Bad Decisions
Got a big announcement coming next week, something fun. Here’s a little teaser…
Bad Decisions
As a family man, I perpetually feel the gravity of decisions big and small, the way they impact my marriage, my kids, our present and future. A good friend of mine is fond of this saying: You’re always three bad decisions away from total destruction. I’ve become fond of it myself. It’s a good way to think about how I’m living, the choices I make, the paths I decide to take. Or not to take.
Over the years, though, I’ve started to vary the way I think about it. That number—three—three bad decisions—it’s effective in a general sense, but there’s a plus-or-minus contingent that needs to be considered. The company you keep, for instance. If you’re hanging out with an off-duty cop, you can probably get away with a few more bad decisions. Or time of day. 3:17 a.m.? Two, maybe two-and-a-half decisions? If at any time during your day, someone has said the words, “Trust me,” you definitely lose a decision until your wife or priest or a rerun of Mr. Rogers recalibrates your executive function.
The big one for me, though, is geography. I learned this growing up in Lake Elsinore. In Lake Elsinore, you’re only ever one bad decision from total destruction—on a good day, at that. In fact, options typically boil down to this sort of a dilemma, “Do I want to corrupt my ever-lasting soul?” Or “Do I want a misspelled tattoo on my lower back that reads, ‘Only God can fudge me?’”
When people ask me about growing up in Lake Elsinore, they’ll usually frame the question like this: “Did you leave to go to college?” Or “Did you leave for a job?” Or “Did you meet a girl?” I generally ignore the context of the question and reframe the exchange altogether. “You don’t really leave Lake Elsinore,” I say. “You escape.”
Andy Dufresne never returned to Shawshank. Ulysses Everett McGill never swung a sledge on that chain gang once he R-U-N-N-O-F-T. And McMurphy opted for a lobotomy rather than spend one more night in the Cuckoo’s Nest with Nurse Ratched. These are the thoughts going through my mind when Susan (aka Suz-a-palooza, such a great nickname) calls my wife to tell her that her husband Joe and his Rolling Stones cover band booked another gig in Lake Elsinore.
I love the Stones, and Joe’s band does the Stones the way the Stones ought to be done. They put on a great show. The musicians in the band are top notch. And they know how to have a good time. Or so I thought.
“Lake Elsinore? Really?” my wife says to Susan.
I hear the words Lake Elsinore, and my body wrenches.
“What? What? What’s happening?”
My wife confirms the bad decision. I realize that Joe and Susan are good people and used to having the full gamut of three bad decisions that most decent people get. They don’t understand that they’ve made a decision that scales in a negative direction.
I try to damage control, offering color commentary to my wife as she talks to Susan. “Where are they playing?”
“The Bikini Beach Club? Is that really the name of a bar in Elsinore?”
“Yeah. One of the classier joints,” I say.
“Norm says it’s classy,” my wife tells Susan.
I hear laughter from my wife’s cell phone. My wife tells Susan we’ll be at the show and hangs up.
“You really want to go to that show?”
“I thought you liked their band?”
“I love their band. But… ya know… Elsinore.”
“It’ll be fine. They talked with the bar owner. Apparently, he was a really nice guy, and he’s super excited for the show.”
“You realize you just said that the owner of The Bikini Beach Club is a nice guy.”
“I wanna support our friends.”
I feel like I’m Jack Nicholson and my wife is telling me I have to go back to Chinatown. “You’re eight months pregnant,” I remind her. “We have the best excuse in the world to bow out.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Actually, it might not be,” I say. That’s an area of Lake Elsinore you really don’t want to be in. I walked into a gang initiation in that neighborhood when I was a teenager. I had a knife pulled on me another time. And I know that two men were arrested not far from that bar for murder. That’s just off the top of my head.”
But we go anyway. As we near Elsinore, I feel the air thicken, and I become grimly aware that our choices, our options—our three bad decisions—are dwindling.
We pull into the parking lot, and I usher my waddling, pregnant wife into the bar. We belly up to a high-top table, and my head is on a swivel. I’m surveying the place for junkies, for gang colors, for bulges in waist bands, for misspelled tattoos—all the telltale signs of chaos. But, I have to admit, it seems innocuous. As far as dive bars go, it’s relatively tame.
“This isn’t so bad,” my wife says.
“Yeah, so far,” I agree.
“What are y’all drinking?”
We turn to see our cocktail waitress has approached. She wears a red velvet bikini top that her melonious breasts are spilling from. Her tattoos are spelled correctly (I think—one of them is obscured by a pack of cigarettes wedged into one side of the bikini top.
I order a beer, and my wife points to her preggers belly and says, “Just water for me.”
Upon hearing this, the cocktail waitress steps back from the table to reveal that her melonious bikini-clad breasts are sitting atop a beach-ball belly. “I”m knocked up eight months myself. Small world.” And then she waddles off to get our drinks.
My wife shoots me a sad look and follows it with, “We need to leave her a big tip.”
“Tip, as in money? Or tip, as in a suggestion that she get the hell out of this town?”
My wife looks around a little closer at the denizens of the bar. I can tell, even if she can’t put it into words, that she’s now aware of her limited decisions.
We eventually see the band arrive. We say our hellos, and the wives and friends of the band post up in tables next to ours. It’s super obvious none of them are from Lake Elsinore, but it doesn’t seem to bother them. Or anyone else.
The band starts playing, and as usual, it’s a great show. About forty-five minutes into their set, the bar is festive and fun. There’s dancing and laughing, the drinks are flowing, and my worries seem to have been in vain.
The band announces they’ll be back to finish their set after a brief smoke break. They file outside, and my wife says, “It’s going pretty good, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised. But I’m still well aware that we’re in dangerous territory. And that awareness amounts to this—experiences of calm in Lake Elsinore are like running up a tab. Eventually, you gotta settle up.
Cue the gunshots.
POP! POP! POP! POP!
A swarm of men in tight pants, feather boas, vests, silk shirts, tongue logos, and other Rolling Stones attire rush back into the bar, their arms around their wives and girlfriends—valiant albeit impotent attempts to shield them from would-be driveby bullets.
The cops come, and many of the patrons disperse. Go to any bar in Elsinore, and most everyone has a warrant. The band is a little shaken up (Shattered maybe?). We all are. But they finish the gig, and the rest of the night is free of gunfire and violence.
We say our goodbyes, and my wife and I escape Lake Elsinore. On the way home, I tell my wife, “I tried to warn them it wasn’t a good decision.”
“I know you did,” she says.
A month later, my wife goes into labor and delivers our daughter. Nearly eighteen years later, and I’m still sharply aware that I’m three bad decisions away from total destruction. But I’m also blithely aware of good decisions. Sure, the math isn’t the same—three good decisions won’t get you absolute bliss. Who would want that anyway? Sounds boring. But a steady stream of pretty good decisions? That will keep the gods from fudging you. Even if you have to revisit Lake Elsinore.
Lori had two seizures recently. After a 911 call and trip to the ER, the doctors adjusted her medication and she got to return home. She has no memory of it—good for her, traumatizing for her husband and kids. The challenges continue. And so does the need for support. Thanks to everyone who contributed to this lovely family. If you haven’t yet, please watch their story and consider chipping in. They’re one of the most fun families I’ve ever met, and I just love them.
Can't wait for the announcement!!
Hoping the cocktail waitress eventually moved out of LE. Love Becky's heart in her suggestion of a big tip. Maybe both happened :-) not planning to go there anytime soon, but Is it still bad news in LE?