The Tell.
SUGARBOO DESIGNS IS ONE OF MY FAVORITES, AND THIS PARTICULAR POST HAS BROUGHT A WHOLE NEW MEANING TO THE IMAGE AND MESSAGE SHOWN HERE, AND BOY OH BOY, IS THAT MOON BRIGHT.
The intense menacing look of disgust was something I knew well. An ice-cold steeliness conveyed in a mere glance from those often unreadable eyes held the power to dismantle any type of defense when laser-focused in your direction, like daggers penetrating their way to your very core, stripping away one’s sense of self, and capable of leaving nothing but a fragile shell behind…much like the burning down of a barn. But that’s not the “look” I’m talking about… not this time.
If someone began telling a story but started by detailing a non-descript, large room with a wide picture window overlooking an enclosed, landscaped, courtyard patio below, what would you be likely to envision, and would you feel compelled to continue listening? If you’re anything like me, you’d probably tune them out pretty quickly. That’s an awfully bland start; it doesn’t paint any vivid image or stir much emotion, right? Nothing about that particular story’s opening sounds terribly interesting or even noteworthy? No, not on its own. But…what if you put that room in a hospital, on a surgical floor, with a particular patient holding court for a group of family and friends gathered together to visit with and hopefully cheer the person convalescing after surgery early in the Summer of 2019? Do those additional caveats “rev up” the interest factor? Still no? What if I told you the events of that day, with its fairly vanilla setting changed the course of someone’s life forever? Ok, that last statement may be a tad dramatic, even a smidge overstated, but nonetheless the events which took place that day called into question the reality of the previous 30 years for the storyteller. And that was just the tipping point.
If you had been a fly on the wall and caught the various exchanges which transpired in one of the hospital’s many rooms that day, you might think it was just a group of people filled with nostalgia and dysfunction, or likely both? But maybe you too would have captured the one fleeting but wildly enlightening moment which splashed panic across one specific face…I did. In a single heartbeat, my eyes were opened in a way that had never happened before. It was a real “barn burner” kind of moment, but let’s put a pin on that thought for the time being.
It’s no big secret and if you’ve happened to read some of my entries from the past two plus years of writing this blog, you’ve doubtless noticed I find inspiration from a random and diverse assortment of places and sources. Some ideas spring readily from photos, quotes and screenshots collected over many years. Others result from some of the unpredictable personalities which have both peppered and punctuated various periods in time, and still more arise from several challenging events of my own life. Whatever the source, one thing’s certain, about not just the mode of my inspiration, but life in general and it’s that, the only true constant in life is change. Ugh; what kind of oxymoron or crazy word salad is that? Sure does sound nuts, but still…here I am, living proof of that statement’s veracity. A decade ago, I never ever would have guessed that, the artist Eminem, the theme song, “Guts Over Fear,” actor Denzel Washington and a movie called “The Equalizer” would prove itself as comforting for me to watch as the movie “High Society” or the show “Gilmore Girls?” And, not to be too repetitious, but whoever would’ve thought I’d continue to find myself ‘mildly’ obsessed with and repeatedly drawn to movies like “Molly’s Game,” “Fracture” and “The Equalizer?” Why, what’s the draw? Are there similarities connecting the characters and themes featured in those films which bear some resemblance to me or my experiences? If so, what are they? In case you haven’t seen any of those movies… despite my exhaustive hints, it will suffice for now to simply state a few pertinent and corresponding facts …my Ex most definitely did not kill, or even “break” me (at least not yet, but certainly not for a lack of trying); I’m also no CIA operative, professional gun for hire, dirty cop nor Russian Oligarch. Plus, it is quite likely that I might be the world’s WORST poker player? With those disclosures made, please stay with me? I swear this is going somewhere.
Whats up with my predilection for the dark themes that wind their way through the plots of those movies which play on a loop and continue to take up space… living a rent-free existence in my brain? Circumstances and timing probably have something to do with it, as does my state of mind at any given moment, but let’s not go there now. Hmm, I’m starting to rack up a pretty decent stash of “save for later” items, aren’t I? That said, I’ve learned to accept that my mind can often resemble a maze, almost like a blender of sorts, and I need to be really careful how I manage my reactions when diving into what can often feel like an abyss. But, maybe that’s precisely the point? Is my awareness of that chasm what drives this continued exploration of unusually dark subject matter? Maybe I never really wanted to look deeply enough before to figure out the why? Maybe I’ve always been too afraid to explore those feelings until now? Maybe, finally seeing and recognizing all the darkness which has occurred in life, including my own, fuels the scrutiny of such triggering material? Or…maybe I’m just full of crap? But what if I’m not? What if there’s something to my nutty film fixations after all, and the connections I see will prove a valid and vital part of my journey? The movie, “Molly’s Game” is about high-stakes poker, at least in part? It also contains a “life-lessonish” vibe, which resonated and opened my eyes as I felt a strikingly familiar connection to the character and the plot. But, why? Maybe after my brief “two-step” through Texas, I figured I ought to know a little more about the premise of “Texas Hold’em,” if even only the card game? “Molly,” (because the character and I are now on a first name basis) as I was about to start explaining, opened me up to the concept of picking up on subtle little details that I’d always missed in the past. Despite my earlier comment about nonexistent poker skills, new pieces began to fall into place, when I began reexamining certain areas more closely, and part of the bigger picture started to click. Suddenly, terms like “Flop,” “Pot Committed,” “On Tilt,” and “Tell” symbolized more than mere cues used in card games, and while I may not be any better at playing poker, I’m definitely better for the fresh perspective. I have ZERO poker face, like not at all; in fact quite the opposite. I am an incredibly transparent person and have “tells” for the days, but before “Molly’s Game” I never knew there was a precise term to describe my open-book, modus operandi. This post and the takeaways are not really (or at all) about cards but more about knowing how and when to apply some of a poker player’s pearls of wisdom. No more “Blind Raise,” for me, thank you very much. Fortunately, it’s never too late to learn.
