Chapter 2: Day 2: Continued

The Strand is six-mile strip of concrete  walkway that runs parallel to and directly adjacent to the beach in Manhattan Beach from El Segundo to Redondo Beach. It is lined with some of the most ridiculously priced real estate in the world. On postage stamp sized lots the uber wealthy such as early employees of Facebook buy up these properties for several million dollars only to knock down the existing homes and spend millions more building new structures that featured indoor swimming pools and garages with lazy Susan’s so they would not have to back out a street.

I love walking along the Strand. It is part exercise, part the sport of people watching and part the Zen relaxation of walking by the sea. The morning following my conversation with Conor I found myself walking along the Strand with Delilah. Buddy boy had gone off to some meeting in Orange County and we had decided to get some exercise by walking along the Strand. At home, I go to the gym almost every day. Not only do I enjoy the physical aspects of working out but if, I am being honest, I enjoy the sightseeing. I am irrevocably heterosexual, and I grew up at a time where gawking at women was nearly an Olympic sport and considered an innocent pastime.

The women at my home gym were pikers compared to the ladies who were power walking along Manhattan Beach’s esplanade. These were, at least according to my friend Lani who lived in town, the 2^nd and 3^rd wives of the ultra-wealthy who lived in town. Like professional athletes who consider their bodies their money makers they hired a slew of support personnel such as physical trainers, dieticians, and Dr’s to maintain themselves in the peak of physical perfection. It was truly a sight to see these examples of physical perfection, many of them surgically enhanced, speed walking along in sports bra and tights, trying to expend enough calories so perhaps they could have a cup of broth for lunch. Which is why I was only half listening to Delilah as we made our way down the strand. And then she said something that snapped me out of my sightseeing.

I said “Delilah. I am sorry. I missed what you just said. Would you mind repeating it.”

She replied, with an understandable annoyance “ I said, that I need your help with Con.”

This was an astounding development. I, who she had always thought of as a bad influence on her husband. Who she had accused of corrupting her children needed my help? Too astonished to say anything else I replied “How.”

She launched in “Did you see how much he had to drink last night?”

“Del, yes I saw.” And added, with shade “But, I didn’t think much about it. What’s on your mind.”

“He is drinking too much. He is an alcoholic.”

The fact that my buddy could be an alcoholic was not a surprise to me. He comes from a long line of them. His mother was a nonfunctioning alcoholic who could barely get out of bed. His father was a functioning alcoholics who could perform at the highest level of business and consumed copious amounts of alcohol to smooth out the edges of his day and maintain equilibrium. His son Duke had succumbed to this disease.

I replied to Del “I am not trying to be difficult, but I am not sure what your concern is right now. He may be drinking a little more now than in the past but having a cocktail at the end of the day has always been a part of your lives together. I can remember you telling me that it was an  important of your daily ritual. You know, like Con’s grandparents. Having that pop at the end of the day to signify the end of the workday and the beginning of the evening with your family.”

“It is more than him drinking a little more.”

“What do you mean? Is he day drinking.”

“No, it isn’t that. Now when he drinks in the evening, he gets nasty.”

Delilah knew something about nasty drunks. Her father had been one. I had the unfortunate experience of  seeing it firsthand. Just before Del and Con married, I was invited to her parents’ home for dinner. If someone had snapped a photo of the dinner that evening it could have been a Normal Rockwell painting. Lovely split-level home in suburban New Jersey. The patriarch, sitting in command at the head of table laid out with their finest china and heirloom silver, doling out slices of roast beef while bowls of potatoes au gratin and green bean casserole passed hand to hand. The conversation had been lovely and light, centered on Del and Con’s upcoming nuptials. How lovely the chapel at Union College, where they would be wed, was, and how even though it was in New York State it was not inconvenient at all. It could not have been more pleasant. Until it wasn’t.

