Part 3 (1/2)

When Nick was going through his ordeal, the one thing he said that struck me was, ”It's the limbo that's hardest to deal with.” I was finding out what he meant. My lawyer was trying to get my July court date postponed, meanwhile pet.i.tioning the DMV to transfer my hearing to Irvine, where his office was located. Supposedly the Orange County DMV was more forgiving than the Los Angeles DMV. The only thing for me to do was wait. And keep my pa.s.sport ready.

The waiting was tougher than imagined, not knowing what was going to happen, trying to figure out who to tell and how much to tell. I still couldn't bring myself to tell anyone what my blood alcohol content was. It was too shameful. People looked at Nick with scorn and he'd only blown .08%, the legal limit. No way was I getting off with a reckless driving charge. Every day, I'd see the ”Pugliese” heading in my group of email folders and get a sick feeling. My instinct was to ignore it. Out of sight, out of mind? Perhaps. But I couldn't afford to ignore it. The trouble wasn't going away anytime soon.

In the meantime, Jessie and I talked on the phone every night, growing more comfortable with each other. I'd pepper her with questions, some silly, others serious, trying to learn all about her. She'd answer the question and turn it back on me.

”The person who asks the question doesn't have to answer,” I joked. ”That's the rule.”

But I answered. Every time. I wanted her to know all about me, too.

Life was slowing down and it was a welcome change. I couldn't wait to get home at night and call her. Her oldest friend, Darlene, was getting married in late August and the reception would take place on a boat, cruising the San Francis...o...b..y. Darlene (Dar, for short) and her fiance, Elliot, had hired a karaoke DJ and asked each wedding guest to prepare a song to sing. Jessie and I spent hours, over several nights, discussing potential songs for her. She has a lower singing voice and gravitated toward folk-rock songs with male vocals. ”Lodi” and ”Desperado” were her favorites.

As for seeing each other, she'd agreed to come down at the end of the month for Serve the City. The thought of us doing a service project together gladdened my heart. However, a few days later, she called and said she wouldn't be able to come after all. ”This month is too busy with work and church commitments.” I told her I understood, but sensed she was pulling back.

I knew we were at a crucial point in the relations.h.i.+p. There was the spark of a flame and I needed to fan it, lest it extinguish. I called her from work the next day and asked if I could fly up after the Serve the City project. It would be a shorter trip this time, but I wanted (and needed) to see her.

She was surprised, and somewhat impressed. ”I want to see you, too.”

I hung up and went online to buy a ticket. I'd registered for Southwest's Rewards program and was excited to start working toward my free flight. I booked the flight and hotel, again the Best Western Alameda. She called immediately afterward.

”Do you a have minute?”

I walked into the hallway for privacy.

”I don't know if it's a good idea for you to come up. I'm not sure it's practical and think maybe it's best if we stopped now. I'm afraid if we keep going, we're going to end up hurting each other. If it's not going to work out, why continue?”

I considered her proposal but countered it. ”I've already booked the flight. Let me come up. We'll talk about it and see what happens. I really want to see you, Jessie. Besides, we might find we can't stand each other after this weekend. Then the decision will be made for us.”

That made her laugh and she agreed to the plan. She would pick me up at the airport Sat.u.r.day afternoon and we'd have the rest of the weekend together.

That week, my friend Elizabeth called and told me Neil Bradford was playing a show Thursday night.

Neil is a singer/songwriter from Alabama. When I was living in Seattle, I listened to his music a great deal. He wrote great lyrics, mostly faith-based stuff, but was always real and honest and forthright in his writing. He said in an interview once that he wrote from a ”theology of the fall.” I related to that idea. I've been writing songs for fifteen years and have tried to incorporate those ideas into my songwriting-honesty, brokenness, but all the while redemption. Unfortunately, Neil's voice was a touch annoying and every song started to sound the same after a few alb.u.ms. I stopped listening to him over the years.

Neil was married with two sons. He even sang of his wife and boys in the lyrics to my favorite song of his. He'd never made any money from his music. It wasn't commercially marketable. He was in his 50s. I a.s.sumed he had quit by now, which is why I was surprised to hear he was still touring. Not only that, he was playing at The Tattered Leaf coffee shop. I played there regularly when I was performing. The owner, Rick, was a pastor in Venice-probably early-to-mid-thirties, very friendly, very mission-oriented. The coffee shop never made a profit but Rick saw it as his ministry. I told Elizabeth I'd go.