Oh my, are those shivers? I just felt a faint tingling ripple through my body and the tiny, wispy hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, signaling that I’m on to something. If I ever knew the meaning of those poker-type terms previously or thought that such a thing as a “tell” existed, I had totally missed the ability to detect one…that is up until that fateful Summer day in 2019.
I was raised to believe in fairytales and rainbows, even though I didn’t live them, in either my childhood, my marriage, nor in more recent years. And although I’m dating myself with this fairly absurd and very outdated analogy, nonetheless legendary film stars like Clark Gable, aka Rhett Butler in Gone With The Wind, or John Wayne, in just about anything, have always represented my image of the attributes a man should embody. No hating please; I know it’s pretty pathetic in this day and age to say such a thing, much less memorialize a statement like that in writing, but being politically incorrect doesn’t change that such a statement rang true for me. Again, I beg your indulgence as I try to unpack the baggage that accompanies this not so little revelation? I promise it’s going somewhere. I’ve always gauged strong men of principle along the lines of John Wayne’s character in the movie, “Big Jake,” or in keeping with the examples set by my Grandfather, Don Ryan, Sr., and my Stepfather, George, as well as a man referenced in my past post “My Brand Is Ten Minutes Late,” when thinking of men with strong characters. What I neglected to realize, for decades, is that while those men with their strong characters were the type of men I looked up to, they were not the type I was attracted to, looked for in partners, nor invited into my life. What a fascinating contradiction, but just as curious is what took me so blasted long to figure it out? Beats the hell out of me! See, in case like me you haven’t really absorbed this premise just yet, not all men possess such, much, or even any character at all. Far too many were/are just good fakers, players, or both. Plus, I was so in the habit of seeking approval and attention from men, as well as everybody else, I never thought to look deeply enough to discover if there was a real person there, or if it was a mask they were wearing that drew me closer. Were THEY truly decent human beings, or just flashy, shiny, moving targets, likely to change or disappear at a moment’s notice? Worthiness never really came into play in relationships, except when my character was concerned. Whether or not “they” (men, partners, even “friends,” not to mention a multitude of family members, including two devious and duplicitous siblings, an unbelievably misogynistic Uncle and a truly depraved cousin) behaved with integrity or a conscience, it was essential to me that I prove my worthiness at every turn. Yikes, that doesn’t sound like a very equitable or healthy equation, at all. Firstly, how the devil did that happen? Second, is that where the poker references might start coming in handy. Knowing all those terms, cues, and “tells” could have been really helpful back in the day, and even as recently as three years ago. Perhaps then I might have saved myself from a “sh…, you know what” ton of trouble? Now, we’ll never know.
I used to be genuinely concerned with being liked…by everyone, and needing men/people to want me around really mattered; more than thinking about whether I “LEGIT” liked someone and wanted them in my life. But just like in the blog post I mentioned before, I was late to realize exactly what was what, both then at that specific time as well as for years afterwards. That’s no longer the case…….
While I don’t subscribe to the outdated myths of my childhood any longer, I do still believe in the words I heard spoken from each of the four, strong, character-rich, men mentioned above. “Say what you mean and mean what you say!” It’s a pretty simple concept, or it should be? But millions more times than I can count, I’ve seen and heard every type of deviation from that premise. I think that’s where my “Molly’s Game” fascination and recent poker analogies, including “the tell” comes into play. It was a discovery long overdue, but once again better late than never. So how about we go back to the Summer of 2019 and an encounter which was destined to become my first “tell;” one of monumental magnitude, no less.