Del’s father, Erik, made a comment that Ronald Regan would go down in history as our greatest President. I am not a fan of Ronald Regan. He was a polished actor who turned out to be the original sin of the Republican party introducing it the evangelicals and other deplorables. Used to dinner conversations at Con’s family table and mine where civil disagreements over politics often took place, I made the mistake of offering up the opinion that Ronald Regan’s administration was akin to a frat party. That it was going to feel great while it was going on but the hangover the next day would be epic. You know those cartoons where the characters’ face turns red from the neck up, eyes bulges and steam streams out their ears just before their hat blows off their head. That was Mr. Nelson’s reaction to my comment. He proceeded, in a voice just below shouting and in an angry almost violent tone, accusing me of “insulting him in his own home. Who did I think I was, some pissant Jew, to dare suggest that his opinion maybe wrong? And that I needed to apologize or get the fuck out of his house.”

If we are being perfectly honest. I am not sure those were his exact words. The passing of four decades has eroded my exact memory. But they are close, and my memory has not faded regarding tone or tenor. I clearly remember the look on Delilah and her mother’s face. They showed unsurprised fear. It was clear that “Erik the Red,” as I later dubbed him, reaction was something they had dealt with many times before and many times it had gotten far worse. How much worse I would not learn for years but it was clearly awful because both immediately became supplicants apologizing for me, saying that I must have misspoken and that I meant no insult to him while at the same time telling him how much everyone agreed with him. I, realizing that I had stepped on a landmine, did my best to stutter out an apology saying that “I had no intention of insulting you. I only meant to offer my opinion and if offense was taken then I could not be more apologetic.”

He did not accept my apology. Instead, he got up from the table without a word but with dagger eyes for me and disappeared behind a door that led to the basement. I was mortified. I apologized to Mrs. Peterson and Del saying while I was confused about what I had done to poke the beast. I had meant nothing by it and please accept my apology for ruining our dinner. They were polite about it although you could still see the fear in their faces telling me it was not my fault. “He has his moods” and had a “hair trigger” and not to worry about it.

 It was only the next day and after being sworn to secrecy that Con had told me the back story about Erik. He was a middle level executive with a multi-national oil company that spent his lunch hours at a tavern self-medicating on Martinis. When he got home in the evening, he would have several more drinks and by the time dinner rolled around he was often out of his mind drunk. That the best Delilah, her sisters, and mothers could hope for was him being emotionally abusive to them, telling them how worthless they were. There were times where emotional abuse was accompanied by violence. Beatings, especially when the girls were children, were commonplace. Delilah’s mother had been used as a punching bag, but the children had it worse. Unspeakable things had happened in that house when no one was looking.

I had been horrified by Con’s revelation. I had only read about stuff like this in books and portrayed in movies. I could not believe it was happening to people I knew. When I asked why they didn’t do anything about it. Con told me he didn’t know. The girls had left home as soon as they could, but Mrs. Peterson had stayed either out of some misguided loyalty or lack of options.

Consequently, when Del told me Con had gotten nasty our conversation took on a whole new tone. I asked “Del, I can’t believe I am going to ask you this question. But is he getting violent with you? Tell me the truth. “

“No. No. It is nothing like that.” Giving me a look as if I were crazy for asking the questions and only then me recalling that Del didn’t know that I knew about her father’s violence. “When he drinks at night. He makes me feel small. Unheard. Belittled. He sneers at me and tells me my ideas are stupid. Or I don’t understand.”

“And when he does that, what do you do?”

“You mean when he gets nasty.”

“Yeah.”

“I walk away. I go to another room and read a book. I don’t want to get into a fight with him.”

I thought for a second. When Con and Del had lived in Atlanta they had been, much to my horror, become members of an evangelical mega church. While my buddy had always been spiritual, looking for the bigger questions in existence, I, perhaps in my ignorance thought these mega churches were more cult like than spiritual. Tithing to fill their coffers more important than helping the poor or lost souls finding a way to God. But I never let my prejudices interfere with the path they had chosen. When Con would spout the tenants of their church, I would just nod, smile, and think other thoughts as he would prattle on. I remembered one such conversation when Con told me that one of the things his church professed was that in a home there could be only one leader and that was the man. And that his wife must accept the decisions that they make as final. I can remember at the time thinking not only how much of appealed to my friend, as he could often be arrogant and self-righteous, but how for the same reasons it would be a dangerous invitation to his darker side.