When I walked in, Rick recognized me immediately. It had been almost five years. I asked how the church was going, how his wife and kids were. He asked if I was still playing music. Said to let him know if I ever wanted to play a show there. I briefly entertained the idea but quickly dismissed it. Different season of life. I saw Elizabeth and her brother sitting at a table near the stage and joined them.

My first impression: The place was nearly empty. Neil had driven cross country for this tour, playing mostly coffee shops and local churches. I counted eight people (excluding us) in the audience, and two of those were working on their laptops, seemingly unaware a music show was about to take place.

I learned he'd divorced his wife a few years ago, the circ.u.mstances unknown. Shortly after, he married his backup singer, Carly. Now it was the two of them on the road, Neil playing harmonica and guitar, Carly playing keyboards. When he stepped out of the makes.h.i.+ft dressing room, I was shocked how haggard Neil looked. I'd met him several times and he was always upbeat, spry, and for lack of a better word...hopeful. He looked around the room, visibly upset by the spa.r.s.e attendance. He shook his head disgustedly and disappeared backstage.

By the time he reappeared, a few latecomers had trickled in, but not many. He played a nice mix of old and new material, but his voice was tired and more grating than I remembered. A heckler, who appeared drunk and homeless, made several rude comments until Neil finally stopped singing and addressed the man. ”We're trying to play for you. You can quit talking and enjoy the show or you can leave. Those are your two choices.”

The man mumbled under his breath and left. Neil resumed playing.

Neil was a history teacher before quitting to pursue music. He's a natural storyteller and, that night, took several minutes in between songs to tell the motivating stories behind them. Many were based on historical events or figures- Harry Truman, Pica.s.so and Sylvia Plath. Listening to his stories kept me in rapt attention and I thought several times if he'd quit spending all year on the road and write a book about his experiences, the potential would be limitless. Unfortunately, the addiction to performing dies a slow death, and often leaves one broken.

He told the audience he and his wife were homeless at the moment and living out of their van. The tour was scheduled for three months but he didn't know where they would live after that. He was always confessional in his music and I didn't know if he'd told us that because it was his nature or if he was making an appeal for gas money. When he played the opening to the song that mentioned his ex-wife, Elizabeth and I exchanged glances. How was he going to handle this? Would he still sing her name? He didn't. When it came time to sing the verse, he subst.i.tuted it with the line, ”This one goes out to all the pilgrims.”

Watching Neil that night, I found it hard to concentrate. I knew exactly what was going through my mind. I didn't want to end up like him, fifty and burned-out, a string of busted relations.h.i.+ps. He'd been singing about brokenness for so long he'd allowed himself to end up like those he was singing about. My life has never followed a linear path, from Seattle to Los Angeles, from music to acting to becoming a writer. It's tension-that's the best way I can describe it. I don't want to end up like that, but I'm compelled to pursue these things. Is it stubbornness? Pride? Many years ago, I heard a quote by St. Augustine. ”Love G.o.d and do what you want to do.” It lit a fire inside me and I've spent years championing the idea. G.o.d is good and sovereign and will take care of us, no matter what. But is it really that simple?

Maybe I was reading a lot into a music show, but I don't think I'm far from the truth. The worn look on Neil's face told me what I needed to know. Pa.s.sion, divided, gets the best of nothing. Here was a man who had never reconciled the conflict, who couldn't give up his musical dream and sacrificed the most important parts of his life because of it. I didn't stick around after the show. I drove home as fast as I could, without speeding, and called Jessie as soon as I walked through the door.

We talked longer than usual that night. We were excited to see each other in two days. I told her of the show, the lack of people, the frustration Neil showed by it. She said she'd always wanted to play the harmonica, a piece of information that would soon prove useful. We talked of pa.s.sion, values and perspective. I asked what qualities in a man she found most attractive. She'd written a list in her journal once and went to look for it while we talked. The three she listed were: ”humility,” ”stands up for me,” and ”keeps his promises.” She turned the question around on me.

My answer was quick. ”A woman who respects me and believes in me.”

The next morning, I mentioned the concert to Jon. He'd quit his band a year ago, after his second child was born. He was tired of spending so much time on the road. I shared my thoughts on seeing Neil worn-down and estranged from his first wife and kids.