A slight knocking could be heard from inside the hospital room on Cottage’s third floor where Emily and I sat visiting her Sister, until very slowly the door started to open. The visitor might have been anticipating a quiet, solemn environment, and was approaching the situation with great trepidation. At that particular moment, however, the worry was for naught. The patient’s prognosis was improving and the devastating pain she had experienced two nights earlier, prompting the late-night trip over Hwy 154 from the Valley to Santa Barbara was being carefully monitored, medicated and managed. The room was actually filled with warmth, a fond exchange of memories and the sharing of familiarly humorous anecdotes. The meds Maren had been administered were wicked strong, and to say she was feeling no pain is wildly understated. Quite the opposite; she was feeling so good that she was insistent hospitalization was no longer necessary and had tried repeatedly throughout the previous night to rip out the variety of IV’s attached to both arms in order to “make a run for it.” To that end, Maren’s doctor had ordered a nurse/attendant be present to sit watch and prevent any impromptu escapes. The emergency surgery performed just 36 hours earlier absolutely necessitated hospitalization and thus, the added supervision. Regardless, the attendant was pleasant and maybe even amused by the retelling of stories from the animated patient. We were recounting tales from “the old days,” including the nine lives of Harley, Maren’s “Westie” who moved to California from New York with her. There may be an occasion to detail all Harley’s antics at another time, but for now the memory of late-night swims, a foray into freshly poured asphalt, the unsuspected dangling from the back of a convertible Jeep, a “dance” with a wild Boar or two, and multiple, electric fence encounters encapsulate just a few of the bullets that spunky little white dog dodged. We mused over the preparation of real Italian “sauce;” spoke of A.J.’s infectious smile and ability to charm his way in or out of most situations, as well as recounting his zeal for life and the multiple Emergency Room visits which accompanied his non-stop, youthful energy; we reminisced about Lilith and Dick’s never-ending weekend, or often weeklong, visits and how they tested Al’s hair-trigger temper with each occasion. A brief nod was given to “tennis Kevin,” his unique black “Hefty” bag method of packing for his annual Summer visits as well as the numerous others made over the years, and concluded with the acknowledgement that Al either never noticed, or simply didn’t care about the incredible disdain each of his kids felt for the unsuspecting tennis pro. What followed next was the inevitable discussion of Al’s revolving door of “new besties.” Homage was paid to the weekend trip made to Montreal on the new “BFF” of the moment’s Global, resulting in he and Al purchasing a luxury, $2 million dollar Canadian residence, as well as the “smuggling” of exotic cheeses back into the U.S. which ended with an armed search of the enormous jet by Federal Law Enforcement agents, both human and K-9, while we (the kids, Maren and I) sat watching, fearful of the outcome. Never a dull moment could have been our family tag line.
The circuitous journey down memory lane wound up recalling, fondly, all the evenings we spent together eating Tuna Pasta and watching “Sex and the City” in the cozy family room adjacent Roblar’s generously sized, galley kitchen. Regardless of whether Al was travelling or merely ensconced several feet away in his large Media Room glued to the sport of the season, his viewing of it all was a requirement of Al’s existence. Fixation on the various sports playing on each home’s big-screen TV wasn’t a “sometime” occurrence; it was an each and every time, to the exclusion of any other conflict or circumstance, kind of thing. Then quite abruptly, a change of vibe occurred in the room and remembrance of those events spurred discussion of each Sister’s many encounters with Al’s numerous “burner phones,” and how the discovery of each device was accompanied by the appearance of a new “burner bimbo.” The atmosphere was fairly light-hearted while they initially compared notes about the assortment of lies each Sister had caught their Father mired in and all the deceitful, devious schemes he was engaged in for years. Maren continued and went so far as to tell the room’s occupants how she no longer trusted Al any further than she could throw him, but that, with the exception of my money management skills, she did trust me. I couldn’t, and didn’t, rebuke her for expressing that sentiment; I understood. It was well-known although undoubtedly and supremely embellished with each instance of Al’s retelling, that I had confessed, very early on in our divorce process, and was guilty of signing Al’s name on checks made out to myself. The entire amount over 19 years, 17 of which we were married, didn’t surpass $60,000, but nonetheless I accepted responsibility for my transgression. Undoubtedly, Al used that information to impugn my credibility and character with his older daughters and anyone else who would listen. It’s what he did, or does. I wonder though, if Al ever shared with his eldest two daughters about the extra $60,000 dollars PER MONTH income he had failed to disclose either to me or during our Settlement negotiations? That amount was in addition to his already enormous monthly earnings. Did he ever level with them about the lengthy list of real estate and other assets he withheld, hid, or fraudulently and temporarily transferred ownership of, to suit his gain, (or perhaps more appropriately stated) his game? No, I doubt it; such information wouldn’t fit terribly well with the “victim” narrative which he likes to wear, much like an inmate wears a number in their mugshot. Nevertheless, whether Al “owned” his enormous misrepresentations or not, those details were discovered later during depositions, a front page article entitled, Suit Slams ‘Ponzi Pair’ in the “New York Post,” penned by one Kieran Crowely, as well as numerous incidents of perjury he committed through legal motions, his Bankruptcy filing schedules and other documents of subterfuge.