I asked “How much does this have to with your faith. I mean the whole bit about a wife needing to follow the husband’s decisions.”

“That is not how it is supposed to work. The husband is supposed to cherish the wife’s opinion and try to reach consensus with her about decisions but if there is an impasse the husband is supposed to make the final decision.”

“Okay. And he doesn’t listen to you?”

“No. He does but then he puts me down and does what he wants.”

A young woman ran by looking as if she had invented cantilevers and counterweights, wearing nothing but a sports bra and yoga shorts. I was momentarily distracted, and I asked to cover my distraction “Give me an example.”

“You mean of how he ignores what he thinks.”

“Yes.

“She paused for a second and then said, “Did you know your buddy is going to get hair plugs.”

I was a little surprised. While Con’s hairline had been receding forever and his hair growing ever wispier for nearly as long, he told me that he thought men who fought their male pattern baldness ridiculous and had declared that he would never do it.

I said “Really?”

“Yes. And it’s expensive. Ten grand and with no guarantee it will take. Most people have to have more than one treatment. And when he told me he was getting it done I told him I thought it was ridiculous. Too much money. He looks fine the way he is. And we need to save money. Not spend it.”

“And what did he say to you?”

“He said that he was doing it for business. That in California it was important to look young. And that it was his money and if he wanted to spend it that way it was his right to do it. When I brought it up to him a few days later he cut me off and said he had decided as head of the household and that was it. “

At this point we were at the farthest point of the esplanade, where Manhattan Beach meets El Segundo. I turned to Del and asked, “I hear what you are saying Del but why are you telling me all this?”

“Because he is your best friend, and you should talk to him about it.”

My first thought on hearing all this was she had a lot of nerve asking me for help. I knew, because she had told me in no uncertain terms years before, what she thought of me. Now because she was unwilling or unable to confront the situation, she wanted me to help her. Fuck that. Fuck her. She was playing with me. She knew if I thought Conor was in trouble I would help.

I decided to respond with humor. “I don’t know what to say Del. It sounds like he is being an asshole” and laughing “Not that is news. But I will talk to him. See what is going on. “

Con had the weirdest walking gait of anyone I knew. Most people walk heal to toe. It produces a rolling step that is even and when put in the hands of a runway model a very appealing look. My friend started his step on the ball of his foot, never quite putting his heal down, and then rolling to the toe. It generated a very bouncy step and Popeye sized calves. Which being his best friend, I made fun of unmercifully, and all the time.

“Dude, is it possible that your calves have grown since your move to California.”

We were walking along “The Strand.” It was what Con had wanted to do when he returned home after his meetings. And even though I had already put in three miles with Delilah that morning I had agreed to go. Not only was my workout routine significantly more challenging back home but it seemed a good opportunity to get him alone and try to get to the bottom of Del’s revelations that morning. I would love to say that as we walked, we were contemplating the late afternoon sun, how the yellow of the near magic hour light reflected beautifully off the dark blue of the mighty Pacific. Excuse the pun, that would have been the enlightened way to see the world. However, it was Con and me. We had been admiring women together since high school more for an appreciation for god’s miracle, which is a woman’s form, than in a leering construction worker way

When a particularly stunning woman, albeit with major surgical enhancements front, back and up top, came jogging by Con asked, “You know what I love about California, Danny boy.”

I could have guessed but replied “No. What?”

“I love that the women out here are always trying to improve themselves.”

I laughed. “Yes. Yes, they do. Especially, here in Manhattan Beach where people use their money as tactical weapons. If your original equipment is not to your liking, there is no reason in the world not to go restomod and put in the latest accessories and modifications. “I paused for a second and said, “Speaking of which…” and let my voice trail off.