”We're of the same mind,” he replied. ”Neil has the music in his very being. I have it but not like that. Not even close. This morning, I'm wearing a cloverleaf tie covered with cheesy smiley faces that my daughter bought with her own money and gave to me for my birthday. She wanted to pick out my clothes for work today and told me, 'Daddy, do you know why I like to pick out your clothes for work? Because I wuv you, and when you go to work and miss me, you can look at my tie and know that your sweet, little girl is wif you.' I would never give that up for all the music in the world. Don't know how Neil could.”

That night, Allison hosted a party at her house in Hollywood. A friend of ours, Graham, was turning 30. When asked if he had any special requests for the party, he said he wanted to put a band together with some of his musician friends and play for everyone. He'd been practicing the blues harmonica and finally felt competent enough to perform in front of friends. He asked me to play guitar, but I knew I had a long day ahead of me and didn't want to stay out late.

I arrived early to help him set up. Several years ago, I played a show in Hollywood and asked Graham, who'd just started playing the harmonica, to come onstage for a couple of songs. He was raw, without question, but his energy and enthusiasm made up for the inexperience. Listening to him warm up, I could hardly believe he was the same harmonica player. I asked how he had improved so much. He practiced while he was driving, wearing a harmonica brace around his neck. He showed me his collection of harmonicas. One of them was called the ”Red Howler” and came in a wooden box with a pair of devil horns on the logo. I took a picture on my phone and sent it to Jessie, along with the message: ”Your new instrument.”

”Really?” she answered. ”I love it.”

”I'll have to steal it from Graham first.”

”I want a Howler of my own. Don't want no other's spit on mine.”

”That's a good idea. I know Graham. You don't want anything to do with his spit.”

”How lovely,” she replied.

I was kidding, of course. Graham's harmonica is perfectly sanitary, but it put the idea into my head of buying one for her. The other guests soon arrived-by the time the band started, there were probably forty people, maybe a few less. It was the first time I'd seen many of them since the incident. I wondered how many knew of the DUI. Had the rumor spread? Who should I tell? I didn't want to hide it from my friends. I'd decided it was going to be my testimony. The worst mistake of my life, but I was letting G.o.d change me...heal me.

Graham made a short speech, thanking everyone for coming out, and the band started playing. Most everyone gathered around the makes.h.i.+ft stage. I saw a friend of mine, George, standing alone near the garage and went to join him.

I've known George since first attending Pacific Crossroads. He and I served on the sound team together. He's a guitarist and played in bands when he was living in Denver. He and his wife Summer invited me to Thanksgiving dinner that first year and I've spent every Thanksgiving but one at their home since.

George and I don't see each other much anymore. His family attends the 11:00 service. I attend the 9 a.m. They moved into a beautiful house in Sherman Oaks and he and Summer are busy raising their boys. Different seasons of life. It happens. I know there's no bitterness or resentment that we don't see each other.

”What's been going on?” he asked.

I wasn't sure where to start so I started at the beginning. I told him everything that happened, from the DUI to meeting Jessie, speaking openly about the spiritual place to which it had brought me. I realized, though painful, it had been one of the most beneficial times of my life. Who knows what eventually would have happened if I continued behaving recklessly?

Since I've known him, George has been very open about his struggles with p.o.r.nography. Specifically, internet p.o.r.n. It's haunted him for years. He shared with me that he'd recently gone through a difficult season in regards to that struggle. ”But G.o.d is gracious,” he said. ”The verse I keep in mind is, 'My grace is sufficient for you, my power is perfected in weakness.'”

I told George about the book I was writing and mentioned what an encouragement Robert had been. Robert is George's best friend and G.o.dparent to his sons. He's read every book I've written and given me invaluable criticism and feedback. George knew about the book-Robert had told him, and paid me a compliment as well. ”Mike's one of the best writers in our group,” he said. ”It comes naturally to him.”

George needed to leave and we said goodbye. Friends with families keep different hours than those without. ”I want to thank you for sharing,” he said. ”It's good you're able to be so open about it. If you don't mind, can I tell Summer? I know it will be encouraging for her.”

”Of course not. I trust you and Summer implicitly.”

Saying that made me realize: I trusted most of the people there implicitly. It was why the rumor hadn't circulated throughout the church. I've been exceedingly blessed to have so many trustworthy and amazing friends.