All of the “rehashing” aside, apparently time really does have a way of numbing pain that was once excruciating, as the Sisters seemed far more interested in maintaining a relationship with one another rather than letting obstacles of the past interrupt the present or the future. Al’s list of lies, indiscretions, as well as his peculiar taste for, and the constant juggling of men (and women) friends had become so commonplace, the girls appeared almost immune to any lingering feelings of hurt, shame or embarrassment they might have once known. But the tone in the room changed yet again when Maren relayed to the attendant that the fun we had always shared together had been tainted; torn apart by Al and his constant aberrations. The regret in Maren’s voice was undeniable, but I didn’t know the exact root. Was it was caused by the recent heated battle between Maren and her Father, after Al very publicly sided with his “burner bimbo,” regarding a Christmas Dinner Maren had painstakingly and lovingly, prepared for her Father and his most recent “squeeze” only to be verbally rebuked, embarrassed and banned from ever cooking again, at what Maren sadly told the nursing attendant was once considered “our family home.”
I NEVER UNDERSTOOD THE DEPTH OF DYSFUNCTION IN BOTH MY FAMILY OF ORIGIN AND THE FAMILY CREATED BY MARRIAGE, BUT THE AFTERMATH OF MY DIVORCE PROVIDED A CRASH COURSE IN THIS SENTIMENT…BIG TIME.
From years of past experience and observation, I knew only too well how such a verbal rebuke and cold-hearted blow would have been the equivalent of a dagger to Al’s eldest daughter’s heart. Most likely the betrayal was made worse by the very nature of the person who had recently gained Al’s favor, and on whose side he aligned himself. His latest flavor, known as and hereinafter referred to simply as “the Renter,” seemed pretty committed to inserting herself as a permanent fixture at 3981 Roblar. During the Summer of 2017, while on a break from College, A.J. had had an occasion to spend a few nights at “Senior’s” (A.J.’s call name for Al back then) and thus met Al’s latest flavor, aka, “the renter.” When the visit was over and A.J. left Al’s after his brief stay, he relayed to us the “odd situation” Al seemed to have allowed into his life. It was with both skepticism as well as amusement that A.J. retold his father’s funny (funny odd, not funny haha) preemptive introduction of the woman who joined them for lunch the first afternoon of A.J.’s four-day stay. Al told his/our son that “he had rented out one of Roblar’s five extra bedroom suites to a friend…some woman he was trying to help recover from Alcoholism; surely his generosity and stabilizing influence would go far towards her rehabilitation.” I believe that was a direct quote, and under no circumstances could I have devised nor imagined a more wildly unlikely scenario.
THANK GOD FOR MACY GREY - SHE ALWAYS HAD HIS BACK AND WAS A COMFORTING REMINDER OF HOME.
Upon his arrival at Roblar, Al had told A.J. to make himself comfortable in the guest house, rather than stay in the main house in either of two original, kid’s bedroom suites. A.J. relayed how grateful he was to have taken Macy Grey to keep him company, but he was really “creeped out and uncomfortable.” Apparently, much had changed at Roblar, but nothing about the new atmosphere was helping A.J. to feel welcome; rather he said the whole situation was lame and as he wrote in our group thread of text messages, “he’d sleep in his Jeep.” Regardless of the changes, A.J. said everything about the house he had previously called home from the day of his birth and for the subsequent 11 years, now felt like some kind of bizarre “flop house.” He finished our exchange by asking if he could please cut the stay with “Sr.” short and come join Em, Alex and I in San Diego?
You know what, who knows, maybe Al really had taken to renting rooms out? He himself had told me about the many extended stays he had made at a Pritikin facility prior to our dating and ensuing marriage. Could it be that after his Bankruptcy filing, he had parlayed all his past “healthy living habits” and diet mumbo-jumbo from Pritikin into a side hustle for extra cash? Maybe the latest burner bimbo was really just a “renter” after all? Then again, I doubt it, but no matter what kind of business, monkey or otherwise, Al was conducting from Roblar’s 22-acre hilltop, the very notion that he was playing the part of a caretaker to some middle-aged, alcoholic, spinster was pretty outrageous. A.J.’s description of the whole mess was awfully vivid, and worthy of at least one incredulous “good night nurse,” uttered by me, paying homage to my very Southern Grandmother and one of her favorite expressions. I’m not sure which one of us laughed harder or picked their chin up off the floor first when A.J. arrived in Rancho Santa Fe and finished his retelling of Al’s very tall tale? Al was surely getting carried away. This latest “rationalization” was a doozy…a stretch of gargantuan proportion, even for him, particularly when word around town, and a very small town at that, was that “the renter” had been alleging she was Al’s girlfriend for the past 10 years?