Con looked over at me and replied, “Speaking of which, what?”

“Delilah tells me that you are about to go all resto mod on your hairline.”

“She told you that.”

“Yeah. She did. What’s going on with you? You used to make fun of men who went through midlife crises by getting hair plugs.”

“Yeah, I did. But things are different here in California. It is all about how you look. Young is what sells. And having a receding hair line just doesn’t make it. It is like a present I am giving myself. To help me in business.”

I was not buying his doing it for business argument. Con was one of the vainest men I knew, and he was particularly vain about his hair. Back in the days when I had a six inch “Isro” and he had long flowing golden locks no one spent more money on shampoos and conditioners, more time blow drying his hair than him. The amount of time he spent grooming himself was a constant joke among myself and the various women he had dated before meeting Del.

“Bullshit, Con. It ain’t about business. It is about how you feel about yourself. You want to return to the glory days when you needed to spend thirty minutes blow drying your hair. I would have thought by now you would prefer a simpler morning routine.” ‘

Con knew I had him and only responded with a smile, so I went on “Isn’t ten grand a lot to pay for vanity.”

“She really laid it on you, didn’t she?”

“I guess. But she is concerned that your spending money that could be better used for something else.”

“That is not what she is concerned about.”

“Okay what is she concerned about?”

“I bet she didn’t tell you about the work she done.”

“What.”

“Take a look when we get back to the apartment. She had her butt and tits lifted a few months ago. The woman across the street convinced her to do it and I happily paid.”

“So, if it isn’t the money or the fact that you are improving your look surgically what is it?”

“She wants to be the boss. She thinks if she feels a certain way then that is the way it should be even though our faith teaches us something different.”

“You mean the husband is the final decision maker and that a wife needs to make peace with that even if she strongly disagrees.”

“Yep. She puts on all these pious airs. Even has a bible study group on Skype but she can’t accept it when I decide.”

I said nothing for a moment. I let myself get distracted by a spirited game of women’s volleyball that was taking place on the beach below us. I needed the time to think about what I was going to say next. I knew better than to get in between a husband-and-wife relationship. The nice thing to do would be to shut the fuck up. Let them figure out their path by themselves. But wouldn’t be kinder to let Con know what I saw and what I heard? My code has always been given the choice kind always trumps nice. I said, “She says, that you are nasty with her.”

“Boy you two really had the conversation this morning.”

“Yeah. She did quite a lot of vomiting on my shoes.”

“Maye I am a little nasty with her. But she is frigging infuriating. She always comes at the problem from the sides. Never directly. And when I confront her with it, she retreats into this place where she agrees with everything, I say just to get me calmed down when what I really want to do is have a knock down drag out fight.”

“You want to fight?”

“Yes. I want to fight with her. I want to get all the poison out. Clean out the wound. That way things can heal, and we can move on.”

“Have you told her that. Have you said you wanted to fight so you can clear the air? Get things out in the open and resolve things.”

“Sure. But she doesn’t seem capable of it. She turns into her mother dealing with her father. Doing whatever she can to deescalate the conflict and get the beast back into his cave.”

“Funny, not funny, that you should mention that.”

Con stopped and looked at me and for an awkward second neither one of us said anything and then I said “She thinks you are drinking too much. That you are an alcoholic.”

Conor resumed walking and set off at a slightly faster pace than we were walking previously. He got a step on me, and I scrambled to catch up. He asked in a tight-lipped tone “What do you think?”

“Buddy, I just don’t know. Not enough data. I only see you a few days a year.”

“Fuck that. What do you think?”

“I think you drink a lot. But you know this is coming from the perspective of somebody who barely drinks at all.”

“And?”

“The cocktail you make every night is gigantic. You must be putting six ounces of rum in that bad boy.”

“It isn’t that much. It’s mostly ice and tonic.”

I gave him a skeptical look and said “I don’t know how much booze you put in there. But you both know that it is more than a little. Combined with the wine you usually have with dinner let’s just say that it is probably more than the AMA would like you to drink in an evening. Can we agree to that at least?”

