Bo's Café Read Online Free PDF Page A

pictures.
    That’s when I notice it—a picture of my dad and me on a fishing trip. I can’t be more than eight years old. Dad used to take
     me on those half-day chartered fishing trips off San Pedro. We’d go with his buddies—three or four guys who show up in a lot
     of our pictures. We really didn’t know their families that well. They were just normal guys who grew up together in the neighborhood
     and never left. They all did guy stuff together: bowling, fishing, sitting around playing cards at Petrazello’s. There was
     a heavyset bearded guy; Stan, I think. He was a machinist or something like that. I just remember his big, beefy hands always
     had grease in the cracks. There was Mr. Ketchum. He was a salesman of something or other. He and his wife did a lot of stuff
     with my parents. I really couldn’t remember much about the others.
    In the picture, I’m holding a fish that is several feet long. My dad has his arm around me. He’s smiling. And behind us are
     the boys: Stan; Mr. Ketchum, a real tall guy wearing a straight-billed ball cap with a marlin on it. And
him
—Andy. He’s younger and thinner, but it’s clearly him.
    He’s smiling that same obnoxious grin, saying,
That’s right, kid
.
It’s me, Andy. You thought I was making it all up didn’t you? You know, I actually helped you bring in this little trophy
     fish, my friend. I’m in several others too.
    I sit there stunned. This guy’s a part of my family history, and I have no memory of him. I laugh out loud.
I almost decked a friend of our family.
    I decide to e-mail him.
    Andy,
    So, my wife and I, last night, we sort of got into an argument. Bottom line, I think maybe I could probably use a drive around
     to air some things out. Sorry again for how I reacted.
    Steven Kerner
    Within an hour, at 5:20 a.m., I get his reply.
    Steven,
    She’s a lot of Detroit magic, she is. Couldn’t shake thinking about her, could you?
    Before you agree, there are a few things you should know:
    1. I smoke cigars. Really good cigars. Never inside, but when I’m out in the Electra, I smoke. I’m not proud of it. But there
     it is.
    2. Sometimes I play music while I’m driving. Sometimes I play it really loud. So, there’s that.
    3. We don’t talk about the Los Angeles Rams’ move to St. Louis. It’s still a sore subject.
    What do you say we meet at Fenton’s next Tuesday, around 7:00 p.m.?
    Andy
    That’s it? Did this guy not get my e-mail? Next Tuesday? That’s five days from now! And he makes no mention of anything I
     said. He’s kidding, right?… No wonder my dad stopped hanging around with him.

The Marriott, Room 643
    (Midmorning, Thursday, March 12)
    By eight thirty Lindsey and I are on the phone with each other. She informs me that Jennifer needs to be in her home and that
     I should be the one who finds a place to stay. This isn’t blowing over. I work until noon and then leave the office with an
     excuse, spending the rest of the day locating a hotel between our home and my office in Santa Monica. I end up at a Marriott
     in the business section of El Segundo. I drive back home to pick up some clothes. As I open the front door everything feels
     very odd, as if my own home is no longer even sure I should be here. This whole thing feels so humiliating. What am I doing,
     in the middle of a workday, packing toothpaste and business clothes to stay somewhere a few miles away? I change into jeans
     and a sweater. Before I walk back out the front door I hesitate, wondering what I’m giving up once I give in to this.
    It feels like almost everyone is aware of my situation. Our next-door neighbor, Melanie Patton, an overweight woman in a perpetual
     hairnet, is out front watering bushes as I walk from the house carrying my hang-up bag. She’s never liked me. I think her
     fashion sense brings property values down. She peeks over her sunglasses at me and turns away, like she’s thinking,
Finally
.
    The guy at the Marriott front desk stares at