Thankfully, Al’s extra-curricular activities were neither my concern, my business nor my interest any longer, but I admit his explanation and introduction of “the renter” to our Son took even me by surprise. I thought I had heard it all, but as it turns out…not even close. If you happened to catch either of my earlier posts entitled, “Lights, Red Flags, and Shadows” or “The FFP Club,” you might have picked up some insight into Al and his background. Helping weak or needy women was decidedly not Al’s “gig;” men maybe, but not women. I suppose that is unless you consider extravagant gifting, the equivalent of help. Eccentric, egotistical, bullshitters, opportunists and sometimes fragile, men were more Al’s style. They were the types Al usually chose to befriend and perhaps even proclaim to “save.” That Al would consider renting out a room at Roblar to anyone, much less a “recovering female alcoholic” was preposterous at best.
From what the kids relayed, the last dalliance prior to the “renter” hadn’t fit Al’s typical “burner bimbo” profile at all, but was an attractive, competent woman who created and ran a profitable home nursing service. I knew that only because the lady was a friend of Al’s eldest daughter, Maren who had made their introduction. The details of Al’s split with that one were never shared with me, but here’s what I do know… the woman approached me at “Nashville Nights,” a popular fundraising event in 2016 to tell me she understood my fear of Al; she made mention of him being a sociopath and asked if I would be open to talking about him with her? That wasn’t all. Both my kids and Alex met her and said she was nice; they had dined with their father and his “friend,” (who was referred to as Lindy-Lou) on a couple of occasions and were even aware of the Mercedes Al gifted her as a birthday surprise. The demise of that union was nowhere close to 10, not even 2, years prior to “the renter’s” arrival on the scene? Regardless of the questionable timelines and “overlaps,” Al’s attempt to explain his most recent flavor, will go down as one of the top 200 “crazy-making” claims I ever heard Al use to disguise or distract from whatever the TRUTH of a certain circumstance really was. But enough about that. All of the crazy distractions aside, it was still unclear in 2019 whether the latest and current discord with her Father would be the demise of Maren and Al’s relationship?
For all the happy memories recounted in that hospital room, there was also a great deal of pain and disruption which occupied those years of our collective time together…most of which was created at Al’s orchestration, but we didn’t talk about that.
AL, MAREN, AND EMILY GETTING CHEESY FOR THE CAMERA DURING A MUCH, MUCH EARLIER VISIT TO MAREN’S PLACE IN SCHENECTADY, NEW YORK BEFORE HER BIG MOVE WEST. ONE NEVER KNEW WHAT TO EXPECT FROM AL, AND IT’S A PAINFUL PROCESS TO RECONCILE OR EVEN ADEQUATELY CONVEY ALL THE CONFLICT THAT CAME ALONG WITH HIM.
But for now, let’s us go back to 2019…
The curtain inside the door to the hospital hallway, swayed slightly and Maren’s husband stepped toward the opening door as we lowered our voices so as not to disturb the hospital’s other occupants while waiting to see the identity of the visitor about to enter the fray. By then, the nurse/attendant had received quite an introduction to the colorful trove of Capone family dynamics, and her gaze at the figure who presented himself inside the doorway reflected that point perfectly. Once the curtain was pushed aside, we all looked in that direction and saw Al standing there. Silently, he took a couple more steps inside the room and surveyed the scene within. His face turned somewhat ashen as he looked at each of us, taking in the magnitude of the gathering, and he appeared to be trying to catch his breath. THAT was it; that was the moment I caught the “tell.” He was clearly not himself, not comfortable, and definitely DID NOT want to be standing where he was. No words escaped his mouth, but no words were necessary. It was as clear as if he was shouting out loud… “SHIT, they’re here, they’re talking and they’re getting along. I must be in hell. Now what are the chances I’ll be able to play one against the other and carry on with my shenanigans?” Right, slim to none!
If I could draw (which I emphatically cannot) I would draw the figure of a man, with a look of utter terror mixed with unfathomable guilt on his face, and then I’d add a little cartoon bubble just slightly above and off to the side of his face, illuminated by a lightbulb within. There it was, plain as day…the “tell.” If two of Al’s then adult daughters and one of his ex-wives were all in the same room and getting along, there was an outstanding chance we might be comparing notes and getting each other’s take on the man who was so accustomed to keeping people FROM one another, rather than bringing them together. If Al’s visit to that room that particular day in that specific moment was any longer than three to five minutes, I’ll sign over the title to my car which I happen to love, this very minute. But, alas, I’m safe and so is the car in my garage, because Al couldn’t have run from the scene of his perceived imprisonment any faster.
I suppose that if I’m already drawing pictures which illustrate that day, I should do one of myself too, with a similarly stunned, albeit minus the terrified, guilt-ridden, expression on my face, but with the same cartoon bubble and the same illuminated lightbulb. That occasion was the first time I ever remember seeing a completely “fractured” look (the “tell”) like the one Al wore on his face that day. It might also represent the one and only time Al and I were “on the same page,” so to speak…both of us stunned, but for entirely different reasons!
