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Please! Just stop it.” The last part she hisses through her teeth.

The next few moments are a blur. I snap back with something, and Andy is suddenly trying to calm me down like I’m an out-of-control
kid.

No, Andy. That’s not right. That’s not what’s going on here!

And then I just blow. I say some really stupid, really mean things that all seem necessary in the moment. Suddenly Lindsey
is on her feet, crying. She tries to get away, but discovers there is no exit in the direction she has run. Still crying,
she’s forced to turn around and walk past us all before she can get off the deck and down the stairs.

I stand to go after her, but I feel Hank tugging my arm and blocking my path.

I hear Cynthia say, “Hey, Steven, I’ll go down and find her, okay? Why don’t you just hold on a second, dear.”

Everyone is trying to not stare at me. That’s when it hits. The avalanche of realization. The crystal clarity of knowing what
you’ve done a split second after it’s irretrievably out there. I’ve hit the Send button, and the e-mail is gone. And I can’t
unsend it. In a matter of seconds I can see the entire conversation, the entire scene from three or four angles that simply
did not cross my mind until this moment. I’ve lost it again.

I look around the deck. Everyone is frozen in their places. I am suddenly hit with an overwhelming wave of shame and embarrassment.
I am angry, at myself. Angry that I could let myself get this exposed. Angry and afraid that I broke my promise.

Hank is still standing next to me. A moment ago he was blocking my path. Now I realize he has an arm around my shoulder.

“You okay?” he says, looking directly at me with incredible care and concern. For the first time I realize Hank is my ally.

“I blew it,” is all I can say.

He gently turns me around and guides me back into my chair. Carlos is leaning in across the table. “You okay, man?” he asks
quietly. “What’s going on?”

What is going on?
I have no idea. I have no explanation for what just happened. How did I not see what was happening and get a grip on it?

Hank has moved to Lindsey’s chair. He picks up a shrimp from her abandoned plate and says, “Did you think you wouldn’t mess
up again? Because you will, you know.”