“Did Del mention to you how much she drinks at night. A couple of glasses of wine with dinner. A glass of port before we go to bed at night.”

“She didn’t but were not talking about her. We are talking about you.

We reached the northern end of the Strand, where it dead ends at El Segundo and turned around. We walked in silence for a while watching the gulls swoop and glide, riding the steady wind coming off the Pacific. The setting sun and the birds reminded me of the surfing posters that had been so popular when I was a teenager. A time when the Brady Bunch was the perfect family and lived the perfect California lifestyle. When problems were never too big that they could not be solved, and conflicts were ended with a silly quip and a hug. Much to our chagrin life had not turned out that way. We could not surf our way through it. We could not count on steady winds to swoop and glide through life. Families did not always get along and the only joke was that life was hard.

Conor interrupted my California dreaming moment by saying “It doesn’t effect what I do.”

“What doesn’t.”

“My drinking. My boss goes out of his way to say how happy he is with how things are shaping up out here.”

“I am sure you are doing a fantastic job out here. Would not doubt that for a moment. All that means is that you are functioning. It doesn’t mean you aren’t an alcoholic. And, I am not saying you are. You are far better qualified to evaluate that than I am. I can only tell you what I see. And what I see is that you drink a lot more than I do. I am holding up a mirror not offering up judgement.”

Belligerently, Con replied “So you are saying I am functioning alcoholic?”

“You could be. And if you want to be a functioning alcoholic, I could give a fuck. That is not business. You and I have talked about this a lot. How you choose to live your life as long as you are not doing irrevocable harm to yourself, or others is your decision to make. If I don’t like it that is my business and if it really bothers me or I think you are crossing the line, my job as your friend is to let you know. It is the Dorothy Parker quote.”

Con gave me a puzzled expression. I added “You know. The one that goes “You can lead a horse to culture, but you can’t make her think.”

Laughing Con said, “So now I am a whore.”

“And that surprises you how?”

Now we were both smiling. The serious tone of our conversation lightened but I could not resist throwing out one more thought. “Con, one more thought before we do a deep dive into the effects Lululemon has positively effected human existence in the early 21^st century.”

“What’s that.”

“Treat Del better. You and I share a common fault. Sometimes we see sooner than those around us and when they don’t get it, we get frustrated, and the snark and nasty can come out. Del will never be as quick out of the gates as you. Doesn’t mean you have to make her feel bad about it. Even if you are the final decision maker, you need to make her feel better about the decisions you make. You have finally reached a place in your life where you are living your dream life. A perfect job in a perfect place. Why fuck it up by having an unhappy wife?”

Con nodded and said, probably just to get me to shut up added, “When did get so smart?” It worked. I shut up about what was going on in his life and spent the rest of our walk being politically incorrect lecherous late middle-aged men who still thought ourselves irresistible to women.

When Conor had jumped in the shower after our walk, Del cornered me in the kitchen and asked plaintively “Did you talk to him about what we talked about?”

“I did?”

“And what did he say.”

“He is thinking about it. “

“About what?”

“About the fact that he may be drinking too much. I am not sure he is willing to admit it’s a problem. But he knows we are looking at him and that will make him look at himself. In any case, he thinks he is functioning fine.” Knowing that Del would not appreciate my Dorothy Parker quote I added “The best we can do is lead him to water. It is up to him if he wants to drink. Get it?”

She didn’t. So, I added “Seriously, I shook him up talking about his drinking. And I told him that he needs to treat you better too.”

“What did he say about that.”

“He said that he wants to fight with you.”

“What?”

“He wants you to push back at him. Fight with him to get your way. He thinks that you back away from arguments too quickly and that it leaves a lot of things unsaid, unexpressed and festering. It’s better to have a knock down drag out fight than constantly patching over disagreements.”

I could tell from Del’s expression she did not grasp what I was saying. I would have attempted to give her a better explanation when Con, finished with his shower, walked in, and said, “Who is for cocktails?”