“HMM, SOMEHOW I’M STILL LINKING FILM REFERENCES TO REAL LIFE, BUT I CAN’T HELP RECALL THE “FRACTURING” EXPERIENCES THAT OCCURRED IN MY KIDS AND MY LIFE BETWEEN SEPTEMBER 2007 THROUGH SEPTEMBER 2008…AND FAR BEYOND.
Have you ever heard the expression, “a lie can travel around the world and back again while the truth is lacing up its boots?” There’s some debate about the exact source of the saying, but whoever made that statement sure knew their stuff. I learned the veracity of those words the hard way, but the claim is most definitely spot on. And so too is the reality that the truth has a way of catching up! On that particularly day, both the “tell” and the truth caught up with Al.
That occasion might prove the one and only time I saw for myself a “tell” from Al, but it wasn’t the first time I heard of such an occurrence. In fact, both the women (my “daughters;” one in spirit and one by blood) sitting together with me in Cottage Hospital that day in 2019 had at one time or another relayed their own such experience. Maren’s encounter had occurred fairly recently. It was something to do with the discussion/confrontation which Al had requested of her following the Christmas dinner debacle. Al wanted to meet; a clearing of the air, so to speak, between Al, Maren and “the renter?” The Corner Coffee Spot, two blocks from Maren’s home and just five miles from Al, Roblar, and “the renter”provided the location. I don’t know the exact, moment by moment playback, but the punchline was delivered when Maren spoke and boldly stood up for herself by telling “the renter” she had been out of line to accuse Maren of ruining the Wolf range and Christmas in general. The conversation must have devolved from there and resulted in “the renter” rising from the table to leave, but not before Maren, point-blank, asked Al if he dared deny that he had initially explained his current flavor to A.J. as “the renter?” The moment which followed that question revealed to Maren her own first-hand experience with Al and the “tell.” He sat in his chair and said nothing; I imagine the look on his face was similar to the one he wore that day in the hospital? With Al’s silence speaking volumes, “the renter” indignantly rose from the table, turned to Maren, angrily raised her voice and said, “that is absolutely not true. A.J. would never say or make up something like that about me…we’re close!” “The renter” then left the coffee shop hastily, while Al remained in place… still speechless.
Maren posed one more question of Al, asking if he would like a “do-over” of the “meeting” but next time with A.J. present to give his account of how Al’s introduction of “the renter” had transpired?” Still no response. Since then…there’s been more than one mention of how informative it would be to gather all Al’s kids, ex-wives, “burner bimbos” and the “renter” together with him in a room and see just what “shakes out?” Yikes, that would be one hell of an encounter.
I try NOT to butt into situations where I’m not invited, nor is it my business to know Maren’s relationship with her father, but that I’m still in contact with Maren and I don’t believe Al can make the same claim, says all I need to know.
This business regarding the “tell” has been super enlightening and reminds me of something one of my divorce attorneys said to me once in an effort to lighten a very dark moment. “Missy, he quipped, how can you tell when Al is lying? Answer…his lips are moving.” Booya!!! How I valued and was so beyond appreciative to have that elegant, witty and dagger-sharp man in my corner. You are sorely missed, Sorrell Trope. Sorrell was always reminding me to smile, and he insisted that I was going to get through the mess I was so deeply buried under. While I’m not sure how I responded to his repartee that day, or if his little “funny” served to lighten the occasion…his quick wit certainly proved to be true for the long haul. Maybe some wise person, someday, could find a way to anecdotally link the concept of a happy end game together with the garbage one goes through to finally arrive there? You know how they say hindsight is 20/20? Why is it that no one ever prepares us for how long it might take to see that prophecy come true? Did my high school History teacher, “Mr. Moe” have some cosmic insight to the future which guided him towards bestowing upon me the nickname, “last-minute Missy?” Could he ever have guessed how long the title might hang around, and how incredibly accurate it would prove to be? I’ve stopped keeping count of how often I point this out, but there’s no denying the truth and it’s most often better late than never!
DO YOU SUPPOSE THAT AL HAS EVER CONTEMPLATED HOW ACCURATELY HE FITS THIS DESCRIPTION?
YEAH, YOU’RE RIGHT…NOT HARDLY, AND IF YOU RECOGNIZE THAT LITTLE REFERENCE TO ANOTHER ONE OF MY ALL-TIME FAVORITE FILMS, BRAVO! J.W. AND I APPRECIATE YOU.
Ok, one more ask…please continue to bear with me while I revisit a well-tread road; I promise you’ll understand the reasoning pretty quick. It was our last day in California over the Summer of 2007. The kids, Mom and I had gotten to the SBKC Annual Dog Show fairly early in the day so we could see our Corgi, Carly, (cover shot of “Dogs In Review,” from November 2007) show in the Breed Competition. She had already won the Breed and Herding Group both Friday and Saturday and was also the Best In Show victor on Friday. She was fast becoming a “Super Star,” and it was fun to watch her rise while we savored every last moment of our time at home. Al was going to meet us at the showgrounds later, potentially in time to catch Best In Show, but for sure to collect us (three humans, three dogs and one turtle) to make the short trip for the airfield in Goleta where our pilot, Greg, was waiting and readying the Lear for our return to Sea Island. This isn’t the first instance, and most likely not the last, when I’ve shared that our family, more specifically Al and me, had suffered through a REALLY rough couple of months that summer, and while I was prepared to commit for our to return Georgia, as Al was so desperately pressuring me to do, I was still very conflicted (understatement extraordinaire) about the state of our marriage. The past couple weeks and months had been filled with conflict. I was almost willing to make the trip back to Georgia just to be in a fresh environment with, hopefully, a clearer state of mind. I wondered if that would help me determine whether our marriage was beyond hope or worth salvaging? Al was, and had been, behaving miserably all summer long; rude to everyone including the kids, guests, almost everyone in his sight, but especially me. I might as well have been walking around with a target on my back. What I was yet to discover is that I was playing blind and, unwittingly, missing far more than I was catching. Regardless of the particular details, the atmosphere was absolutely stifling. That said, on Sunday, August 26th sometime shortly after noon, A.J., Mom, and I decided to take one last spin through the Vendor set-ups before the Groups and Best In Show competition were scheduled to begin. Emily was assisting our handlers with some of the last minute grooming prep before the Groups were set to start; her past experience working for several assorted professional dog handlers, showing a number of dogs herself in Juniors, and helping with all our Georgia dog shelter/rescue experiences had uniquely equipped her to perform well at almost anything, not the least of which was being super useful and sought after at a dog show.
After our little walk-about, Mom, A.J. and I returned to the beautifully set up, yellow and white tented space with gorgeous hanging baskets all displaying brightly colored blooms hanging above the enormous expanse of green sod covering the ground below, where the Group and Best In Show competition were always held. I glanced around and did a complete double take when I saw Al standing there, next to the spot where I always chose to sit. He was much earlier than we had previously planned, and almost instantaneously I could feel anxiety stirring within me. Had he changed the game plan without notice; were we going to have to depart sooner than I hoped? Al getting to a dog show early was something akin to asking him to attend church with us…not likely! Standing immediately next to him was Emily and the expressions on their faces were curious; not exactly grim, but not warm and friendly either. I quickly suggested to A.J. and Mom that we visit the Patron’s tent prior to getting seated for the remainder of the afternoon events. I offered that we could say a few hellos as well as get a refreshment or two. No way, no how was I jonesing to get in the middle of any type of skirmish between Al and our daughter in that setting, especially with my kids and Mom present, and I sensed that if we were to appear right then in the middle of whatever exchange was happening between the two, it would not end well. My instincts were relatively sound that day and when we finally made our way over to where Al was standing, Emily had gone back to help hold dogs as the handlers readied themselves to enter the Group ring. Al greeted Mom, A.J. and me quite effusively, and I took his gesture of kindness as a good omen. Maybe life was about to settle down, and we could shake the litany of issues which plagued the past many months?
Exactly two weeks later, I learned how really off-base and out of my league I was. A tearful and emotional, heart to heart with Emily on the Sunday evening preceding Labor Day, revealed the news of Al’s betrayal and infidelity as well as the exact method and moment she had orchestrated to gauge his motives and intentions. She knew, and had written proof of his guilt but even more significantly, she had caught him trapped in his very own lie and caught a “tell” of her own. That afternoon at the dog show, Emily approached Al with a suspicion she had, but she “couched” her supposition carefully and didn’t show her “cards” immediately. Instead, like baiting a mousetrap, she drew Al in with an innocent enough query and upon hearing his response, she caught not only the flinch in his expression, the change of his tone, but the averting of his gaze, and she knew she had him dead to rights in the middle of a big fat lie. Emily explained she had been bluffing when she asked the question of Al but followed through because she needed to be sure. Al’s evasive attempt to dodge her question but ultimately responding with a blatant lie to her “set-up,” provided all the answer necessary.
Earl Warren Showgrounds, Sunday August 26, 2007; approx. 1:27 p.m. Santa Barbara Kennel Club Dog Show weekend…
Emily: “Dad, you’re early. Oh, and I’ve been meaning to tell you but then there’s been so much going on, I keep forgetting. Some woman called the house phone at Freehaven on Friday morning and was asking for you. She wouldn’t give her name or leave a message, but said she’d try you on your cell; did she ever get hold of you?”
Al: “What, no-one has Freehaven’s landline number. Well, maybe; uhhhh, I’m not sure. Oh wait, yes…a woman did call; she was from the bank. No big deal, but thanks Emzer.”
Not a terribly serious exchange after all. Maybe not, but if you were Emily and had made up the part about the call to Freehaven’s landline, the situation begins to look a little differently. Take it a step further though. After finding an unknown cell phone lodged deep in the cushions of Al’s media room couch at 574 Freehaven with an unusually lengthy exchange of calls and texts between said phone and only one other number, and the curiosity of our intuitive, 16-year old, daughter was piqued. If you’re wondering where this little exercise in sleuthing went next… Yes, of course I’m going to elaborate. Would I leave you hanging? Not a chance. Emily called the unknown cell, aka…burner phone, and go figure; what do you suppose the Ringback tone revealed? Have you ever watched or heard the theme song from, wait for it…
But then, by all means google it too on “You Tube” to get the full effect.
OH GOOD GRIEF; WAS THIS FOR REAL?
TURNS OUT YES, BOTH “IT” AND SHE WAS INDEED A THING! BUT ALAS, PINK PANTHER (AKA, CONNIE/CANDY/CHRISTIE OR WHATEVER NAME YOU FEEL LIKE INSERTING IN THAT______ SPACE RESERVED FOR ONE OF THE MANY BURNER BIMBOS SERVING AT AL’S BECK & CALL, YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN SEND A MESSAGE.
The first Ringback tone I put on my cell following my discovery that Labor Day weekend in 2007, was a very deliberate choice, “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. And, that’s exactly what I did. My survival was anything but easy a good bit of the time, but I’m proud to claim that song as my “tell.”
As for Al, he double-downed and proved just how “pot-committed” he was to the “burner bimbo” when he forcibly made our daughter write a retraction regarding a statement she had penned about the woman’s performance on her real estate company’s “Google” review page. Nothing like selling out your own child in favor of a “preflop” flavor (try saying that three times fast?) which most likely didn’t last too terribly much longer? “Pink Panther” indeed? Not too terribly sly or clever at all. I guess it’s no wonder that Ringback tones are a thing of the past. And, hopefully from now on, so too are my “Texas hold’em,” poker references. I think it’s fair to say, I’ve pretty much burned through the poker cues. So too, I may have deviated wildly from this post’s original theme, but even if I haven’t burned down a barn, the moon and everything else is much clearer and brighter today!
Considering my love for a varied assortment of music as well as the ground covered within this post, I’m at a loss to decide which one of these songs is the better fit here? With that in mind I’ll just have to mention both; the first one, “Daughters” by John Mayer filled many a moment between 2007 -2008 and is a poignant reminder of a difficult time but a great gift. I’ve just asked my “Alexa” to play it right now! But, also beyond apropos for everything that I’ve learned courtesy of “Molly’s Game” and to remember the great talent of another type of storyteller…take it away, Kenny!
"The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers
On a warm summer's evening
On a train bound for nowhere
I met up with a gambler
We were both too tired to sleep
So we took turns a-starin'
Out the window at the darkness
The boredom overtook us
And he began to speak
He said, "Son, I've made a life
Out of readin' people's faces
And knowin' what the cards were
By the way they held their eyes.
So if you don't mind my sayin'
I can see you're out of aces
For a taste of your whiskey
I'll give you some advice."
So I handed him my bottle
And he drank down my last swallow
Then he bummed a cigarette
And asked me for a light
And the night got deathly quiet
And his face lost all expression
Said, "If you're gonna play the game, boy,
You gotta learn to play it right.
You got to know when to hold 'em,
Know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away,
And know when to run.
You never count your money
When you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin'
When the dealing's done.
Every gambler knows
That the secret to survivin'
Is knowin' what to throw away
And knowin' what to keep.
'Cause every hand's a winner,
And every hand's a loser,
And the best that you can hope for
Is to die in your sleep."
And when he finished speakin'
He turned back toward the window
Crushed out his cigarette
And faded off to sleep
And somewhere in the darkness
The gambler he broke even
And in his final words
I found an ace that I could keep
You got to know when to hold 'em
Know when to fold 'em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run
You never count your money
When you're sittin' at the table
There'll be time enough for countin'
When the dealing's done
You've got to know when to hold 'em
(When to hold 'em)
Know when to fold 'em
(When to fold 'em)
Know when to walk away
And know when to run
You never count your money
When you're sittin' at the table
There'll be time enough for countin'
When the dealing's done
You got to know when to hold 'em
Know when to fold 'em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run
You never count your money
When you're sittin' at the table
There'll be time enough for countin'
When the dealing's done
“PER USUAL, I WAS LATE TO THE TABLE, BUT THOSE LYRICS SOUND LIKE SOME SERIOUSLY SAGE ADVICE… LEARN FROM “THE TELL,” KNOW WHAT TO THROW AWAY, WHEN TO WALK AWAY, WHAT TO HOLD, WHAT TO KEEP, AND AT ALL COSTS, WHEN TO FOLD.